Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts slowly, like drizzling raindrops, faint little inkblots that don't wash off in the shower. The words are unreadable at first, but they're comforting. Somewhere out there is someone who is George's, and he is theirs. 

He steps out of the shower on a Tuesday and notices that for the first time, one of the words down his left wrist is legible in the steamed-up mirror. 

patches, it says. George holds it up to the half-light. He stands in a warm, misty bathroom smiling at someone else's life.

The words blush into being over the next few days. His soulmate writes all over themselves, little notes and reminders and silly doodles. It's three weeks before George knows what to write back.

His soulmate makes a shopping list on their left forearm every Sunday. eggs, bacon, milk, bread, it says. Today there's something else in place of it.

im your soulmate, they say, and sign it with a smiley face. George sees it in the mirror and rushes to pick up a pen when his skin has barely dried. He hovers over his forearm, mouth dry with anticipation.

no shopping list today?

His forearm fills with little exclamation points and then a heart shape draws itself in the middle of his palm in what he thinks is bright red.

hello! his soulmate writes in the middle of their heart. The line tingles as it draws across his skin.

hello soulmate, George writes back. my name is George.

Another heart outlines his name.

hello george. my name is clay. im your soulmate.

***

Clay is drawing again. George is working on a program for his latest client as the lines unfold over the back of his hand. He's doodling a huge flower, the petals falling over his knuckles and the stems winding through his fingers. 

youre distracting me George tells him. Clay responds with a smiley on the pad of his thumb. His looping handwriting never shows up where George expects, and somehow, strangely, he loves it like he loves this easy rapport they've fallen into after a few months.

ur so mean georgie. The flower begins to bloom in pretty blues and yellows. i drew a flower just for you and you didn't even say thanks

George writes thank you Clay in the largest letters he can on his forearm. He wonders if Clay laughs at it, or if he rolls his eyes and holds back a smile. He wonders who Clay is, what his smile looks like, what his voice sounds like. 

Downstairs, his neighbor slams the door open again, and George grits his teeth. He's told him a thousand times not to, and he thinks he does it just to spite him.

Everyone calls him Dream. George doesn't know his real name and doesn't want to, because he knows everything worth knowing about Dream. He's tall and blond and has a knack for being in the apartment laundry room at the exact time that George is, and he always takes the washer that doesn't eat the socks and the dryer with the better lint trap. George is left trying to maneuver around all six-foot-three of him in the cramped laundry room and wearing mismatched fuzzy socks.

gonna go take a shower georgie, Clay informs him. ill draw u another flower later

George smiles at his ink. i want a dandelion. A heart circles his words in response.

Dream is clattering about downstairs, but George ignores him and watches the flower melt off his skin. He wonders what Clay would look like in the shower, and the idea sends a gentle flush of heat through him. Inside his socks, one grey and one striped and blue, his toes curl in the carpet.

Clay is his soulmate. George has a right to think of him this way. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine someone who whispers all the teasing things he's had written across his skin, but Clay's face is a blur in his imagination. All he can think of is skin wet with shower mist and the heated pour of water. It's not enough and too much.

With a groan, he powers down his monitor and starts looking for his laundry basket. Maybe if he's lucky, Dream won't wander in this time.

He's just dragged the overflowing basket into the laundry room downstairs when he hears a scrape behind him and turns. He and Dream make eye contact.

'Don't,' George warns, but Dream is already pushing past him and dumping his entire basket into the good washer. It's on before George has covered half the distance- it's not his fault Dream is so tall- and Dream turns to him with the widest grin.

'Too slow,' he says, banging his fist lightly on the top of the washer. 

'I was not.' George throws a shirt at him, which Dream catches easily. 'I got here first and you just barged in without waiting. Besides-' He raises an eyebrow at the washer. 'Did you even sort those?'

Dream's grin abruptly fades as he turns to look at the multicoloured bundle of clothes within. George can see him debating whether or not he should take them out to sort them. 

'I'll let you have the good washer after I'm done with it,' George says graciously. Dream turns back to him and deliberately leans his elbow down on the lid. 

George ends up putting his stuff in the other washing machine. Dream's cycle finishes a minute before his, and he drops his things into the top dryer.

'I'll let you have the good dryer once I'm done with it,' he says. George scowls at him and refuses to answer. Not even the promise of Dream wearing pink-stained clothes makes it better.

He goes back upstairs to work on his code for a while, and almost forgets about Dream until he goes back down to see him still leaning on the washing machine, doodling on a scrap of paper. He folds it over when George enters.

'What's that?'

Dream shrugs. 'Just a design I'm working on for my soulmate.'

For some reason, that takes George aback. Dream raises an eyebrow.

'What, you don't believe me?'

'I believe you,' George says. 'But I pity whoever it is, seeing as that they'll be stuck with all of that.' He gestures at him.

Dream's mouth twitches up. 'All of...me? Was that an attempt to flirt with me?'

George feels his face heat, absurdly. 'I promise you it was not.'

'Aww,' Dream coos. 'It was.'

'I have my own soulmate,' George defends. 'I don't even like you.'

'Why not?'

'You steal the good washer and dryer every single time I'm here,' George recites exasperatedly. He searches for something else. 'And you sing in the shower.'

'Yeah,' Dream says, smile widening. 'And? That's hot.'

'It's really not.' George's dryer dings and he bends down to take his clothes out. He hears the top dryer doing as well, and Dream, impatient as ever, crowds him up against the machines to take his own things. 'Can't you wait?' he snaps. He pushes back, but Dream doesn't move at all. It's warm in the laundry room, between the dryers and his chest.

'You can be patient.' Dream hauls his stuff out and steps back. 'See you around.'

'God, I hope not,' George says, and hears him laugh as he leaves.

Clay draws him a dandelion late at night, after George has complained about losing another sock to the washing machine, which is obviously his neighbor's fault. The flower is yellow and the leaves are blue, and it's a little touch but it makes George warm to know that his soulmate wants his drawings to be pretty for him.

it looks beautiful

you do too Clay says, and adds his signature smile. It's stupid and wonderful and it's Clay, and George loves all of it so much it almost hurts.

***

George has started to write his grocery list on his right forearm every Sunday. Sometimes Clay adds things to it. Extra bacon. Chocolate with hazelnuts. Roses. Today, he's written something else.

do you want my phone number?

George stands in the middle of the grocery store and still doesn't know. He wants it, but the idea of it is too much in every way. He's scared by how much he wants it. He's scared that texts will turn into phone calls, when he's barely able to hold himself together when Clay writes beautiful on his skin.

not yet, he writes. i want it, but not yet.

i can wait he says, with a heart in blue. George caps his pen and runs his thumb over the heart for a few seconds, so distracted that he doesn't watch where he steps out. He collides with someone in a hoodie and their broad hand grabs his shoulder, and both of them stop dead.

'You've got to be kidding me,' George deadpans.

'You're welcome,' Dream says with his usual infuriating grin. 'I know you didn't want to see me, but maybe you should at least keep an eye on where you're going.'

George wordlessly shoves past him. 

It's a slow day. By a stroke of terrible luck, Dream ends up in the same checkout line as him. 

'Hello,' he says. George can hear him smile, and pretends to be interested in the new flavours of Icebreakers on the candy rack. Suddenly, Dream makes a delighted noise and holds out a chocolate bar from the rack to George. 'Look!'

'It's chocolate.'

'It's really good chocolate. They haven't had this brand here for months.' Dream's eyes are shining. 'You have to try it. It's my favourite flavour. I'll even pay for it.'

George might not like Dream, but free chocolate is free chocolate. It's a little amusing when he's this excited over a chocolate bar.

They walk back to the apartment together. Dream keeps having to stop so George can catch up.

'Oh, come on,' he says as George falls behind again. He's smiling again.

'You walk too fast.' George hefts his groceries up. His legs and his pride burn.

Dream laughs, high and wheezy, and strides over to take the grocery bags out of George's hands.

'If I carry these, can you try to be a little faster?'

'Nobody is asking you to walk with me.'

'Yeah,' Dream agrees, 'But I want to.'

George doesn't argue, because it is faster, and because if Dream wants to carry his things he's certainly not going to stop him.

They part ways and George sits down on his bed to eat the chocolate. It has hazelnuts, and it's sweet and rich, and all of that reminds him of Clay. He pulls out his blue pen again and writes on the back of his hand. 

what do you look like?

hot Clay writes after a moment. extremely hot.

i already know that, George dares to write. The chocolate melts on his tongue. ive thought about it. 

i want you to tell me everything youve thought one day. Clay's handwriting is becoming messy now. i think i should give you a more accurate fantasy though

please, George writes. His hand shakes. This is new, and terrifying in a way, and he wants it with Clay.

blond. green eyes. freckles. im probably taller than you

by how much?

im 6'3 Clay says, and George can imagine it so, so clearly. 

by a lot then. The air is warm in his room, and the tip of his pen trembles. His mouth is thick and sweet. probably bigger than me too. 

am i?

i bet you are. can you show me?

Clay writes nothing for a while, and then a line begins to draw over George's lower stomach. He suddenly realizes it's the outline of a hand that dwarfs his, and heat pulses through him. Clay's hands are broad and the way the outline wraps around his waist has his eyes lingering.

show me how much bigger i am georgie he says. George swallows and begins to trace his own hand in blue, the gaps of Clay's hand fitting seamlessly into where his own fingers settle. The sight of their hands drawn together looks so good.

youre so pretty georgie

Heat flushes through him, stealing his breath away, his skin prickling against the sheets. He raises his phone and takes a picture of the words and their hands. 

clay he writes. His head spins. Clay writes george beneath it. george, I want you.

George wants him too, Clay who writes him notes and draws him flowers and is wonderful and daring and his, all his.

i want you too.

The air hangs heated and heavy, and George can imagine Clay, still faceless but gold-bronze and shining, green-eyed and freckled, whispering George's name in the dark. His hands. His voice. His lips.

One last note, in shaky handwriting, traces across his hipbone. dream of me tonight george?

i will, George says, and gives into the sweet heat, if you will too.

i always do.

The ink washes away in the shower, blue pooling down the drain. To George, the mist and the heat and the echoes are the only thing that turn his apartment from day to night. Clay's ink is already gone, but in George's memory his reflection with Clay's hand on his skin still burns. He finishes the chocolate laying in bed, aching and warm and wanting.

***

A knock wakes George up in the morning, jarring him from the aftershocks of a dream of Clay, where the features of his face hovered hazy-gold and beautiful. He floats there in the memory of last night's sweet heat until the knocking repeats.

The only clothes he can find are an old T-shirt that's too big and a pair of shorts that are too small. He pulls the door open irritably and looks up to see Dream, and suddenly his mouth feels cotton-dry.

'Hey,' Dream says. George thinks the shirt he's wearing might be pink, but he can't think of anything to say about it because it's so old and worn that he can see the suggestion of musculature where it clings to him. He won't meet George's eyes as he holds out another shirt. 'I think this is yours.'

George wordlessly unfolds it. It's the shirt he threw at Dream in the laundry room last week. It's stretched out across the shoulders now.

'I think I took it home by accident and it ended up in my closet.' Dream rubs the back of his neck. His hair is a complete mess. 'And I tried to put it on and it was way too small for me. I think I might have wrecked it.'

He definitely did. George doesn't even know what to say. A cold wind shivers between them, and by some silent stupidity, he ushers Dream in and shuts the door.

It's half past six AM, according to his clock. George collapses on his couch and thanks God that he washed off Clay's handprint last night. Dream would be able to see the lines through this T-shirt.

'When did this happen?' he asks, holding up the shirt.

'About half an hour ago.' Dream gives him that crooked smile. 'I've been wandering all over this building trying to track you down.'

'You couldn't have waited until a better hour?' George waves at his clock. Dream's smile broadens. 

'Is that a Minecraft cat clock?'

He has the audacity to start asking stupid questions when he just wrecked George's shirt. 'Take a guess.'

'It's cute. Patches would like it.' Dream pets the wooden head of the cat with one finger, which is strangely endearing. 'Anyways, as I was saying, it was hard to find you because I realize I don't actually know your name, so I was asking the nice lady at reception about that British guy. Did you know there's at least five British guys in this building?'

George blinks. 'You don't know my name? I've lived here for a year. I have to see you twice a week. I know your name.'

'Well, I only see you twice a week pouting in the laundry room.' Dream crosses his arms. 'What's my name, then?'

'Dream,' George says immediately, and Dream wheezes so loudly that George gets worried.

'Dream?' He wipes tears away. His face is flushed and his eyes are crinkled with laughter. 'Oh my God, that's- that's Sap's nickname for me, how the hell do you know that?'

'I overheard it.' George scowls at him, loud and bright in his apartment, golden and out of place between the cat clock and the sink stacked with dirty dishes. 'What's your real name?'

'I'm not telling. I like you calling me Dream.' He leans back against George's kitchen counter. 'What about you?'

'George.'

Dream's brow furrows. 'George,' he repeats. For some reason, his name sounds sweet and intense in his voice. His eyes flutter, and the faint morning light slides across his shoulders. 'George, you know that you're wearing two different socks?'

'I wouldn't be if someone didn't keep taking the good washer,' George snaps. 'The one you make me use eats socks.'

The intensity in Dream's eyes wavers and vanishes as he laughs. 'That's literally impossible. The socks have nowhere to go.'

'Are you serious?' George sticks out his feet. His left sock is Christmas patterned, his right is pink and blue. 'Do you think I'd be wearing these if I had other choices?'

'Honestly, yes. I just assumed it was part of your style, along with the sweaters that are eight sizes too big and whatever is going on with your shorts.' Dream's gaze is drawn down again, and George pulls his shirt down over the too-small shorts.

'You woke me up. I couldn't find anything to wear. And my sweaters are not eight sizes too big.'

'They are. God, George-' He shivers at how Dream says his name. 'You look like you're drowning in them every time I see you.'

The sun is rising properly now, and it gilds Dream's smile and the translucence of his worn shirt. 

'Anyways, I came over to say sorry for your shirt. I'll buy you a new one. Or some new socks,' he offers, in a tone that implies he doesn't take George's plight seriously.

'Do both if you ever want me to forgive you.' 

'Okay,' Dream says, unhesitatingly. 'I'll be back soon.'

And then he's gone. George blinks up at his ceiling and wonders how he got into this situation, and how Dream went from stealing the good washer and dryer to carrying his groceries and offering to replace his socks. He goes to wash his hands, just to make sure the last of the ink is gone, and begins to make breakfast. 

Someone knocks when he's halfway through cooking his eggs, and he picks up the pan and goes to get it.

'Shirts and socks for George of room four-oh-four, from Dream of room three-oh-four.' He presents a floppy plastic bag. 

George takes the bag, shocked. He peers inside. 'Oh, wow. There's a lot. Dream, you didn't have to.'

'I went to Walmart and picked out the ugliest shirts I could find. That way, they'll match at least one of your socks.' Dream grins, and George gets caught, a little, in the shift of muscle on his shoulder. 'There's some nice new socks in there too, by the way.'

George lets him in again, so he can go finish his eggs. The memory of Clay's handwriting is prickling in the dip of his hips, and he is hyperaware of every word as Dream sits on his couch and watches George pour out the clothing onto the floor.

'Are those scrambled eggs?' he asks as George sorts through several space cat-themed graphic tees. They're actually something he would wear, but he doesn't say so.

'They're mine. Don't you dare. My eggs are worth far more than a couple T-shirts and some socks.'

'Theoretically,' Dream says, still holding his plate of eggs, 'If I also bought you a new hoodie, would that be an acceptable payment for some eggs?'

Just then, George unearths a yellow hoodie with a smiley face print. It looks far, far too big.

'This isn't my size.'

'It's my size. That way, it'll match the rest.'

'You're such an idiot,' George mutters.

'So?' Dream asks hopefully, and George relents, if only because he can hear him smiling again.

'Just wait. Those are mine, I'll make you some.'

'I like cheese in my eggs,' Dream calls out as George heats up the stove again. George considers ignoring him, but he doesn't. 

He puts on a pair of his new socks while Dream eats his food. It's been so long since he's worn a pair of socks that are the same length that he's almost forgotten what it feels like. 

'Thanks,' he says, and Dream hums in acknowledgment, cheese stretching from his mouth to his fork. It looks so ridiculous that George can't help but laugh, because all of this is completely ridiculous, Dream of laundry room fame sitting on his couch eating his scrambled eggs surrounded by T-shirts of cats in space. 

'Your cat socks look good.'

'Thanks,' George says. 'Your pink shirt looks good.'

'It would look better on you,' Dream teases. His eyes glimmer in the morning sun. 

'It wouldn't fit me,' George points out. 'You're almost three sizes bigger than me.'

Dream licks cheese off his lips and tilts his head. His eyes are intense. 'I know that.'

George feels heat cloud his face. He looks Dream right in the eyes, taking in the sight of bedhead hair and cheese still smudged on his lower lip.

'You're such an idiot.' His voice wavers.

'I hear that a lot.' He sets his plate aside and stands, and if pulled by strings made of a year of laundry room meetings and unspoken words, George rises too.

He believes it, that Dream is three sizes bigger than him. Their chests almost touch.

'I think I got to know you a year too late, George,' Dream murmurs, and then he leaves apartment four-oh-four and George standing there with the sun on the back of his neck and something about to spill over in his chest like waterfalls of ink.

Dream isn't just the infuriating tenant in the apartment below his who takes the good machines in the laundry room. He's teasing smiles and sunlit shoulders and pushing every boundary and oh God, George hates him.

He takes a shower, water so hot that he flushes red all over, and then writes to Clay.

someday i want to move out and live with you, he says, because i have the worst neighbor in the world.

Chapter Text

George loses another two socks to the washer over the next week, which is why he's forced to wear the cat socks outside.

He's signing for a delivery of flash drives when a cat suddenly winds between his legs. The delivery driver looks curious.

'You have a cat?'

'No,' George says, confused. 'This isn't mine.'

He can feel the man glancing at his cat socks and matching shirt. The cat rubs against his legs and purrs.

He signs for the drives and brings the cat inside. She- George thinks it's a she- has no collar, but she's well-fed and neatly groomed. He snaps a picture and starts printing up a FOUND CAT poster.

Tabby, brown and white. Friendly. No collar. Found on the fourth floor.

He adds his number and puts them up in the lobby and outside the building, and returns to the cat. In case nobody sees his posters right away, he should probably get some food and a litter box… 

Part of him wonders if Dream would help bring the things in, but George would rather go back to permanently wearing fuzzy mismatched socks than accept Dream's help again. 

He spends the rest of the day with the cat, who he dubs Cat, and checks again for notes from Clay. He hasn't written for a few days, and it's like one more colour has leached out of the world. They usually talk in the morning and night, right before and after George showers, and waking up or sleeping with unstained skin feels strange.

George distracts himself with Cat, who is batting at his cat clock. It's adorable. George starts secretly hoping that nobody will call and he can keep her.

Near the end of the day, the phone finally rings, and the person on the other end sounds so heartbreakingly worried that George immediately feels guilty about wanting to keep Cat.

'Do you have my cat?' he asks.

George freezes. He knows that voice.

'She got out three days ago. I had her on her leash, but she escaped. She doesn't have her collar on now, but I'm so sure that picture is her. Do you have her?'

There are seven point six billion people in the world, three hundred million in the United States, three hundred thousand in this city, and at least a few dozen in this apartment building, and yet this missing cat had the misfortune to belong to him. George leans his forehead against the phone and wishes he had the strength to hang up right then. 

'Hello, Dream.'

The silence crackles through the call.

'Oh my God,' Dream groans. George glares at where Cat is lounging on his bed. Traitor. All this time, she had been consorting with the enemy.

'Nice to hear from you again,' George mutters. 

'George,' Dream says. 'Did you steal my cat?'

'I didn't steal her, she was wandering around my floor and I saved her,' George defends. Cat noses into his hand, and he gathers her up with his free hand. Even if she is a traitor, she's so soft that he can't resist. 'Cat belongs to you?'

'Did you call her Cat? As in the name, Cat?'

'I didn't know her name.'

'Her name is Patches, obviously,' Dream explains, sounding extremely condescending. 'Not Cat. Who calls a cat Cat?'

'Do you want to come get her or not?' George snaps. 'And you're welcome, by the way, for saving your cat.'

'Thank you,' Dream says belatedly. 'Can I come over to get her now?'

'Please. I don't like her anymore now that I know she belongs to you.'

Dream laughs. 'I'll see you soon.'

Dream shows up at his door in a hoodie and jeans with mud on the cuffs. His hoodie is pulled up and his face is pinked with cold and a five o'clock shadow. He looks terrible, and he is smiling brighter than the sun.

'Did you crawl through a ditch to get here?' George asks. 

'I was out looking for Patches for days,' Dream explains. 'Why were your posters written in Comic Sans?'

It's rather endearing that Dream was out looking for his cat all day, but he refuses to acknowledge that. Being a good pet owner doesn't absolve him of being an infuriating person otherwise.

'You've got some mud on your face,' George says. He taps his lip, and Dream fumbles for a moment before he wipes it off.

Cat wanders into the living room, and Dream's face lights with a joy like George has never seen. He drops to his knees and reaches out, babbling in some silly baby talk, and she rushes for him and jumps into his arms. He buries his face in her fur and rocks her back and forth, crooning softly.

George stands there, feeling like an intruder in his own apartment. He stares at the back of Cat's furry head. Traitor.

Dream stands up again and rubs his knuckles over the peach fuzz stubble, cradling Cat in his arms. He looks almost bashful.

'Thank you,' he says. 'Really. She means a lot to me.'

'I can tell.'

'Can I, like-' Dream waves with the hand that isn't holding his cat. 'Get you anything? As a thank-you? I don't know what I would have done if she'd been lost forever.'

George feels his face heating. He wonders if Dream is trying to make him feel guilty for wanting to keep Cat.

'You mean I can ask for anything and you'll just give it to me?' George challenges.

'Pretty much.' Dream leans against his doorframe. 

'Let me use the better washer and dryer,' George says immediately. 

'No,' Dream says. 'No way. If I have to use the bad stuff, I'll end up losing socks and then I'll look like this.' He gestures at George.

George's mouth falls open. 'I saved your cat and you won't let me use the laundry-'

'George!' Dream steps back, holding up his free hand, and wheezes. 'I'm kidding, I'm kidding. You can use the good dryer first. But I need the washer. I can't afford to lose these socks.'

He sticks out his foot, and George realizes that between the muddy cuff of his jeans and his battered sneakers, he's wearing the same cat socks that George is.

George struggles for words. He has never met someone so infuriating. The more he learns about Dream, the more confusing he gets. George can't understand what makes him tick, and yet for some reason, he feels like he already does, like Dream is a puzzle and his own fingerprints are the key.

'Your shoes are disgusting,' is all George can manage. Dream peers down at them like he's never noticed. 

'Yeah, but my socks are great.' He squints at George. 'If you want to pet Patches, you can just ask.'

George shoves his hands back in his pockets. Dream is not going to win him over with a cat. 'I don't want to pet her. She's consorting with the enemy.' He pauses for effect. 'That's you, in case you didn't realize.'

Dream laughs, soft and rumbling. 'You don't mean that, Georgie.'

Georgie.  

'Nobody calls me Georgie,' George lies. Heat prickles across the back of his neck. Clay does. In their private conversations, he sees that nickname on his skin.

Dream blinks. For a second, he looks almost confused, but George can't tell before it's gone again.

'Oh. I thought…' He shakes his head and then his terrible smile is back. 'You don't mean that.'

'I really do.'

'I'm going to let you use the good dryer and you still think I'm the enemy?' Dream looks wounded. 'What have I ever done to you?'

'You stole the good laundry machines for a year,' George deadpans. 'And you still sing in the shower.'

'Patches likes it when I sing in the shower. I can't deny her what she wants.' Dream adjusts Patches in his arms. 'I've got to take her home and-' He laughs to himself, looking down at his muddy jeans. 'Gotta take a shower. I'll see you around?'

'See you,' George echoes before he can remember not to. Something tells him that he and Dream will be seeing each other again, one way or another. 

Seven point six billion people in the world, and Dream is the one who happens to be his downstairs neighbor. George sits down on his bed and leans back against the wall. Like the soft wash of sun in the morning, George remembers Dream's joy when he saw his cat again, of his wheezing laughter and the bright sparkle of mischief in his eyes and the scruff of three days on his cheeks, and something tugs in his chest.

And then Dream starts to sing in the shower. Loudly. George pulls a pillow over his head and wishes that he had kept Patches after all.

***

Late that night, words in brilliant blue bloom across his forearm as he steps out of the shower. George rushes to write back, his hair still damp against his forehead and his thin shirt clinging to wet skin.

sorry i didnt write, Clay says. A pause. do you ever miss people, george?

do you miss me? George dares to write.

oh, georgie.

George loves the way Clay writes that nickname, like a flower spiraling across his palm. He loves the shade of green that Clay likes to write in, even though he can't see it.

georgie, i miss you all the time. ive never even met you and i miss you. 

George hesitates before he writes again. did you see what i wrote before?

you can come live with me one day if you want. The words are immediate and warm. George wants Clay, wants some life with him, and it scares him as much as it enthralls him. 

i think i want to take it slow, he says.

anything you want. Clay's words wind up and around his own. anything for you.

It feels like Clay is right here in the room with him, just out of reach behind the warm steam of the shower. They've fallen into the comfortable quiet of two people who know each other well enough not to need words. George knows that Clay is thinking of him, and that's enough. 

your pen is leaking, Clay notes with a helpful arrow. George frowns and wipes at his blue ink, but only succeeds in smearing it all over his damp skin.

good job georgie.

shut up clay youre such an idiot. George scrubs at the blue mess.

i love you too

The words stick in his throat like melting caramel. He loves that Clay says things like that as if it's simple and obvious, but part of him is scared of heat, of sweetness, of falling.

His gaze is drawn to the words that escaped the ink. Anything you want.

He draws a heart. dont be rude. i just got out of the shower. im not even dressed and youre being mean

A sudden inkblot appears on his arm, like Clay's pen slipped. George stares at the little mark, something warm and overfull with excitement rising in his throat.

i should get dressed George writes carefully, anticipation bright and sweet on his tongue. 

should you?

He can feel the press of Clay's wanting in every word, and he feels drunk on it.

its cold with only a shirt on. Then he adds a frowny face. you dont want me to be cold. do you clay?

youre the one whos being mean. telling me these things when i cant see you.

youre mean too. The steam and heat have long since dissipated, but George feels just on the verge of burning, dancing on the edge of falling. im still cold and my soulmate isnt helping me.

i promise ill be nice to you when we meet

His writing is so messy. George presses his thumb against his lips. His skin is warm and steam-damp, and he wonders if he's left an inkblot on his lip.

that doesnt sound like you

ill be nice to you, georgie. you just have to ask nicely.

George closes his eyes and listens to the rush of cars and night creatures outside, a chill settling on his skin. When he looks again, Clay has written one last time, and the words feel so warm.

i bet youll sound so pretty

George draws a careful heart around his words. He is shaking. goodnight, clay.

Another heart. sleep well, george.

***

Two days later, another delivery driver shows up at his door with a box.

'This isn't mine,' George says, confused again.

'They're cat socks,' the driver says, and even though George is wearing the cat socks and shirt again, he finds the politely exasperated tone unnecessary. It's not like he's the kind of person who orders cat-themed clothing, and he doesn't understand why Dream and the delivery driver seem to think he is.

'They're not mine.' George points at the address. 'See, you're at the wrong place. Three hundred and four is one floor down.'

'I know. He ordered them and then told me to bring them up to you, see if you wanted them.' The driver places the box in his hands before he can refuse. 'It's paid for, don't worry.'

Dream ordered him more cat socks. 

George sits at the table and opens the box. A printed-off note in Comic Sans is taped to the top, along with a Polaroid of Patches.

sorry that you still cant use the washing machine. hope youll forgive us :)

love, patches

Dream will not win him over with cat pictures and socks. He squints at the picture and realizes that Dream's hand is buried in his cat's fur, spanning her back.

He knows Dream is bigger than him, three sizes bigger- but the sight of his hand in the picture drives it home, dead north in George's chest with a sharpness. 

He places the note and the picture neatly in his recycling and opens the box. Socks spill out, in all the colours he can see and most of the ones he can't, piling up on his kitchen table in the morning. His hands sink in to the wrist.

One of the socks reminds him of Patches. A brown tabby winds around the leg of the sock, her paws and tail extended to make one long purring spiral. Before George can think better of it, he's pulled it over his hand like a sock puppet, and Patches dances around his wrist.

The ridiculousness of it catches him right in the chest- the absurd pile of socks in the early morning and Patches and Dream, catches him like a wild laugh and scruffy day-old shadow and the way Dream looks at him, all honest all the way down. 

Dream wears everything out loud, from pink-stained shirts to shamelessness, and yet George still can't understand him.

At least George has at least one thing he doesn't: the good dryer. And he intends to use that to its full extent.

When he gets down, the laundry room is empty, but because he has terrible luck, as soon as he's gotten halfway into unloading his laundry into the good washer, Dream arrives as always.

'Hello,' Dream says. 'I believe you're using something that belongs to me.'

'I am literally already using the washer,' George says. 

'You could take your stuff out,' Dream offers. 'I could help.'

'I'm sure you could.' George works faster. If he can get the washer on, Dream will have to back down. 

'No hurry,' Dream calls. 

' Yes, hurry. If I get the washer on, I win.' George cuts himself off just a moment too late. 

'Win?' Dream asks. There's something strange and delighted in his tone, and George feels a thrill, electric and sharp, running up his spine and startling him awake. He feels like he's started something he doesn't quite understand and can't control, and yet he looks up into Dream's bright eyes and slams the lid shut.

'Yeah,' he says. 'I win.'

'George,' Dream croons. 'You should have told me it was a competition. I would have tried a lot harder.'

'You're already a tryhard.' George has to tilt his head as Dream gets closer. The laundry room is small already, and Dream's six foot three makes it cramped.

He's shaved since Monday, and he has a little cut on his cheek from where he wasn't careful enough. Something tugs in George's chest, pulling him to press his thumb against the tiny scrape, but he doesn't.

'Yeah,' Dream says. 'What if I am? I like to win.'

'I can tell.' 

'I've been winning for a year,' Dream muses. 'I bet I could keep going.' 

'Bet,' George says casually. 'You only win because you cheat.'

He looks wounded again. George thinks he looks very similar to how Patches looked when George ignored her in favour of his computer. 

'I don't cheat.'

'You always show up right before I start the washer. You have to warm it up, you know, you can't just put it in dry. I get it nice and ready and then you just-' George flings his arm out, impassioned by a year of badly timed laundry meetings. 'Put your load in. Every single week.'

Dream's mouth falls open for a moment, but then his smile is back, just a little more crooked, cheeks a little more flushed. 'That's just- that's called skill.'

'You are the worst neighbor in the world.'

'I bought you cat socks,' he counters. 

George wants to ask why, but he doesn't. He doesn't understand Dream, and he shouldn't want to.

'Thanks,' he says. 'Now if only I didn't have to use the washer that eats socks in particular. Oh, wait.'

'That's what you get for always showing up after me.'

'Excuse me? You're the one who shows up, I'm always the one waiting.'

'Well,' Dream says with a grin, 'I guess I just haven't noticed you. It's hard to remember to look all the way down like this.' 

George can't believe him.

'I hate you,' he says.

'You don't.' Dream grins again, eyes crinkling, eyelashes catching the fluorescent laundry room lights. 'But if you're gonna be like that, we can have a little competition. All we'll do is keep track of who gets here first each time. First to five wins. How does it sound?'

'I don't play with cheaters. You'll probably stake out and wait for me,' he accuses.

'Do you really think I'd cheat?' Dream widens his eyes dramatically. 'Come on, George. You're nice and all, but I've got better things to do than wait in the laundry room for you.'

For some reason, George feels his smile slip, but before he can understand why, Dream leans into him, hands braced on the edges of the humming washer. 

'Winner takes all, George.' Dream smiles. 'What do you have to lose? You've already lost to me weekly before.'

Dream would say differently, but it's not his words that push George over the edge. It's his smile, crooked and delighted with himself and terribly alive. It's the buzz of the good washer at his back and the infuriating, enigmatic, challenging existence of Dream.

He should know better, but something about Dream makes him forget that.

'Deal,' he says. 'And you're already behind.'

'This doesn't count,' Dream corrects immediately. 'It starts next week.'

'Fine by me,' George says innocently. 'Anything else?'

'I don't think so…' Dream squints at him. 'Why?'

'Go on, keep talking,' George goads. 'The washer will be done soon, and I want to get the good dryer too.'

'Wha-' Dream jumps back, glares at George, and starts dumping his entire basket into the other washer.

'Planning on staining all your clothes pink?'

'You're such an idiot,' Dream groans.

George thought there would be a stark difference between the Dream who gifts him things and challenges him to competitions, and the Dream who shoots him dirty looks as he shovels his clothes into the washer that eats socks. But there isn't, not really, and that's dangerous. George wishes he could keep them separate, the Dream who teases and praises him fast as lightning strikes and the Dream who seems so very human, slamming the lid of his washer shut and scowling one last time. He needs to keep that distance, because the more he knows of Dream, the more he forgets to hate him.

'My cat socks, George,' Dream complains. The corner of his scowl twitches. 'If I end up losing some, I'm coming up to you and taking my gift back.'

'That's not very neighborly,' George calls over his shoulder as he hikes back up the stairs. He can feel Dream's electric gaze on his back even after he's turned the corner, even after he's locked the door of his own room.

The washing machine will be done soon. George can hear it humming beneath him. He uncaps his pen, hovering over his palm, and tries to figure out what to say that isn't complaining about Dream, Dream, Dream.

Instead, he pulls his shirt up and writes on his chest. Sometimes Clay leaves him notes here, notes that George only sees when he looks at himself in the steam-glazed mirror after a shower. 

i miss you, he says. The next words wobble over his ribs; all George can think about is how Clay's hand looked like drawn with his. i bet youre missing me too

He messes about on his phone for the last fifteen minutes, deletes Dream's number from his contacts, lingers for a little too long on the picture of Clay's writing, and wanders back downstairs only to see his least favourite neighbor leaning against the good dryer, which is on, but not with his clothes.

'What the hell,' George deadpans. Somehow, he's not even surprised, just disappointed.

'Speedrunner's secret.' Dream winks. 'You took my washer, so you don't get the good dryer.'

'I really, really hate you,' George reminds him. 

He loads his clothes into the other dryer and makes sure to walk a little louder than normal when he goes upstairs. 

Dream takes up so much room, all the time. Surely he takes up much more than his share, his one seven-point-six-billionth of the world. 

Dream is a lot. George holds that up against everything he knows about his downstairs neighbor and comes up short- too big a thing for such a small word- but it's enough for now, to put everything strange and electric and overwhelming about Dream into one box and seal it shut. 

He goes to shower with the cat socks still scattered all over his kitchen table. The water is warm and he keeps the lights off tonight, because he aches for Clay, Clay, Clay. When he steps out, he looks in the mirror and sees words forming in the lines of his hips. 

Water drips down the lines of his letters and pools on the tile below. Steam swirls like oil slick and shining in a puddle.

bet or hope? Clay asks.

He picks up the ballpoint he always leaves by his toothbrush and writes, ink feathering on damp skin. 

know, he says. A thread-thin line of ink drips and swirls across his skin. He lays his thumb against it, and leaves his fingerprint behind. 

and you say im the mean one?

Clay's thumbprint twins with his, blue and green on George's hips. He shudders all over, heat jumping like summer lightning between every bone and their fingerprints in his hips.

its easier if you just admit it, georgie. 

It feels like there's a whole new love language in the way Clay writes his name.

i like it when you miss me, he confesses. 

Summer lightning and the hum of a laundry room thick with detergent, the smell cloying in his throat. In the soft-edged dark of the shower, where all his words wash away easily, he is braver. With Clay, everything is brighter. He writes again.

i hope you dream of meeting me tonight, clay. 

god, george, he says, letters wobbling like water droplets are smearing them apart. you really are mean to me, arent you?

Those words find their way into George's dream that night. Clay, close and solid and so warm beneath his hands, over him in his twin-size bed with his thumbs leaving bruises in George's hips. He's never heard his voice but he can almost imagine it, almost catch the cadence of his soft, teasing words as Clay presses him down, warm as sunlight in the dark, as the hot rush of waterfalls in a steam-soaked bathroom, I want you so much George-

He wakes up with a hammering heart and one line in vibrant green, right where their fingerprints used to be. His dream washes over him again, hot and rushing, waves pulling him in.

i did, Clay says.

George writes beside Clay's words, every letter soothing the ache.

me too.

Chapter Text

George has a revelation one morning, listening to the world's worst neighbor complain to his equally annoying friend that the water pressure is down. He can hear them talking through the floor ducts, which he feels is something that he should have been warned about before he moved in, like loud dogs or smoking. Surely being forced to listen to people like Dream would be equally as detrimental to his wellbeing. He considers drafting a letter to the committee, asking for some form of compensation. Dream should come with warning signs.

'I think it's too many people showering at once,' Dream's friend muses. 'Karl said he noticed it a while back. It gets cold.'

Dream scoffs. 'That's because you two take hour-long showers. You're probably the ones ruining the water pressure and the water heater.'

'It's like twenty minutes and it's still better than your singing. You're probably causing the water to like- curdle or something.'

'Yeah, I guess what you two do isn't exactly called singing no matter how loud you-'

George decides to move away from the argument after that and go do a load of laundry. As he's descending the barren stairs, he wonders if all their coincidental meetings were simply that: chance. What are the chances Dream will walk in now? 

Somehow, he's barely opening the lid to the washing machine when Dream skids into the room with socked feet, a bedhead, and stretched out shirt with a pitchfork on the front.

'Aww,' George mocks. 'Did the speedrunner lose?'

'The battle, maybe, but not the war.' Dream raises a finger importantly before dropping his basket and rifling through it for a moment. He pulls out a cheap whiteboard, a roll of scotch tape, and several whiteboard markers from his sweatpants pockets, sticks it up above the top washer, divides it neatly into yellow and brown sides, and marks one hash mark on the brown side. 'There. We can keep track this way.'

George considers it. 'I want my side to be blue.'

Dream gives a long-suffering sigh and redraws the sides.

'There. Happy?'

'No. It's way too high. Why didn't you stick it at head level?'

Dream gives him the smarmiest expression George has ever seen.

'Because this way you won't be able to cheat and change it.' He pauses. 'Because you're too short to reach-'

'The only reason I'm not going to give you a concussion with this-' George grabs the nearest mop- 'is because I don't want the apartment committee coming down on me.'

'And because you couldn't reach my head. Try aiming for my knees,' Dream invites.

Someone else happens to walk in right then, when George is still brandishing the mop, saving Dream from his ignominious fate at the end of a Swiffer. The man glances between them, and then around the laundry room as if that will reveal something when the obvious cause of all the problems is standing there in bright yellow socks.

'Nice going, Tyler,' he says to Dream. 'Is anyone using the other washer?'

'Me,' Dream- Tyler?- says, and overturns his basket into it. 'You're gonna have to wait until this guy finishes his and I wouldn't hold your breath. I didn't know you could make a washer cycle slower than it normally does but he manages it every time.'

'That's literally impossible,' George says.

Dream catches his gaze, and George remembers, like the hot spill of sun down his neck, Dream in his kitchen, eating his cooking, something so hazy and gauzy and unreal it seems just like a dream.

'So, do you two know each other?' the guy asks, gesturing to the mop George is still holding.

'No,' George says.

'Yes,' Dream says. 'He's my new best friend.'

George hopes his gagging noise illustrates what he feels about that. The man seems to feel the same way.

'You replaced me!' he accuses, faux-wounded, holding his hand to his forehead.

'I did, Sappy.' Dream ruffles his hair and glances at George before whispering something in Sappy's ear. His face splits into a huge grin.

'Oh shit, this is-'

Dream waves between them, drowning his friend out. 'Georgie, you can call him Sapnap, he's visiting because he's my best friend and I wanna celebrate that. Sap, this is Georgie, who lives in the apartment above me.'

'-the short guy!' Sapnap finishes, evidently having not listened.

'We're the same height,' George deadpans, already tired of people who use what sound like video game handles as real life nicknames. 'Actually-' He looks down. Sapnap is in shoes, Dream and him are in socks. 'He's wearing shoes! I'm taller. I'm actually taller.'

'No way,' Sapnap interrupts, straightening up. 'No way, Dream, come on, back me up here.'

'Yep,' Dream confirms, popping the P as he slings an easy arm around his friend's shoulders and nuzzles into his neck, one eye bright through the mess of his hair, grinning out at George. 'My best friend's taller. Sorry not sorry, Georgie.'

Sapnap hooks his arm around Dream's hip and tugs him closer with the easy assurance of people who know each other so well they don't need to ask. Dream laughs and rests his chin on his head. George feels something like a sharp fishhook inside of him and he doesn't know why. 

'Come over here and we'll check,' he challenges impulsively. Sapnap's eyes dart towards Dream, but he steps back instead, holding his hands up, biting his lip in a terrible attempt to conceal his smile.

'You said-!' Sapnap's offended expression is almost comical. 

'You wear your height better,' Dream says. 'But you gotta do it now, Sappy. Come on.'

'You have to,' George goads. 'And you don't wear it better. I do.'

'Nah.' Dream waves it off. 'Not when you wear stuff three sizes too big.' Their eyes meet again, and George can practically hear it in his voice, I'd know.

George wordlessly holds out his broom and Dream twirls it up and holds it flat as a crude level. Sapnap, grumbling something about betrayal, toes his shoes off and slides in beside him against the wall. 

George closes his eyes when Dream lowers the rod. He feels him laugh softly, the plastic broom quivering above them. The smell of the fuzzy end tickles his nose.

'You can open your eyes, Georgie. Unlike you, I'm not gonna use this as a weapon.'

'Hurry up,' George retorts, but when he opens his eyes, Dream's face is barely inches from his, set into lines of determination. 

The absurdity of it all, Dream's intensity and the heat of his body in the stuffy room while the machines hum, the chart stuck high up on the wall and Dream's best friend beside him, feels brighter than sunlight inside of him, so bright that he has to close his eyes again, bracing for whatever comes next.

The plastic handle of the broom kisses the crown of his head ever so gently, and then it's gone, and George opens his eyes again, the fluorescent lights like thunder in their little room, breathless.

'Sapnap,' Dream declares, and beside him, Sapnap punches the air and howls with victory. Dream slides in beside him and they walk out together, connected at hip and shoulder, heads tilted together, perfect. George is left alone and stunned.

Just before they're gone, Dream turns and glances at him with the hint of a smile on his lips, eyes gleaming in silent acknowledgement. That's all George is left with, that and the scent of someone else's orange detergent.

***

He's never thought much of the scent of oranges before, but now it seems to fill every space in his rooms, between the stacked dishes and the cat clock and the warm dark of the shower.

He's abruptly startled out of it when someone knocks on his door. He opens it, and of course it's Dream. 

'You forgot your laundry,' he says. 

'Shit-' George looks for his basket, already regretting the wet laundry smell that will cling to his clothes, but Dream stops him

'I put it in the dryer already.' He seems a bit softer around the edges, standing in this quiet hallway. 'The good one,' he adds before George can ask. 'You did earn it.'

George follows him downstairs and they watch the dryers churn for a while. 

'Dream,' he begins. He wants to say Tyler , ask if that's his real name, but for some reason this muffled room that smells like Lysol feels too fragile. 'Did you…'

Did you mean it? 

Dream touches him, just barely, so soft it could almost be an accident, fingertips grazing the inside of George's forearm where he's paler than pale. His skin is warm. Dream touches him like he's going to break. George thinks he might.

'Yeah,' he says, ever so casually. His hand draws away again and George feels like he's left blushing inkblots behind, capturing each whorl of his fingerprints. He feels cold. The dryers tumble rhythmically in front of them.

'You could come up to my room,' Dream offers, still so light, so casual. 'Just so you don't forget your clothes again.'

Something twists between them like the press of someone else's body and the scent of oranges. George thinks, suddenly, of orange blossoms crawling up Dream's skin, spreading branches through the gaps of his tank top, shoulders and neck and the half inch between the hems of his tank top and his shorts.

That's too small for you, George wants to say, but instead he rubs the overlarge hem of his shirt between his thumb and fingers. An ache coils in the centre of his palm.

'Nah,' he says, straining to be just as calm, just as casual. None of this matters. 'You're too loud.'

Dream takes a heartbeat longer before he responds. 'Yeah. Yeah, that's fine. I'll just tell the guys to keep it down, alright?'

George leaves first. He's dizzy, somehow, and he can feel the press of Dream's gaze on the back of his neck as clearly as his fingertips on his skin.

He can hear the sounds of Dream's apartment downstairs, so he shuts off the lights in his shower and loses himself- all his things smell like oranges and his own shampoo just seems to twine with it, a waterfall of brightness.

He shuts the bedroom window when he gets out, lays on the covers, and starts drawing, no matter how much the ink feathers over his wet skin.

Clay draws him flowers. Clay draws him yellow dandelions and blue roses that spill with love, bursting at the seams with all the things George and him will one day share, did you know blue roses symbolize impossible things?  

George starts on his right wrist, where the lines are still uneven and his leaves look like needles, but by the time the branches have reached up his arm they flow, like water, like they're growing right out of him. They lead down his chest, but George can't bring himself to draw flowers past that, can't venture into the lines of his hips no matter how much he wants to dream of Clay wearing flowers there. The orange branches circle his left wrist like someone else's hand. His lines are unsteady again, the pen feeling clumsy in his right hand. 

George pauses over the place Dream touched him. Even after a shower, it seems to glow in his mind's eye. 

He draws an orange over it, in the hollow of his wrist. The blue ballpoint ink is stark against his skin. He wonders how it looks on Clay, if it glows against him. What colours he likes. What flowers he'd draw on George's skin when they're together, leading down the edge of his hip, his thigh, further.

George can hear his own breathing, quick and desperate, behind the drawn curtains of his room. Beneath him, there is a rumble of people, but it's faraway, like thunder.

What is Clay doing right now? Is he showing George's flowers in public, is he watching the ink spread across his skin and wearing it like laurels?

i want, he begins on his stomach, beneath a curving ink branch. He hesitates, pen leaking across his skin, the contrast of blue against his dark skin like reverse neon in the dark.

Someone laughs in the apartment beneath him, a laugh he knows, unsteady as it is and distorted by the air ducts and the distance. He finishes the line. 

i want you to be here with me, clay

A heartbeat, and then the words spill across his skin in what he knows is lime green, messy and perfect.

im here 

well im not with you but this is good enough for now

for now, George repeats. A warmth grows in every place Clay's words touch. 

oh georgie, Clay writes, his script wobbling, ive missed you every night. so much. youve got no idea.

do you like my flowers? George asks. He idly draws another blossom; his head is floating and warm. He feels a little bit drunk.

i love them, they look so pretty baby

Pretty, baby. Pretty baby. Fuck, he must be drunk somehow, on the smell of oranges and words twisting up his skin.

did anyone see you wear them?

were you hoping for that?

George just draws a heart around the words. The air feels like silk on his skin.

they did, Clay says. not this though. this is only for me.

His head falls back on his pillow. It smells like his strawberry shampoo. He wonders what Clay's pillowcase smells like. He needs to wash his; he wants to take Clay's and only throw it in the washer when it smells like both of them.

im drunk, Clay confesses, fuck im so drunk. i wish you were here. let me take you out for drinks when we meet?

sure, George writes, and bites his lip against a grin. youre paying.

okay, Clay says, so fast that the lines blur. anything. long as you tell me your favourite drink now.

anything sweet. surprise me. why?

i wanna know what you taste like, Clay writes. The words ripple over his hipbone and the top of his thigh.

god is all George can write or think of.

i probably taste fuckin awful right now, Clay continues. like alcohol and me. cause i ran off and hid out in my room after too many drinks. tastes like hiding under my blankets.

George hears himself groan, feeling like he's being pulled like the moon on the ocean as he rolls over and hauls the covers over his head, moonlight spilling in the cracks. Tastes like himself, himself and oranges, in the dark warm space.

keep going?

dont tell me you want me tasting like that

why not?  

He knows Clay, knows the intimate details of him like flower blossoms under clothes in dark bedrooms, Nickelodeon hot tub kisses and how he likes his breakfast. George knows his soulmate doesn't like the smell of coffee and knows the way he grew up, a bit tangled, flourishing now. Clay called himself a dandelion, just can't keep me down , but George thinks he's more like a wild rosebush. He wants that however it tastes, his tangled rose of a soulmate.

i want to taste you, George writes, almost shocked by his own boldness, but it's worth it when Clay responds after a heavy, electric pause, when he is the ocean pulled by this lunar daze.

where?

Heat curls through him, rushing along the ink lines of their words and their flowers. His head hits the pillow, damp hair feathering across his blue sheets.

This isn't the shock of not enough words to respond with, Clay is never like that. Clay is everything, too much, too many words beneath his tongue. He can think of hands, mouth, a voice like sunlight. Their words beneath the flowers, crossing their thighs.

youve dreamed of that, he says.

so have you.

His arm falls across his eyes, the weight causing sparks of colour in the dark as he draws a messy, hazy, drunken flower through their words. Warmth all around him.

i want you to dream about this, George writes, his script falling apart like an old sidewalk made into waves by orange tree roots. His flowers loop down across his hip bone. George can barely look at himself, his own hand writing the words, his own flowers.

If he closes his eyes he can think of Clay instead, watching the words form- thinking of you thinking of me, wanting you to want me-  

this is where im palest, George writes, on the inside of his thigh. Clay watching him. Clay wanting him, his ink dripping to a waterfall. Clay.

i think your words look prettiest here. dont you?

george.

Like the first raindrop. George tilts his head back, closes his eyes, opens his mouth, more.

god

george, sweetheart, oh my god

The thunderstorm of them, the lightning set free and racing between messy words, blue and green ink like a bruising, beautiful sky.

when im there, Clay writes, filling George's thighs with colours, i want to write there, i want to write every pretty name you should be called there

george, he says, my god .

George is falling, falling, alive.

george, Clay writes, when we meet, let me write my name on your thighs.

please, George says. please, clay.

***

He washes off his ink in the morning, but not before he looks at himself in the mirror, boxers on, orange branches and pretty words all over him, covers his face and takes a picture with his phone. He doesn't look at it, just saves it in a secret folder and thinks of Clay's offer for a phone number. 

Clay hasn't showered yet, and his ink still stands out, seemingly impervious to the water. George absentmindedly traces it, and abruptly remembers that he forgot his clothes in the dryer. He's unhappier about the fact that Dream was right about something than the fact someone's probably dumped them on the floor of the laundry room. He groans and opens the door.

He blinks. His clothes are sitting outside his door in someone else's basket. A typed note in Comic Sans is stuck into the top of the pile.

just because you earned the good dryer doesn't mean you need to hog it :)

It doesn't need to be signed. Only one person in this entire building could be this irritating.

George trudges downstairs with the basket, hoping that his worst neighbor will be sleeping off his party and that he can wake him up. He briefly looks in the laundry room, just in case, and Dream is there. Of course he is. George groans. 

'One to me,' Dream says cheerfully, and marks it down on the whiteboard.

'I'm not even here for laundry. That doesn't count.'

'Does too. Don't be a sore loser.' 

George tosses his basket at him, and Dream catches it easily.

'You throw a lot of things at me.'

'You keep catching them. You're encouraging it.'

Dream snorts. 'Alright. By the way-' He spread his arms. 'Hit me with it, go ahead, whenever you're ready.'

'What,' George says flatly. He's already attempted to hit Dream with the basket and failed, so he doesn't know what else to throw.

'You know.' He puts on the worst accent George has ever heard. ' Thank you for bringing me my laundry, Dream, especially when you specifically reminded me not to forget it and then I did anyways - what were you busy with anyways?'

'I do not sound like that.' George can feel heat rising in his face. Dream would think the heat in his face was from that, not his memory of laying in bed and drawing orange blossoms all over himself.

'Well?' He's smiling again, all cockiness.

'Thank you,' George mocks, drawing on every possible resource of insincerity within him. Dream bursts out laughing and almost chokes, bent over wheezing beside the washer. Maybe it's just how absurd Dream sounds, but when he's laughing the laundry room doesn't feel stuffy with Lysol and barely big enough to fit them both. It feels wide and sunlit and full of oranges.

So does his room, when he gets back. George sorts his clothing and finds two culprits: a dryer sheet and that T-shirt with the dumb pitchfork on the front. He's pretty sure the latter is an accident, because it doesn't seem to have been washed.

***

Dream has staked out the laundry room to prevent George from doing his laundry.

George can hear him, humming to himself downstairs. He can see the tip of his socked foot. He's brought a folding chair and a bag of Takis. This is deliberate.

George is completely sure that Dream has done this in order to avoid George winning. He was at four to Dream's three. He is fuming, and he is out of clothes, and Dream knows this because he saw his clothes, and George wishes that he'd hit Dream with the Swiffer after all. This was probably premeditated. He probably counted how many pants and shirts George had and planned accordingly, the creep.

Actually, he was out of clothes two days ago and has resorted to re-wearing the stuff that still smells the best, but there's only so many times he can wear a shirt with a questionable guacamole stain on the front before he gives in. The worst part of all of this is that he can't even complain to anyone, because when he called Alex for advice he got laughed off the line.

Unfortunately, now the choice is either to go downstairs to meet Dream wearing a very dirty shirt, or go down shirtless. Or go down wearing Dream's pitchfork shirt, but the idea of that makes him somewhat nauseous. 

Right before he goes down, he checks the mirror and realizes his guacamole shirt has a threadbare patch where you can read Clay's ink right through it, and that really makes the whole debate moot. Groaning, he pulls the pitchfork shirt on, and the scent of oranges almost drowns him. Oranges and the sun and something a little bit thicker. Cologne, George thinks, blinking down at his body, the shirt falling to his thighs. Dream wears cologne.

As soon as he sees Dream he knows he's made a mistake. He's lounging there with his laptop, fishing in a bag of Takis, but as soon as he sees George he looks like the cat with the canary.

'Georgie,' he says in obvious delight. His eyes dart down to the shirt. 'Isn't that mine?'

'You're a cheater.' George drops his basket with a clatter.

'It's called skill.' Dream takes his sweet time drawing the next line. Four to four. 'Too bad you just barely missed the win this time!'

'No way,' George argues as he drops his clothes in the good washer, and then the other half in the other one. Laundry day is very overdue. 'You're not even doing laundry, you're just waiting here for me. Doesn't count. Take that mark off.'

'Nope!' Dream points to something at the back of the room. George has to approach it to make sure that the scent of oranges and cologne haven't rotted his senses.

It's one single damp sock on a tiny homemade clothesline made of twine, strung with bright yellow tape between the dryer and the wall.

'I'm still drying my clothes,' Dream says with a completely straight face.

'Are you fucking kidding me.' George can't find the Swiffer, but he's ready to use his bare hands. 

'You're a poor loser.' Dream clucks his tongue at him. 'Also, that's definitely my shirt.'

'I wouldn't have had to wear it if someone didn't set up camp in the laundry room.'

'It wasn't like I was stopping you.' Dream gently pinches the front of the shirt and tugs him closer. George quirks an eyebrow at him. 

'Your dumb pitchfork shirt-'

'It's a trident,' Dream interrupts, looking hurt. 'Don't you know about Poseidon? Have you never read-'

'Your dumb trident shirt,' George continues, 'was the only thing I had to wear, because you were being unreasonable about the laundry.'

And it smells like you.

'If you'd just taken the L it all would have been easier for both of us.' Dream tugs his shirt again and leans down. His eyes are hazel, perhaps, or green, and they crinkle when he smiles. 'Do you know how long I've had to wait for you to just come down?'

'Not long enough.'

'It was. Long enough for me.'

'Not for me.'

Dream bites his lip to stifle his smile. George thinks he's blushing, and somehow he doesn't care, doesn't mind the heat he can feel in his cheeks. 

'Greedy,' Dream says softly. 'When do I get my shirt back? It's too big for you anyways.'

'That's up to me.'

Dream huffs and lets go of him, picking up his single sock, foot of twine, and laptop. 'I'll see you around, four-oh-four. Promise.'

In response, George steals a handful of Takis out of his bag before he goes, and notices that Dream is only wearing one sock.

He goes upstairs and stands in the bathroom for a while, waiting. Thinking. He needs a shower, even though he feels like the smell of oranges has soaked like sunlight into his skin, here to stay. He's had a lot of revelations lately, about bad neighbors and pretty words, washing machines and showers.

He hears the water start running downstairs and smiles at his blurry reflection in the mirror. He turns his shower tap on full blast, and sighs happily as Dream yells at the top of his lungs about cold water. 

Chapter Text

It's dark outside, the yellow moon dripping in through the window like the now-cold coffee pot into George's paper cup.

He has been up for the past twenty-two hours, and he's got the caffeine shakes and he's two more sips from hearing colours, and he is going to win this if it costs him his sanity.

Armed with his basket of clothes and his coffee, he carefully pads downstairs in his cat socks to his stakeout position. It is five in the morning on a Saturday. Dream, like some sort of insufferable tryhard, wakes up and does his laundry at precisely seven forty-four every Saturday morning. In just under three hours, he will walk in, and George will finally wipe that smug smile off his face.

God, he's never felt so good.

The laundry room door is just barely ajar, just as he left it. George pries it open, sets his cold coffee down on the murky shape of the washing machine, breathing softly, and closes the door behind him.

A huge shape lunges from the darkness towards him with a roar, and George screams louder than he's ever heard himself just as the lights suddenly blaze on, and the monster, the murderer in the darkness is-

It's fucking Dream.

'Oh, Georgie,' Dream gasps breathlessly. 'I win.'

He stands there with the fluorescent lights in his stupid messy hair and his stupid fucking cat shirt and matching socks and stupid basketball shorts and his awful fucking smile and and he just- stands there like everything, everything everywhere is his, standing there looking at George like only the both of them exist in the entire world. Seven point six billion people on the planet and Dream's eyes take up all that space and more.

George's coffee is all over the floor. It's when Dream slowly, deliberately points up to the single shirt he's supposedly drying on a homemade clothesline that George finally, finally loses it.

404 Stole My Favourite Shirt So Now I Have To Wear This, it says in scribbled, clumsy yellow fabric pen, and it's so awful and ridiculous and Dream that George breaks and lunges for him, fist curled in the front of his T-shirt to drag him down, but Dream doesn't move, broad and solid behind the thin fabric.

'You fucking asshole, oh my God, you scared me so fucking bad, I hate you so much, you son of a fucking-' He stops, out of breath, heart still hammering, because Dream is making a noise that sounds like crying.

He catches a glimpse of his face and realizes that Dream is laughing, wheezing so hard that tears are rolling down his face, gasping like he can't breathe. Back braced against the washing machine, hair messy, laughing so hard he cries. 

George feels something pull very hard and very sudden in the depths of his heart. A fishhook with a red string, all tangled up in his ribs, fine as thread and strong as orange tree roots, all wound up and ready to snap. Dream's hand closes around his wrist, not to push him away but to hold him right where he is, and George, somehow, does not find it in him to resist.

'God,' Dream pants, grinning like the sun as he finally stands up. 'Christ, George, who knew you had such a dirty mouth?'

'I hate you.' He can't quite catch his owm breath. 'So much. Where's the Swiffer? I swear-'

Dream wipes at his face and finally releases him, leaving a warm echo of his hand. 'I didn't think I'd scare you so bad.' He glances at the mess on the floor, failing to assume a somber look. 'Really. I didn't think you were going to scream like- like that.' His mouth twitches again.

'You are the worst neighbor anyone has ever had.' That strange pang in his heart has left him lightheaded, and the fluorescent laundry room lights haloed around Dream's dirty blond curls turns them star-bright. His breath still comes fast and shallow and he doesn't want to know why. The crackle of the cheap electric light seems to have taken up home beneath his skin. 'The worst. In the world.'

'At least I'm not the one who's gonna bring half the apartment down here to find out who got murdered.' 

George scowls. 'I wasn't that loud.'

'Oh, you were. We should probably go before anyone gets here and-' Dream glances at the coffee puddle again, and George can see him fighting his words, all his strange emotions shown right on the surface as long as you knew how to read them. Like water, like the sea. 

Something hovers like bottled lightning in the air between them, like static popping off dryer-fresh clothes. The coffee snakes to the tips of Dream's cat socks.

'Well, I owe you a coffee,' Dream says, slow and deliberate, testing the water. 'We could go right now.'

George should say no. He should go back to his room and sleep, and all of this will wash away in the morning, like the cold shock of a waterfall chasing away all his thoughts. It's Dream, who scared him wearing a cat shirt, Dream who haunts him and pursues him and looks at him in a way that makes George feel like he's burning.

He's had far too much coffee.

It's Dream. And because of that, and because the world is suddenly bright and liquid and hysterically funny with caffeine, he says yes when he should say no, falling into the deep end of a swimming pool that smells like citrus and fabric softener, at five-oh-five in the morning.

'You're buying me a drink,' he says. 'Any more caffeine and I'll die.'

'Well, we can't have that.' Dream mops up the mess with some dusty paper towels that smell like Lysol. They sneak back to get shoes and then they're gone, slipping out through the laundry room door to the city night. It smells wild out there, smoke mixing with the scent of detergent that still clings to Dream's shirt.

'I'm really sorry,' Dream says again. George scoffs and looks sideways at him- looks up at him, and having to tilt his head so far up must shake all his common sense out of place.

'You aren't. You were laughing.'

'That's because you-' He snorts again. 'Georgie, God, you screamed like I've never heard before.'

'It's not funny.'

Dream hums. 'It really was. And I've never heard you swear like that.' His smile turns clever and teasing. 'You grabbed me.'

George's hand flexes at his side, remembering Dream's hand around his wrist. 'I save it for creeps who hide out in laundry rooms to scare people.'

'Mmm.' Dream jabs him gently in the back. His touch is like static electricity. 'And what were you going to be doing down there at this hour, George?'

George elects to watch the lone car passing by, reflecting red in the puddles, instead of answering him.

'You know what I think?' Dream's voice is suddenly close to his ear, and George takes a sharp breath. 'I think you were sneaking down to scare me when I came down this morning at seven thirty like always.'

'You don't come down at seven thirty,' George says before he can stop himself. 'You come down at seven forty-four.' He's falling off that waterfall edge, he's high on caffeine and adrenaline and orange scent. 'Always. I know that.'

Dream is silent for a moment, and George realizes he can feel the heat of his skin.

'George.' He huffs a breath that tickles the fine hairs on the back of his neck. 

'Go on.' All George can see is the street out in front of them, glistening with late night rain. All he can feel is warmth.

'Some days I want to let you win, just because you do things like that,' Dream says, soft as dripping ink. 'And some days I want…'

'What do you want, Dream?'

Too far, like a waterfall off the precipice. Like the depths of someone else's eyes, the weight of their promises. George tastes ink.

Dream pulls away, and suddenly he is cold.

'I want to buy you a drink,' he says, and wraps his arm tightly around George as he leads them into the nearest bar, glowing blue in the night. 

There's barely anyone left at this hour, and Dream assures the staff that they'll be quick. He sits George at the back table and after a long deliberation with the bartender, sets down two glasses with cats dancing in the glass.

'Careful, it's sweet,' Dream says. He's a sight, cat shirt and cat socks in battered sneakers, drinking from cat glasses, hair standing up like cat ears. 'Did you really decide that waiting was your best plan?'

'You were doing the exact same thing.'

'Mine was worth it because I got there earlier. To the winner goes the spoils,' he says, and it must be the late night and the caffeine that makes his fanciful words funny, that makes George look at him, really look at him again.

There really is something cat-like in him, lounging there like he owns the world. Less like a housecat and more like the stone carvings of panthers that guard buildings. His easy smile falls as he peers at the shadows under George's eyes. 'You look like you stayed up late for it.'

'It's nothing.' George should know better than to do this for a man in a cat shirt over washing machines, but it's different when it's Dream. It's worth it for him, and he doesn't know how to say that when he's sitting here, in front of him, and it is past five in the morning and he is crashing off caffeine.

Dream's unexpected touch sends lightning up his back, and he jolts.

'Take care of yourself, okay?'

'I'm-' Suddenly, George wants to be adrenaline high and watching Dream laugh and tease him, he wants to be in a brightly lit laundry room where he knows exactly how much room Dream takes up. Here, with the whole bar all to themselves, Dream is too far away and yet George can feel his breath on the back of his neck.

'I need a drink,' he declares, and downs half before Dream can finish his protest. He comes up to wide amber-green eyes dyed blue by the lights.

'Can I have yours too?'

Dream catches George's wrist before he lifts it.

'How long have you been up for?'

'Twenty-two hours,' George guesses. The lights are spiraling behind Dream's head. He feels a smile steal onto his face, everything gone supersaturated and funny, leaving afterimages of itself smeared around. 

It's not the alcohol. It's Dream, and the ink in his throat.

Dream orders him some water instead and doesn't talk until he's done, nursing his own drink. It stains his mouth blue, and George finds he has to look away from it while he drinks to make his head stop spinning. It's easier, much easier, to let Dream coddle the drunkenness he doesn't have than for George to talk.

'What did you say about wanting to let me win?' he asks when he feels a little clearer. He swirls the rest of his water, ice clinking on glass, unwilling to become clear enough to let in the strange tension that sits at their table.

'You're drunk,' Dream says.

'I'm not.' George finishes his water just to prove him wrong. 'I would be if you let me have yours.'

Still, there's something good in the blue drink that's making him bold enough to poke Dream's arm, but not enough that he can't feel the heat through his T-shirt.

'Tell me.'

Dream lifts his gaze. There's not nearly enough caffeine or alcohol in him to miss the strange lightning in those eyes.

'You're an interesting person, George.' He seems to stumble on the next words. 'It's interesting when you- when you made the same plan I did. I like it when you want to compete with me. But…'

He stops, staring down into his drink, and scoffs under his breath.

'It'd be easier if you were drunk,' he mutters to himself. 

'But what?' The shiny slick edges of the world are sliding away from everything, everything except Dream and the blue dye on his lips. It's the drowning waterfall slope of the caffeine high that George knows he's riding, but it feels good, it makes him feel bold and bright and like Dream. He hooks a finger in the rim of Dream's glass, with only a thin glaze of blue left behind at the bottom with the melting ice, and- he should stop, he should- 

He drags it in and finishes it, and Dream stops him too late, hand closing around his wrist. He holds it there after the glass is back on the table, warmer than the flush of the heat still lingering in the bar.

'I want you to see me win,' Dream whispers. His grip shifts to cover George's, wraps around the cold glass. 

Can't he see he's gotten exactly what he wanted? All George can see is him.

'I'd let it happen,' he murmurs, thinking of his words like a light on a fuse, pushing at the edges of that carved panther's facade just to see if he's really got claws.

'Are you two done?' The voice of the bartender cuts across their conversation. Dream is immediately distracted, ushering them out, staying close at George's side as they walk down the sidewalk. The sun, in the distance, is rising.

'I want something for winning the bet,' Dream says as they walk. George wonders, offhandedly, if he heard what he said. He expected Dream to light like a firework, but this smoldering wait makes him wonder what's in store.

'To the winner goes the spoils,' he agrees. For some reason, it doesn't sting as much right now, not until morning. But for now, the sun isn't even up.

'Come to my party Saturday. Tomorrow night.'

George looks at him askance. 'You don't want your machines?'

'You can say no.' Dream isn't looking at him anymore.

'I'll come.' The cold morning air should be clearing his mind, and he's not even drunk, but Dream is warm beside him and George feels like he's still high. 'Did you hear what I said?'

'About what?' His voice is falsely innocent. He heard. George knows it.

'That I'd let you win.' He pauses, waiting to see what he'll do. 'Just to see it happen.'

Dream's hand finds his arm, thumbprint against the softness under his wrist. 'I don't need to be given a win, Georgie.' Gently, his fingers loop around his wrist, and George remembers- hoodie sizes, cramped rooms, Dream.

'I'd crush you,' Dream croons, playful as blue-dyed lips, and George has to look away again. Warm .

Dream walks him to his room. He doesn't let go of George the whole time, like George is fragile enough to be drunk on one cat glass, like George is enough of a starstruck fool to be drunk on him. George is high enough on exhaustion to let him. 

'Sleep well,' he says, and George mumbles something back that feels like how could I?

That night, he falls into bed without remembering to write. That night, he dreams of blue, not green. He dreams of Dream, not of Clay, and when he wakes, all he feels is aching, heavy guilt.

***

When he wakes, long lines of words spiral around his legs, the words smudged enough that Clay either wrote them late at night or slept on the ink since. 

sorry i havent been writing, he says, things have been busy but ive been thinking about you all the time

things will be busy for a little longer but i miss you even when we dont write

i love you very much!

For the first time, George wishes that showering would wash away his soulmate's ink. He doesn't deserve these soft, sweet words right now, when he feels grimy and stiff and he was out with Dream until six in the morning when the sun was up, and Dream invited him to a party and George-

He's going to the party. As much as he tries to shy from the idea, avoiding it with a twist of eyes and mouth like the flare of the sun on hot days, he's going to the party because Dream asked him to.

i miss you too, George writes, and Clay's ink returns immediately, looping hearts and flowers around the words. George has never felt worse.

He trudges downstairs after remembering that he never actually did his laundry, and finds who else but Dream, fiddling with the good washer. 

George doesn't know what to say to him, shocked into stillness by the door. Dream seems strangely vulnerable, dressed in a tattered orange shirt that's far too small for him and old jeans. There's stubble on his jaw, and in the glint of fluorescent lights the shadows beneath his eyes look purple. Propped at his hip is George's laundry basket, now half-empty.

He's doing his laundry. Dream is doing his laundry. When he straightens and turns to go, empty basket bouncing against his leg, George is still at the door, still stuck in the moment of the Saturday morning in the laundry room, and Dream tenses like a cornered animal, eyes wide.

'My laundry,' is all he can say, and then a helpless question of his name, wild with guilt and last night and all that George can only half-remember. 'Dream?'

He notices, suddenly, that Dream will not look him in the eyes. He pushes past George, shoving the basket into his arms as he passes, and disappears down the hall. The back of his shirt has some book series on it.

At the bottom of the basket, there's a discarded post-it note. Whatever Dream had written is obscured by harsh strokes of dark blue ink, soaked into the paper so thoroughly that the note shreds apart as soon as George picks it up.

***

'What do you do about the worst neighbor in the world?' George had asked when he'd called Alex, but despite his friend expounding on the topic for over an hour, he was no closer to a solution that seemed to fit Dream. 

Their Minecraft characters run in circles as George mindlessly follows the motions of the game, more to keep his mind off the evening than out of a true desire to play. He frowns at his downloads, their progress bars still patiently frozen, caught between impatience and regret over the contents.

'If that doesn't work, your apartment is right above his, right? You've got the height advantage. Move around some heavy furniture. Make him hear how much you don't like him,' Alex encourages through the call, staticky with bad connection. Onscreen, Quackity jumps and punches George's character. 'Learn Morse code and send him coded notes about how much he sucks. Get his number and rickroll him.'

He's been playing for too long, because that makes him grin. He didn't really have the height advantage when it came to Dream.

Three sizes bigger.

'I don't think so,' George laughs. 'If I did, he'd get all pissed off and storm up to my door and-'

He's interrupted by someone banging on his door, and his last frantic thought is that his last words are going to be about Dream.

'Stop hogging the bandwidth!' someone shouts, and after the jolt of terror, George recognizes the voice, which catapults the situation from bad to worse. 

'Sapnap?' he shouts back. There's a pause. Muffled talking filters through the door, and then someone else knocks again, polite this time, and the situation gets even worse, somehow.

'Hey, Georgie,' Dream says, and even through the distortion of a door and George's lopsided headphones his voice coaxes him in. 'Can we chat?'

'Ooh,' Alex says with a crackle of delighted static. ' Is this him?'

'Shh,' George hisses.

'Let me talk to him, come on.'

George abruptly hangs up and opens the door.

Sapnap looks thoroughly annoyed. Dream still won't look at George.

'What the hell are you downloading? Skyrim? The entire library of Alexandria?'

'Just some books.' Dream's gaze still avoids his, but fixes on his shirt, and George becomes conscious of the fact he's still wearing the trident shirt.

Sapnap's eyebrow climbs higher. 'Some books? More than one?'

'How did you know it was me?' George retorts. 

'Floors three and four share utilities,' Dream interrupts. 'And there aren't many of us. There were only about ten people to check.'

Sapnap rolls his eyes. 'Dream thought of you first.'

Good, is the word on George's tongue before he bites it back, and he doesn't know why.

'What are you downloading?' Dream asks.

George hesitates, unwilling to tell him, but Sapnap's impatient huff knocks it out of him.

'The Percy Jackson series.'

Dream's eyes are suddenly on him. 

'The entire series?' Sapnap demands.

'Percy Jackson?' Dream asks. 'George. George.'

'They're children's books, I know-' George tries to defend himself, grappling for a way to justify himself that doesn't lead back to Dream walking away in a stretched orange T-shirt with the words Camp Half-Blood across his shoulders and George unable to look away.

'George, you're such an idiot.' Dream is smiling now. 'I own the whole series. You could have just asked me.'

He couldn't have. He couldn't go down to room three-oh-four and ask for that, to see Dream in his rooms, to wake him up and ask.

'Jesus,' Sapnap says. 'Four-oh-four, we're going to the McDonalds across the street to download. Dream, get him your books.'

George groans, and Sapnap cuts him off.

'Yeah, you do. I need to add your music to the playlist for tonight.'

'Why isn't Dream coming?' 

Dream pulls Sapnap closer with a rake of knuckles and outstretched arms, their bodies falling easily into each other. 

'Because he knows me,' Dream rumbles, affectionate against Sapnap's hair. 'He knows what I like.'

George remembers the first time they met like a static shock, seeing their ease in the bright laundry room, and the idea winds back into his head.

Oh, George realizes with an ache. They're soulmates.

Sapnap's jacket covers up all the space for writing, and Dream's back in his smiley hoodie, but he can imagine them wearing matching ink, easier than he should.

It would make sense. It makes too much sense. 

He suddenly hates Dream, a stringent, bitter fury against the man who'd take him out for drinks and then prop his chin on his soulmate's head. It's a different hatred to their playful rivalry. This feels like a raw betrayal.

'Sure,' he says. He hopes the bitterness seeps through into the word, and burns with satisfaction when he sees Dream's face fall.

***

The McDonalds buzzes with fluorescent lights, which only makes George irritated now. Sapnap taps away on his laptop, adding George's suggestion for Travis Scott. 

'You know Dream pretty well, right?' George rubs his hands over his jeans. He wishes he had a different shirt to wear, anything but Dream's trident shirt. 

'Since I was ten or something. He was eleven, maybe twelve.' The keyboard clacks quietly. Their number is called, and George silently rises to get their order, drinks pearling with condensation, fries strewn across the tray.

George moodily picks at his fries. He doesn't want to be the kind of person who just asks about someone's soulmate. Asking something that intimate, asking someone who's heart they have written on their skin- it's worse than a faux pas. Worse than that, though, is cheating on your soulmate.

'He's weird.' His straw squeaks loudly in the lid of his Coke. 

Sapnap doesn't look up, but he grins. 'Bet. He's got this obsession with writing to his soulmate all the time. He's covered in ink right now.'

Sapnap knows Dream's ink. It hits George harsh and biting, and he nearly tips his tray onto the floor as he grabs another fry, cooling into paste in his mouth.

'I know him better than anyone.' Sapnap smiles at a text that lights up his phone, and George just knows it's from Dream. 'Hey, he got your books. You can pick them up at the party.'

'Yeah.' George needs to leave, he needs to get away from the uncomfortable weight of Sapnap and Dream and what they have, and who Dream is to him. 'I- I have to go. Sorry.'

'George?' Sapnap asks, but George has already left. Outside, back pressed to the cool bricks of the McDonalds, eyes full of the fluorescent lights, he catches his breath and dares to look back.

Sapnap is on his phone again. Smiling. George thinks of amber-green eyes and blue drinks while he runs home and buries himself in his blankets. It sits on him like the urge to shower, the feeling of wrongness and the ache where all his feelings for Dream are in his chest, hatred and want and guilt and rivalry all colliding in a thunderstorm that makes up the man in room three-oh-four.