Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dream scrolls through the girl’s Instagram, chewing on the inside of his cheek absentmindedly. “Yeah, I suppose she’s cute.”

“You suppose. Are you blind?”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. The page of Sapnap’s newest crush is open on his monitor: a tall blonde with eight streaks in her hair and a blinding smile in each photo, smeared with a shade of lipstick he doesn’t think fits her skintone.

Sapnap’s icon lights up with shitty mic noise. “Whatever. I’m not messaging her anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Dude, she has eight. She is seventeen.”

“Yeah, and?” There’s a photo of her at a bar, wearing that same shade and dancing with who he assumes is a close friend. She seems fun from the photos but Dream doesn’t get why Sapnap won’t shut up about her. “The number doesn’t mean anything.”

“Isn’t it too many?”

“Oh my God. Just message her.”

“No.”

Dream rolls his eyes.

For multiple days he’s tried to convince Sapnap to stop being an idiot and just talk to her, damnit, but apparently he’s scared of girls, now.

Either way, he knows how this will go: Sapnap won’t message her, he’ll get over it, Dream will get to live happily for a few weeks, and suddenly there’s a Samantha or a Lucy or a Daniella or a whatever that both him and George will get to groan at. It’s a familiar dance that Dream has two left feet in.

Sapnap sighs heavily, like the whole world is on his shoulders instead of one high school crush. Dream scoffs. “What now?”

“What?”

“You’re acting– cringe, dude.”

No sound follows, but Dream assumes Sapnap is acting pouty. “Shut up.”

“No, you’re– you’re acting all weird about this girl having eight when I bet you have way more.”

“What? Why?”

“Oh come on now. Sapnap.”

When Sapnap doesn’t respond, Dream starts to wheeze in laughter. He ignores the spluttering defensives, instead choking out vague mumblings about hypocrites and streakheads.

When he calms – wiping tears from his eyes and trying to tame his painful smile, failing horribly – he says, finally, “Alright, alright. I just don’t get why you’re fussing over it so much.”

Sapnap whistles, low. “You really know nothing about the world, huh, baby boy?”

Dream picks at the gray under his nails, pointedly ignoring Sapnap’s cringe flirting. “Can’t know what you haven’t learned.”

“…haven’t learned? Dream, you’re nineteen.”

“I know that! I just… you know, I haven’t really thought about it.”

Sapnap goes quiet. Dream doesn’t pay it much mind, still busy with the remaining dye.

“Dream,” Sapnap starts, then stops again. “…nevermind.”

“What?” He stops picking at his nails, instead watching the Discord window intently. “Tell me.”

“Dream… Have you ever been in love?”

Dream rips at the box and groans when the packaging tears itself into pieces instead of coming apart like it should.

Dying his hair: it’s a task he’s hated for about as long as he’s been alive, really. After all, it had been pushed onto him more than a decade ago and it’s not one of those things you can just do once, and then it’s done forever. It’s Sysiphean – you have to do it again and again or your parents start whining at you.

It’s the part of being Dream that he hates the most: this duty he has to perform that still makes him stomp his feet a little despite his very adult age.

And yet, he ends up in front of the mirror every few months, clutching a package promising full coverage and a brilliant shade and love from his parents and approval from everyone around him – and maybe himself, too. Maybe himself too.

He doesn’t even need his dad to comment on his roots anymore; he can buy the dye himself, find it on the shelf at the store and hide it at the bottom of his basket. He ends up alone in his empty apartment, full of artificial light and the lingering loneliness that clings to him, and he dyes his hair and his skin and hopes it’ll be enough someday. One day he’ll do it right. He will.

He has to. He wants to.

Mixing the colour by muscle memory alone, he fixates on the light stains painting a sad gradient along his shoulders, the old and oversized shirt reserved for only this activity. His hair is glossy and gross – if he has to dye it anyway, why should he wash it beforehand? His mom once told him something about the dye sticking better when the hair is greasy, but he’s pretty sure that was just to get him to shower more when he still fought against it, so very long ago.

That was before he shaved it off, too – his hair hasn’t taken the never-ending torture well, ends forever thin. If he didn’t dye it it’d be so much healthier, and he knows his curls were perfectly fine before all this mess started, but his parents were too insecure about their fuck-up of a child to leave it as it was.

Even if he was the one to shave his hair first, walking out of their bathroom with dad’s electric razor still on the counter, hands shaking and face blotchy, it’s not like he wanted to do it. Dying like his life depends on it, it all started so he could stop doing it without getting glared at around the dinner table.

Dream gets to grow his hair out if he dyes it so carefully that he can’t even remember his own natural shade.

Smearing the mixture between sections of his hair feels more like picking dust off the ground; every strand has to be covered or the illusion is broken, and so the blonde disappears until he tastes blood along his tongue.

He releases his lip from between his teeth. His brows have sunk, his hands tug painfully at his scalp, and he hits his elbow against the sink and is too frustrated to even respond.

What’s the fucking point? It’s gonna grow out anyway, he can’t ever be fixed and especially not like this. Pretending is useless. He takes his hands off and doesn’t look at his work.

Blonde isn’t even a strange shade for his hair to be, circumstances aside. If he left some of it as the natural colour, or even all of it, people would just think he, too, was dyed. Nobody outside of his family thinks this hard about something that other people do as well; he doesn’t have a pile of straight glitter on his head or anything, it’s a perfectly fine colour.

No, he’d stand out too much. Obviously.

Everything gets covered. Nothing remains. Every strand and every root is even until Dream loses his shine.

He looks so dull. He doesn’t feel any brighter inside, either.

It’s for his own good, they said. Now that he lives alone and has his own life away from prying questions and unwanted touches, he’s far less inclined to agree – there are permanent marks and scuffs that kids in primary and middle school left on him when they pushed him down to the concrete and tugged at him and hit him, mocking his hair, until he showed at school with an uneven buzzcut and suddenly the problem was not having any.

Dream can’t win. The world has never been on his side and it never will be. The excess dye washes off under the shower and he wants it to stain his skin. Maybe if gray is the solution he should just become that colour fully, disappear into the background.

If he told his friends, what would they say? Would they call him the mistake he is – everyone else thinks he is, at least – or would they never talk to him again? Would they be glad he hides it? Would they be like his relatives who desperately ask if he’s found anyone yet, who search through his hair without his permission? He can’t trust that they won’t; every year confirms to him that love is conditional. Love has always been conditional.

Not for the first time, Dream thinks himself cursed.

If there’s anything Dream hates, it’s his distant family.

It’s not like they’re awful people; they’re fine. Fine, with a capital F and an undertone. They’re the regular kind of relative – one who cares just enough, listens just enough, but doesn’t quite know what he’s been reading or watching lately, and doesn’t remember every time he expresses any sort of boundary for himself.

He says hello to them, asks how are you and what’s been going on with you lately, says okay and yeah and mhm and sure and no, not really and nope and not yet. It’s so surface level even the effort hurts to put in. He sits down next to his aunt who’s wearing enough of that floral perfume to remind him of the laundry detergent aisle, and she’s sitting next to his uncle who leans forward to ask him the same three questions he always does, even though Dream can never really understand him. He remembers not to roll his eyes or twiddle with his hair or fidget because it bothers them too much – his actual family is used to it by now.

Everyone is being too loud in this house right now and it’d be so impolite of him to leave. He can’t possibly disrespect someone who–

“So, what’s going on with you, Clay?”

A second aunt, this one on his right. Great.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know,” she says with a knowing tone and a vague gesture of the wrist. “Anyone new?”

He sighs, shrugs, and looks away to focus on the wall. “No, still nobody.”

“Oh, come on. There has to be someone, right? You’re a young guy” – she knocks him with an elbow – “and surely you have your eyes on someone.”

“Uhm… no, not really. Can’t say I do.”

“What? That can’t be!” She laughs in that way he’s come to recognise as I know better than you. “Oh, you must be keeping secrets. What fun it was, being your age.”

While she sighs wistfully, Dream taps fingers on his jaw and looks around the room. Everyone but him is engaged in conversation or they’re out of the living room already. He’s stuck here, though, with the woman now rambling about her own youth.

“–and then he leans in, and–”

Whatever. Dream sits and nods along, not interested in the slightest. Alas, he fails even that simple of a task.

“–but then– Clay?”

“Yeah?”

“Were you listening?”

“Huh? Yeah, your, uh– you were talking about your husband, right?”

She stares at him, then frowns sternly, pouting hard enough to scrunch her face up. “You really never listen, huh?”

“What– what do you mean?”

She sighs and stands up. “Nevermind. Believe me, Clay, you’ll get it one day.”

He sinks back into the couch cushions as she walks away, a pout still striking her face. The obnoxious flower scent doesn’t make him feel any better, especially when his stomach threatens to tie itself into knots from the weird interaction.

Everyone treats him like they know something he doesn’t, and the worst part is that they’re right. They know some divine secret Dream has never been privy to; they know how to be normal; they know how to be right.

Left alone as always, Dream sneaks off from the rest of the crowd and heads into the bathroom.

He doesn’t encounter anyone on the way there and once inside he locks the door behind himself. He breathes in, breathes out – light seeps in under the door but it’s dark: dark, and mostly quiet. He steps further from the door stopping at the sink to set his elbows on the edge and lean his head into his hands.

Dream threads his fingers into his hair and tugs, falling, falling until he lands on the floor, kneeling.

Who cursed his family with someone like him? Someone irreversibly broken, someone special in the worst way?

He remembers, all too well, running the shower to cover the sound of the razor. It hadn’t been a good day, then; the kids at school had called him names and it had finally snapped something in him.

His parents had barely tried to comfort him. Instead, they commented on his new look. He didn’t miss their disappointment when his roots still weren’t gray, instead the barely-there light blonde Dream has dreaded for more than a decade.

His dad offered to clean up the jagged cuts he left. His mom offered to go dye shopping.

Dream knows he isn’t meant to be here. God, he knows it – has known it – will know it for the rest of his life. He’s built wrong. He’s unfeeling. What’s even the point, really, in someone like him? Maybe he should just–

A ringing.

Through tears Dream searches for his phone in his pocket, pulling it out to find a familiar contact on the screen.

He takes a few breaths – doesn’t want to burn anyone else on the embers of his hurt – and clicks the green button. “Hey, Sapnap.”

“Dream– there’s another.”

“Wait, what?” He scrambles up, using the sink as leverage to lift himself despite his numb legs. “What do you– another? You sure?”

“I’m… sure.”

“Well, do you– how– Sapnap, it’s been, like, two months.”

“I know.” Sapnap sounds distant. “Dream, what’s wrong with me?”

(Aren’t those familiar words?)

“No, Sapnap– there’s nothing wrong with you” – not the way there is with me – “it’s fine, just calm down. It’s okay.”

Sapnap takes a breath or two, time Dream uses to process.

This is Sapnap’s third streak this year. He’d call it bullshit if he didn’t hear the worry in his friend’s voice, or if it wasn’t his friend. Sapnap wouldn’t lie to him like this.

“I don’t– Dream, my parents already think I’m a disgrace. How do I–” the phone is now further from his mouth. “What’s it called? Streak neutraliser?”

One of them has too many, one of them has too few. Why did George have to get lucky? He seems to have the exact right amount of colour in his hair, never has problems with it. Dream and Sapnap are the freaks.

“…fuck, I can’t hide this,” Sapnap groans, then lifts his phone back to its regular spot. “Dream, I’m so fucked.”

He sighs. “Are you upset?”

“Yeah, my parents–”

“No, no Sapnap, are you upset?” Dream sits down again, back against the counter. Someone knocked on the door some time ago but he didn’t pay it mind, so they presumably left. “I know it seems bad, but– but it’s okay. Right?”

“…yeah. Yeah, it is.” Dream hears footsteps. “How do I even– Dream, I don’t want to fall in love anymore. I think I’ve had enough.”

He laughs. “Yeah. I get it.”

Sapnap seems to move somewhere else, the sound of the room changing. “Thanks for talking me down a bit, dude.”

“No problem.” Dream smiles in the dark. “We all need a little comforting sometimes.”

Sapnap chuckles. “We do.” A moment passes. “Wait, are you still at your parents’ house?”

Dream groans, Sapnap laughing in response. “Yes,” he says, “Please keep talking to me so I have an excuse to avoid them.”

“That bad?”

“You know how old people are about streaks.”

“Oh, right.” Sapnap sighs. “Seems this whole system’s the problem, huh?”

“Sapnap, stop being seventeen,” Dream laughs. “Fuck the system, right?”

“No, honestly, fuck the system. But– Wait, I actually need to go. I’ve got homework to do.”

Dream snorts. “Why were you checking if you’re busy?”

“Well… shut up.”

He laughs at the audible pout. “Go do your algebra, idiot.”

“It’s not–”

He hangs up before Sapnap can defend himself.

Talking to his friends helps; it makes him forget, for just a second, what turmoil he faces in his mind. Through Discord, it doesn’t matter what he looks like or how much that resembles everyone else.

He’s just Dream.

He stands up and looks in the mirror.

He’s always just been Dream.

He can hear Sapnap rustling about on the other end before his camera turns on and Dream feels sick.

He’s seen Sapnap before, but that was long ago. He looks different now: older, even if he’s still young. He’s smiling into the camera, checking if all the settings are right, and Dream can do nothing else but stare at his hair.

Sapnap’s hair is lighter than what Dream’s is, right now. It curls around his face, soft-looking despite the shitty webcam quality. Though, what pulls Dream to it, is the collection of colours swept to the side.

“You didn’t dye it?”

Dream can see exactly how Sapnap reacts; his eyes flick to the Discord window, then to the camera, then back to the settings he’s messing with. “Yeah,” he laughs, awkward and camera-shy, even if he wouldn’t admit it. “Why?”

“Well, you don’t think people are gonna judge?”

“I don’t care, honestly. It’s not like it’s my problem, or anything.”

“But–”

“Dream, it seems like you care more about it than these people.” Sapnap quirks a brow. “Are you suddenly some kind of bigot?”

“No! I– I just…. I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all.”

“Dream, it’s fine. If they say something mean, that’s their problem. I don’t give a shit.”

Dream sighs, checking to make sure his mic didn’t pick it up. His Discord didn’t light up.

To be honest, he also doesn’t care – after all, he has nothing of that system, so he’s the freak here – but he’s heard enough people around him talk ill of those with more streaks, and Sapnap is planning to reveal, to the entire internet, that he has six, at eighteen. It’s like slutshaming waiting to happen. Dream rests his chin in his palm. “I’m just worried. I really don’t want you to regret this.”

Sapnap rolls his head to the side. “I appreciate it, but it’s not needed.”

“Alright.” Dream shrugs, even if nobody can see it. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” He looks into the camera again, shifting his hair. “Do I look alright? It’s hard to mix these, man, it’s insane.”

“You look perfect, dude. Don’t worry about it.” He smiles. “They’ll love you.”

Sapnap thanks him with a flustered tone, and Dream mutes himself to drag a hand down his face.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe in Sapnap, or anything. He’s a tough guy to really hurt, Dream has no doubt he can handle a little flaming from Twitter, if that even happens. Maybe he’s just so used to the way his own family talks about people outside the norm: those with more than four streaks, those with none, those that choose to remain friends, those that dye more streaks into their hair, those like Dream. That last group is easy, though; it’s Dream, and Dream’s always been an easy target. You can always make fun of people like Dream, because it’s just Dream, and he knows better than to complain about it.

While Sapnap does a few tests of his software, obviously searching for something to distract himself from what he’s about to do, Dream throws his head back to stare at the ceiling.

What would his friends say about him? Would they also think he’s some kind of mistake; something to fix? Would he even tell them that he dyes his hair, or would he stick to the lie and hide the boxes?

And when they inevitably find out, what would they say?

“–eam?”

“Huh?” He snaps back to attention, Sapnap staring at his camera with concern. “Sorry, I spaced out. What?”

“I’m about to go live.” He laughs. “I’m kind of nervous, honestly.”

Dream laughs with him, hyping him up to press the start streaming button until the notification finally comes through. He falls into the background after that, letting Sapnap have his big moment, though he still keeps an eye on chat, having promised to do a bit of moderation this stream; thing is, there’s not as much to filter out as Dream thought there would be. Most people are commenting on how good Sapnap looks – true – or how cute he is – also true – but the discussions about his streaks, or maybe rather the way he wears them, all messy and mixed up – are all… positive.

It’s all cheering for him, celebrating the moment. Nobody, of the few-thousand watching, is saying what Dream’s own, ugly thoughts scream at him.

Seeing all this, and how happy Sapnap looks even through his nerves, he feels like such an asshole for being bitter about it.

He doesn’t bring it up, but it sticks with him. It sticks with him even after the stream, and it sticks with him during the next, and the next, and the next. That little bundle of toxicity – the one that feels wronged, deeply and horribly – it eats away at him, piece by piece.

He stares at himself in the mirror and wonders what would happen if he told his friends the truth. He knows he won’t do it, though. The answer doesn’t matter. He’d live in fear either way.

Dream’s job isn’t very exciting. It’s a lot of telling customers about the same three products he’s been told to advertise or helping them fix some problem that didn’t really need a visit like this. His videos have been taking off recently so he’s considered quitting either way – it may be risky, but he feels like he’s got something. His research might’ve paid off after all, and even if it isn’t a job to flaunt at a party, it’s what he loves doing.

He looks up from his notebook. If Youtube is his passion, this might be the polar opposite. Customer service: not a job for the self-loving… Dream would know.

He scribbles down another video idea, glancing up when he hears the door open.

It’s a group of three girls, roughly his age, staring at him but trying to hide it. He tucks his notebook back into his bag, hidden behind the counter, and straightens, flashing a smile at the group.

They whisper amongst themselves and after a few shocked looks, two of them go to look at phone cases and the third approaches him, instead.

With what seems to be overwhelming nerves, she comes up to him and rushes out, “You’re really cute. Can I– uh, could I have your number?”

Dream startles. His mouth hangs dumb for a few seconds, enough for her to lean back a little and muster, “Oh, I’m sorry, you must not be interested, or–”

“No, no! No, it’s… it’s alright.” He chuckles nervously. “Yeah, sure, just– nobody’s ever asked me before. You startled me.”

“Really?” Her face morphs into shock, then into amusement. “You’re a snack, what? That’s crazy.” She giggles and takes out her phone, handing it to Dream on the new contact page. “Do you not get out much, or…?”

“Not really, no.” He types in his number and freezes on the name space.

Not noticing, she clicks her tongue and says, “Their loss. That just means more for me, right?”

“I guess so.” He hands the phone back finally. “I actually don’t think I got your name?”

“Oh, right!” She giggles again, and Dream isn’t sure if she’s just giggly or if she’s still nervous. She smiles politely. “It’s Sam. Nice to meet you…” She looks down at the phone. “Dream? Interesting name.”

“Oh, you know…” He shakes his hair in nervousness. This is the first real life interaction he’s had with someone outside his family and his coworkers in a while. “Old nickname that everyone calls me now, I guess.”

“Ah, I know the kind.” She nods along, probably thinking back to some memory of hers. Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she looks behind herself and finds her friends waiting at the door. “Well, I’ll leave you to it for now. I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Sam.”

And from there starts an awkward text conversation, eventually turning into something more comfortable. Little insights into each other’s work – she’s a waitress, but she’s going to university on the side – and secret calls at night when he isn’t busy with his other job, meetups during the day when they have lunch breaks or don’t have shifts. Dream tells her about video games, and coding, and in return he listens to her explain fashion history and the complex science of linguistics and the invisible systems of economics, and he tells her it’s a weird combo but she says she knows that.

Sam is sweet. She opens up after a week or so and turns out to be fun and even a party lover – when her schedule allows it, of course. She’s pretty and carries three different moisturisers in her bag, one of which Dream steals because it smells nice. She’s proper, taking great care to convey only the best about herself.

Sam is perfect. She’s so, so nice, and Dream appreciates her a lot, but…

…she’s not for him.

He thinks, while debugging some code George sent him, that he still doesn’t feel the way he should. He’s read enough. He knows what it should feel like, or at least that he should feel something. And yet, the next morning, he looks at Sam’s smile and nothing in his chest flutters, his hands don’t feel any different, and he talks to her like a friend. That doesn’t seem right to him, though – they didn’t meet like friends do, and Sam sends hearts when she says her goodbyes. That doesn’t seem platonic to him, but what does he know? It’s not like he’s an expert in the field or anything. He’s just one guy.

He checks his roots one day and finds the exact same blonde as usual. He adds the hairdye to his shopping list and picks it up the next day, feeling about as bitter about the process as he always does when he once again finds himself in the shirt a little too small for him and sweaty hands stuck inside plastic gloves. Not for the first time, Dream wants his hair to change colour, but this time it isn’t gray. No, if his base is blonde, maybe his streak could be… hot pink, or a nice blue. Green, while fitting him as a person, would probably look weird.

Only a few days later, they meet up at a cafe, both with no work and opting to have lunch together at a local place instead. Sam is reading something in her textbook when Dream arrives, and she looks up to smile at him in that softer way she always does which he responds to with a smile of his own and a little wave.

She tells him she already ordered for the both of them, and Dream asks how she knew what to get, and she tells him she just remembered his previous order, knowing the traffic would mess him up again when they came here the next time. He thanks her, stuck on how nice of a gesture that is; something he would never have thought of, himself. Instead of dwelling, though, he asks about the subject she’s studying – something finance, if the graphs are anything to go by – and she spirals into a rant about her professor, the one Dream knows hates her personally.

She’s recounting something the professor had said when she gestures and flicks her hair to the side by accident, but Dream stops listening to her and instead fixates on the light lime poking through.

“…even listening? Dream?”

He startles up. “Huh? Sorry, I– is that new?”

Her brows lift in question, then her eyes widen. “You mean this?” She twirls the lock, about half an inch of green visible nearest to her scalp. “Yeah, it’s new. What about it?”

“Is it… mine?”

“’Course it’s yours, silly. Who else’s?”

“Nobody, I guess.” She turns to fetch something from her bag, but Dream stares at the wood of the table instead. “I guess that’s cool.”

“What?” She raises her head with a frown already across her lips. “Why do you sound so upset?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t it a bit… a bit fast, or–?”

“To fall in love?” She shakes her head. “I’m more surprised you don’t have any. You seem like the type.”

He doesn’t care to analyse what that could mean. “I’m dyed.”

“As gray? Crazy. Is it, like, a religious thing? Your family?”

“My family.”

“Damn. I could never.” She finds the container of makeup she’d been looking for – blush, maybe. Eyes on the mirror, she pats it on and continues, “My parents both only have one, so me with four?” She whistles. “I’m the lowest kind of whore, honestly.”

She looks up. “You think so too, don’t you?”

“N– no,” he chokes, “Of course not, my friend literally has six. I– I promise, I really don’t care.”

“Good on you.” They pause as a waitress brings them their drinks. He burns his tongue on his hot chocolate. Sam continues after a sip, “I don’t get all the fuss. God, you have too much fun in life. Like, who cares?”

The unease stays in his gut, even through whatever Sam says about not caring; after all, she doesn’t care about too many – nobody ever said anything about too few. She has a new one, and she doesn’t seem like the cheating type, so Dream concludes she’s already fallen in love.

He uses his selfie camera to imagine a light streak somewhere in his bangs and fails. “I think I have a girlfriend.”

“…you think?”

“I’m pretty sure.” He sets his phone down. “We’ve been talking for, like… a month.”

“Dream, you’re definitely dating by now.” George’s eyeroll is practically audible. “Did you not realise?”

“Um… no?”

“Of course you didn’t. Weren’t you the one who didn’t care about relationships in the first place?”

“I didn’t. But, like… she’s nice, and I guess I like the whole ritual part of it, you know, the– the caretaking, and–”

“Yes Dream, I know what you mean.” George sounds oddly bitter, but it’s gone with his next words, so Dream doesn’t dwell on it. “But like, are you even into her?”

“…what do you mean?”

“Like, do you love her?”

“Oh, well– well that’s the problem. I don’t… know?”

“You… don’t know.”

“Yeah. I don’t know.”

George’s confused hum prompts him to let go of everything he’s bottled up. He tells George about the lunch dates and the evenings when Dream declines his calls. He tells George about her showing up at his work to bring him food or just to chat when it’s a quieter day, and how he does the same to her sometimes. He tells George about the streak, the thing that’s been weighing on him so heavy all this time, and how fast it all seems to him; how he isn’t sure about any of it, not the way she seems to be.

“And have you spoken to her about any of this?”

“No. I wanted to hear an outside perspective first.”

“Sure. Well, I think you should talk to her. You know what they say about relationships, don’t you?”

Dream doesn’t. Dream knows nothing about relationships. It doesn’t feel fair to use Sam as some kind of cover-up for his mistakes, but he isn’t doing that; even when he finally quits his job, they make time to meet and chat, and their conversations over the phone grow longer and longer.

Still, there’s none of that comfortable silence he has with the boys. There’s no sense of longing strong enough to make him tear up. There’s nothing like the tab open on his computer for months, talking about travel restrictions.

He spends more time editing than he does outside his apartment, now. Sam sighs, frowning into her spoonful of soup, and asks, “Do you really have no streaks?”

“I dye it, remember? I have no clue.”

“But– but you gotta be a little curious, right?” She sets the spoon down and leans across the table. “You must be a checker.”

“I don’t care about streaks. Since when do you?”

She rolls her eyes and bats her lashes. “Sure, Dreamie. Whatever.”

She isn’t very enthusiastic when he talks about how well he’s doing online, or the ideas he’s got for his channel, so he doesn’t. Instead, he listens to her explain her studies: something he isn’t that interested in, either, but at least he tries. He’d appreciate a little enthusiasm, not just a raised eyebrow and something about the real world, but what can you do?

Between their contrasting ideas about streaks and their incompatible interests, compounded by how busy he’s starting to become, Dream feels like him and Sam were destined to fail.

He asks her about it. “Sammy, are we, like… official?”

She raises a brow above the rim of her drink. “Yeah?”

“We are?”

“’Course we are. What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” He twirls his glass side to side, watching the water inside whirlpool. “I’m just worried that you don’t– you don’t like me? Or–”

“Well that’s stupid. Obviously I do.” She slurps the last drops through her straw. “Why would you think something like that?”

“No– okay, I don’t think you, like, hate me or anything, just…” He puts his drink down and drops his head into his hands. “Nevermind. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Come on Dream. You’re great, why wouldn’t I want you?”

“I know you want me, Sam. Do you love me?”

“Do you love me?” She taps her nails on the bottom of her glass. “I don’t think you do, you know.”

He brings her a nice bouquet of blue flowers the next day, apologising and saying he was stressed from work and overthinking everything. He doesn’t mention that these worries only happen with her, nobody else.

At least his friends are just as doubtful about all this as he is. “If you’re not feeling this whole thing, why are you with her?”

Dream listens to Sapnap bang cupboard doors, crunchy from the Airpod mic. “But I do like her, just– I don’t know.”

He hears loud crunching before Sapnap’s voice interrupts it. “Bro, think carefully. She might get the very wrong idea otherwise. It’s been like, what, two months?”

“Two and a half. I think.”

“You think?”

“Dude, I only realised we’d started dating” – and doesn’t that feel wrong to say? He grimaces – “when fucking– George told me. I’m guessing.”

“…bro.”

He sighs. “I know.”

Sam brings him muffins she baked in a fit of energy after finishing a really long essay Dream can’t remember the topic of, and he only eats one, leaving the rest in his bag. They’re good – really good, actually – but he only realises that late at night, watching George edit over screenshare on Discord, having craved something sweet.

Dream feels gross. He feels like he’s been taking advantage of Sam, the delightful girl with a bright green streak braided into the rest of her chocolate hair. She’s the perfect example of someone in young love; sparkly eyes and a light tone, giggles and whispers, all in the name of Dream.

Just Dream.

At night, he wonders what it’d be like to sleep in the same bed as her. He imagines a hand in his own, smaller but more tan, only partially fake. He imagines warm breath against his neck, legs intertwined with his own. He imagines the unbearable heat because he’s always run warm and he can’t imagine it would be any better with someone else under the covers with him. He finds he doesn’t get the appeal and forgets about it.

Maybe love is one of those things you have to experience to understand. Maybe he has to keep going until one day he’ll wake up and realise Sam is the one. Maybe he will wake up in a day, a week, a month, more, forever, and he’ll make them breakfast and mess it up and she’ll laugh and it’ll be okay and Dream dreads it. Dream dreads it. Where does he fit in this fantasy? Where is his place, someone not made for life like this?

Love could be pretend, for all he knows. Maybe love is something everyone around him made up as a giant prank, and Mr. Beast is about to come out from around the corner and–

“Dream, are you even happy with her?”

He startles out of his thoughts. “Sorry?”

“Are you happy?”

“Uhm…” Sapnap’s words make him pause and die in game. “I– I am. I like caring for people, I like gift-giving… I don’t know, it’s a nice routine, actually.”

“Okay, but like–” Sapnap’s keyboard is louder than usual, and sure enough he’s turned up too far on Discord. “Do you… is she the reason you like it? Do you like her?”

Dream doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what love is. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’d ask Sam, but that’d give the game away, and he can’t break the illusion now. He could ask if they’re moving too fast, or maybe the opposite? Is it Dream? What is he doing wrong?

One of Sam’s friends tried to find him at the store he used to work at, but he forgot to tell anyone he quit. George and Sapnap could probably find their way around his house blindfolded. Sam doesn’t know his address.

He cries in the bath one evening and finds himself missing a British accent far more than an American one.

“I just don’t know.”

“Okay.” George sounds sleepy. “Who does?”

It’s another late night. Dream went out to a fancier place with Sam, which means he got home later, which means he started editing later, which means he’s entering the sentimental and/or contemplative phase of sleep deprivation while George tries to steer him away from saying anything too harsh.

“You do.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.” Dream snacks on grapes. “You always do.”

George laughs awkwardly. “Sure, Dream.”

They’re straying toward longer silences, thoughts slow. It’s not that late, really, just that Dream’s drained from today. The dinner went fine. They didn’t argue.

“I just–” Dream groans. “Okay, she has a streak for me… I’m pretty sure.”

“You’re pretty sure?”

“Well, yeah, I can’t know it’s for me–”

“Do you not have one?”

That question isn’t one he likes, very much. “I should.”

George hums unhappily. “That isn’t what I asked.”

“I know.”

Upon Dream’s lack of response George prompts, “And? Do you?”

“…no.”

“Right.” That weird pride is back in George’s voice. “Do you know why?”

Yeah, it’s ‘cause Dream’s broken, but George wouldn’t know that and he’s afraid of the consequences of telling him. “But– But I still love her.”

“Uh… how, exactly?”

“Because she– she’s nice, and pretty, and she appreciates my cooking, and I take her out on drives a lot – we go somewhere quiet, you know? – and I guess we talk often, and–”

“Dream.”

Dream quiets.

“Do you love her?”

“I– well, I mean–”

“Dream. Do you love her?”

No response magically formulates itself in his brain. Why did that not convince George? He’s trying, he really is, but this just feels like another relative interrogating him.

Before he can make another excuse, though, George continues, “Do you think about her every day? Is she the first thing on your mind every morning? Do you want to make her happy? Does she make you laugh more than anyone else, or make you feel warm every time you see her, or– or do you dream of a future with her?” George is starting to sound desperate. “Is she the one? Even just for now, Dream, is she the one?”

Again, he’s speechless, and again, George carries the weight of the words when Dream fails. “Love isn’t what you do. Love is what you feel.”

Dream sighs. “How do you know?”

“I’ve…” George’s voice has lost that strange fire, back to normal. “…been in love before. I don’t think you have.”

“Alright.” Dream picks up another grape and studies it between his fingers. “What does love feel like, George?”

He peels away at the skin, waiting for some kind of dramatic speech, but all George offers is, “Easy.”

“Easy?”

“Easy. Like–” Quiet laughter. “This is so stupid but it’s– it’s literally like breathing. Loving someone is just what you do. It becomes a part of you… I guess.”

“So it’s– like– what is it, though?”

“…trust, I guess,” George utters, “Loving is trusting. That’s what relationships are, after all – trusting that the other person will take care of you.”

“I trust you, and I’m not in love with you.”

He eats the grape. No answer follows. “…George?”

“Sorry.” George sounds strange again. Dream thinks he’s missing something, here. “What makes me and Sam different?”

“I like you more.”

It tumbles out of his mouth like it’s obvious; quick, thoughtless, and easy. It means nothing and everything. It’s true and it’s wrong, too.

He only barely hears George’s sigh. “You don’t love her, Dream.”

“But–”

“Dream, what you’re describing isn’t love. It’s an obligation.”

Dream’s eyes shift to the wall. “I have to fall in love.”

“What–?”

He runs a hand through his tangled hair and laughs. “If I don’t fall in love, I’m– I’m broken. George, I can’t– I can’t just be broken! I can’t!”

“Just because you’re not in love doesn’t mean you’re broken, Dream.”

“Then what am I? I’m just gonna end up alone, forever? Great! That’s– That sounds wonderful–!”

“Dream!”

“I can’t wait! It’s gonna be great when you all leave and– and–” Dream is crying now. “God. Fuck.”

Dream knows he’s being at least a little unreasonable but he’s scared, damnit, and he’s never been able to lash out for it before. The taste of blood on his tongue is too good to let go of, now. “You won’t end up alone,” George says, wounded and sad, “You won’t. I promise.”

“How can you say that?”

“Easily.” Dream huffs a laugh, too quiet for George to hear. “You’ll always have us. I promise.”

“You do?”

“I do. Forever and ever.”

Dream laughs. “Sounds like wedding vows.”

“It does.” George is trying, and Dream will try back. “But it’s true.”

There’s a lot that burdens Dream, but the fear that he’ll be left behind is one of the worse ones. Sometimes, when him and Sam are together, he bitterly hopes that his friends will never do things like this, and then brushes it off because that would be too restrictive. Ultimately, he wants the best for the people he knows, and sometimes that best doesn’t include him. He’s not okay with it, he’ll cry and scream about it until his pillows are soaked in snot and tears, but if it’s the way it is… that’s the way it is. Simple as that.

Dream has burdens but he, too, might be one.

“I’m sorry.”

George hums. “What for?”

“I– This is so unfair to you.”

George’s chair creaks. “They’re your emotions, you can talk about them. I’m… uhm, I’m glad you trust me enough– to tell me, I mean.”

Dream grins. “’Course I do. We’re besties.”

The silences between them are never awkward. They’re so used to spending every moment together that at this point it’s more comforting to hear the occasional chair squeak than it is not to.

Silence is always interrupted, though, and George does that well when he states, “You should break up with Sam.”

Dream chokes on his sip of water. “I–” he coughs, “excuse me?”

“You’re leading her on and you’re not happy in the relationship.” Dream can hear George’s pout. “I don’t see why you’re together. Dream, neither of you deserve this.”

The ceiling is an off-white. “I… I don’t want to upset her.”

“You already might have.”

Dream wishes it was easier. “Is it…” he himself doesn’t know what his words mean. “Is it always this hard?”

“I hope not.”

Wiping away whatever pricks at his eyes, Dream laughs. “I hope not.” It’s almost two. “George?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

He tightens his fists on his hoodie sleeves and wishes it was someone else.

“…thanks, I know.”

The dim screen feels like home. “You’re such an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot.”

“Yeah,” Dream sighs. “You are.”

Even as Dream chokes on his sip of soda, he can’t get George’s words off his mind.

“Oh my god–” he wheezes, trying to stay quiet but failing. “That’s so dumb, what?”

“Right?” Sam keeps walking, smiling widely at his suffering – not knowing half of it. “So I– you know, I snapped. The lady at the front– oh my god, she was horrified, I just ranted at her, babe you should’ve seen her face–”

Dream coughs, aching from his laughing fit. “I can imagine,” he says, going for another sip but stopping when he starts to laugh again. “Did Ashley tell you off?”

He knows the names of Sam’s coworkers and Sam probably doesn’t know a single one of his friends. “Ashley? No, no. I think she wanted to punch that woman in the face. For once I was the responsible one. Can you believe that?” She sips her own drink, rolling her eyes. “Me. Responsible.”

“Hey, you’re plenty responsible.”

“Name one thing.”

“Okay, well” – Dream tries to count on his fingers while holding the drink, ending up with some insane grip that only kind of works – “you’re keeping up with homework–”

“Am I really?”

“–and you do your job really well, and you do whatever you’re supposed to.”

She raises a brow, her long sip loud on purpose. “Supposed to?”

“Yeah, like… chores, responsibilities…” he spins a hand around, dodging her sharp eyes. “…life stuff.”

“Life stuff, you say.” She reminds him of George, sometimes, in the way she’ll repeat things in a slightly mocking tone. He knows it isn’t really hurtful or anything close to that, but it never sounds as good when she does it. “Well, once we live together, you’d have to pull your weight too, you know.”

Dream’s steps falter. “…lived together?”

“You know… eventually.” She looks away, and even if Dream can’t see it, he knows Sam looks rejected, right now.

The green streak stands out so stark, here in the middle of the fair. He hadn’t liked the idea of going out very much, too paranoid about people recognising him from his voice, but Sam had insisted and she’d never really understood why he cares so much about this whole privacy thing. He’d felt too guilty to say no to her, not when it might always be the last time they see each other.

It’s weird to hang out with someone, knowing you’re doomed.

“Maybe, maybe.” The soda he’s drinking, advertised as strawberry flavoured, just tastes red. “In the future.”

Dream knows precisely what his future looks like, has known for a year, more even. He’ll live with his friends, no doubt about it. Maybe Sam can live with them, too. They’ll probably be rich, they could afford a house big enough to have different sections. One of those could be his and Sam’s, right?

“…future. Dream, why do you not want me to move in with you?”

“Oh! Uhm… I– I don’t know? Like, I work on a weird schedule, and I’m so used to living alone that–”

Sam scoffs, “Cut it.” She’s already stormed off before Dream realises, less like the playful hide-and-seek chase she often gives as a joke. When Dream tries to reach out, she only walks faster.

“Sammy– What did I say? What happened?”

He receives no response. They’re approaching the exit and anyone looking at them could so easily figure out what has happened.

Two young people arguing over love… what’s new?

“Sam, Sam, stop!” Dream finally reaches close enough to grab her arm and spin her around, staring her in the eyes as he holds her by the shoulder. She’s almost a foot shorter than him; it just looks like he’s reprimanding his younger sister or something. He keeps his tone softer just in case. “Talk to me, Sammy.”

“Talk about what, Dream?” She pokes a finger into his chest. “I feel like you’re hiding from me! I know nothing about you” – he’s told her about himself – “for all I know you could be a serial killer! Are you cheating on me, or something? Maybe that’s why you cover your fucking streaks!”

She pulls out of the hold, leaving Dream with parted lips and no response to give. Sapnap was right; she got the wrong idea.

He follows, finding her already sitting in the car, head in her hands. He circles around to pace at the boot, telling himself that it’s for her. He allows the metal of his car to ground him, something to cling to when his gut is swirling again.

No matter what excuses he brings up, there’s one simple truth; he doesn’t want to live with Sam. It feels invasive of her to request something like that, like she hasn’t earned the right yet. She hasn’t earned anything yet, not if she wants to compete with his friends.

And yet… and yet, Dream feels like they should be further by now. They should be closer, they should’ve kissed already and they should’ve slept in the same bed and they should’ve shared a home cooked breakfast, burnt but still good.

(They should’ve met at the airport, fallen into each other, sung along to music in the car with the windows down and AC blasting, gone to the beach together and mocked each other’s temperature units, should’ve, should’ve, could’ve.)

Dream straightens, resting his hands on the trunk and breathing quietly. His eyes are pricking with tears. He’s lost.

When he steps into the car, sat behind the wheel and staring out the windshield, he doesn’t turn to see what Sam must look like right now: red cheeks, smeared eyeshadow, bitten lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not quite knowing why but feeling bad enough to try. “Sam, please. What did I say?”

“Dream” – her voice shakes even on one syllable – “tell me you love me.”

Dream raises his hands to the steering wheel, clenching his fingers around the faux leather. “I love you.”

“…Sam.”

“Sam.”

She sighs, and Dream tries to make eye contact only to find her staring out the window, instead.

He starts the car. With one final stare at the back of her hair, Dream switches gears and hits the pedal.

He spins his chair, foot on a leg of his desk. “Mhm?”

“What are you doing?”

The side of Dream’s monitor is open on George’s Twitch, the viewer count in the high quintuple-digits. “Uh…”

“Oh, are you texting your boyfriend?”

He scoffs. “My boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” George’s voice is starting to wear from the long stream. “You’re so, like, distracted.”

“Since when do I have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t know! Who else are you texting, then?”

He looks down at his notebook, several bullet points in black ink taunting him. Across the top in big letters sits HOW DO I BREAK UP WITH SAM?

Dream types a brief explanation into their DMs. He wishes George weren’t faceless, because the tiny intake of air he hears is enough to make him roll his eyes and wonder what he looks like right now. “Yeah,” he says, “exactly.”

With a few clicks, MUTED is spelled out on stream. Not long after, George speaks directly to him, “Are you sure?”

He nods despite a lack of camera. “I have to do it.”

“Now?”

“If I don’t do it now, when will I?”

He throws the pen down onto the page, George following that with a quiet I guess.

“I don’t know how to tell her. What, just” – Dream puts on a stupid voice – “hey, let’s break up, lol?”

“Idiot. Look, I’ll end stream and–”

“No, no, don’t–” Dream stops to breathe. “You really don’t have to, George.”

“But–”

“No. Seriously, I don’t want to trouble you with my own…” he picks up the pen. “…issues.”

George hesitates. “If you say so.”

The text disappears. “Hello?” George asks, and not long after does chat respond. “Hi! Sorry, Dream was being clingy.”

He huffs. Chat speculates but neither of them pay any mind, brushing off the exchange. Instead, Dream returns to tracing his drafted list of points, distracted by the idea of something so harsh; something so hurtful. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam.

George runs around the SMP, talking to chat. He pauses before reading out, “When is the face reveal?”

“Yeah,” Dream adds absently, “When is the face reveal?”

“You’ve seen me already, Dream.”

“I literally haven’t. George, you’re such a liar.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“What? Answer the question, George!”

“What– oh, the face reveal?” George bursts into laughter. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

“For what it’s worth, for what it’s worth– I will face reveal when I get to see you.”

“Ahh, self-promo on my stream? I see the way it is, Dweam.”

Dream shakes his head. “Whatever. I think we deserve to see your beautiful face, too.”

For a moment, amidst the silence, Dream worries he’s gone too far, but then– “Okay.”

“I’m sure you’re like, gorgeous. You’ve got the– the vibe of someone who’s just–”

“Dream.”

He stops. The pen between his fingers burns. “Whatever. You gotta accept it though, alright?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” A fluster has made itself at home in George’s voice. “I’ll do it… before we meet.”

“So you can get recognised at the airport? Dude, imagine you didn’t face reveal and I also didn’t and Sapnap does an IRL stream and we both have to, like, sneak around like mice.”

“You think he’ll do IRL streams?”

“Oh, definitely. We’re gonna have such a big house, I’m gonna make him want to do IRL streams.”

“He could do a cooking stream.”

“George, he can’t cook.”

“Well, yeah. That’s why I want him to do one.”

Dream scoffs, even if the laugh comes easy in his voice. “Do you want our brand new house to burn down?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a menace.” He shakes his head. “Chat’s crying.”

George giggles. “Waa waa,” he mocks. “We’re, like…” he pauses for a while. His character has stood still for their entire side-tangent. “Nevermind.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” He jumps around again, running between important builds in large circles. “Whatever. Uhm…”

With George back on actual streamer business, Dream’s focus shifts back to the message.

He doesn’t know how to break up with someone – big surprise – but he’s a writer at heart, he can figure this out. Words are like puzzles; all words are solvable.

Yet nothing feels gentle enough.

He doesn’t want to destroy her: doesn’t want to say he never loved her, or that she means little to him, or that he’d rather spend his life with his friends – even if that’s only a fantasy.

Why isn’t it easy? Why can’t relationships be easy? Why is it all so difficult–

His pen falls onto the page. He mutes himself, tangles his hands in his hair, and groans long and hard. Why don’t the words work? Are they stupid?

He goes over his points one more time and eventually realises he’s overthinking it. Doing this over messages is so impersonal, anyway. It’s nothing like them, all voices and common spaces.

He opens his messages app and starts to write.

hey, it’s

Great start. Why is he introducing himself?

hey, i need to tell you that

Too long-winded.

i think we should break up.

That’ll really keep her from worrying.

His misery must have been too loud because George asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine,” he mumbles.

Sometimes he hates how well all of them can read each other, because George can hear through his bullshit immediately. “Stop thinking so loud, then.”

“Stop listening to my thoughts, then.”

George huffs and goes back to his stream. He’s quieter than usual, Dream notes, as he plays with his words until they approach something that could be a coherent message. He adds a little to the end, a little to the front; splits it all into paragraphs, divides and unites, moves it all around; adds a word or two and removes another three and then rephrases everything until it sounds as right as it can when everything’s not right anyway.

“George?”

“Yeah?”

Dream ignores the sound of blazes dying in his ear. “Say something inspirational.”

“Uh…” He laughs awkwardly. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

“Well… um, you really put me on the spot, didn’t you?”

First off, please read the whole message before you say anything. I know it’s a bit long but this is important and I’m really trying not to fuck it up, okay?

“I guess… even when there’s dark moments in life… this is so, like, stupid. Wait, let me think about it.”

Sam, you are a great person. Don’t take this to mean anything negative about you, because it isn’t. You’re absolutely perfect, you’re one of the cheeriest and most enthusiastic people I know, you’re amazing. I just don’t think this is working.

“Even in dark moments, you have to… to keep going. You can’t let it consume you.”

I think we should break up. It’s not because of you or anything you’ve done, I have stuff I need to figure out on my own and I don’t want to drag you through that with me. You deserve someone who can offer you their all and who is exactly what you want. I’m not that, I’m not enough for you, and I know that. I’m sorry because I tried but we’re not meant to be.

“Like, what does moping around get you? This – god, I sound so mean – this will pass. So just… do your best while you’re in it.”

I doubt you’ll want to be friends after this and that’s okay, I get it and I’ve made peace with that possibility. Talk to your friends please, don’t bottle this up if it hurts, I don’t want you to be sad because of me. Our time together was great and I want it to stay great in our memories. You’ll find someone who makes you even happier, I know it.

“It gets better. Or– or whatever. I guess that’s it.”

Dream blinks. The stream is staring at George’s skin in f5, unmoving in the netherrack wall he’s mined himself into. The chatbox is open for whatever reason, the cursor blinking. “That was good,” he says.

You deserve the world and more. Sorry I couldn’t give you that. Love you, Sam.

“Was it?” George laughs quietly. “I thought it was so cliché.”

“Sometimes cliché things are also good.” Picking up his phone from his desk again, Dream’s eyes trace the words without really comprehending. “That’s why they’re repeated so often.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, clip it, then.” George’s voice has shifted back to a more streamer-y one, now talking to chat. “Post it on Twitter. Play it every day after waking up.”

He just might.

Back to Discord, Dream types out a simple thank you, one which doesn’t get a response but is definitely read if the silence is anything to go by.

He turns on his phone – it dimmed while him and George had been talking – and, after reading the message one last time, he sends it.

He relays that to George in their DMs. There’s the little typing indicator, then George mutes himself on stream again.

“You did?”

“I… did.”

“Dream, I–” George sounds… happy? Proud, probably. It’s the opposite of the dread slowly threatening to erode Dream’s chest. “You did it.”

“…I did.”

He hears a huff. “You had to do it.”

“I know.”

Dream’s still staring at his phone. George asks if Sam might still be awake right as the indicator switches to read. He says as much, and only barely hears George’s goodbyes to chat, excusing himself away with some emergency, because Dream’s world right now consists of only the bubble of three dots, blinking over and over again. Dream knows George is calling for him, and Dream knows Twitch has switched to a default layout, but he doesn’t care. He pays it no mind.

three tubs of ice cream and were clear.

Dream laughs. He laughs, chokes on his breath, and through tears sends Sam enough money to buy however much ice cream she could possibly want, aware that his hitching cries are worrying the friend still waiting for him.

The money goes through. He gets one last message, a simple thank you. hope it gets better before Sam disappears again.

Dream draws his legs up, full-on sobbing by now. He doesn’t know why; this relationship, did it really mean that much to him? He’s the one that ended it in the first place, does he really deserve to be this distraught over it?

Tuning back into the Discord call, George is frantically switching between calling his name and mumbling to himself in worry.

“G– George?”

“Dream! Are you okay? What– what happened?”

“I–” he sniffles, hiccups, and swipes his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t– I miss you,” he whines instead of anything that might make more sense. “I want you here. I don’t– I don’t wanna be alone.”

“You’re not, Dream.”

He sniffs grossly. “I am. I– I’m al–one.”

The way his voice breaks has an audible effect on George; he quiets, only listening, before he says, “How about you try to sleep for now?”

“Wh– what?”

“You’ll probably feel better in the morning.” He hears shuffling on the other end. “I’ll stay with you, I promise.”

“You’d– do that?”

The voice that responds is so soft, Dream almost has to check who he’s talking to.

“Of course.”

Dream wakes up with a headache, a dry throat, sore eyes, and a feeling of despondency weighing down each bone in his body. His phone emits the quiet sound of George’s snores.

Despite the close-to-eight hours he’s already slept, Dream still feels tense and raw – George had switched them from the VC to a private call so someone – cough cough, Sapnap – wouldn’t come to interrupt them.

He unplugs the phone and takes it with him as he goes to clean himself up for the day of bedrotting awaiting him. He’s only doing the bare minimum today since most of it will be spent in a blanket cocoon, talking to his friends to keep his mind off anything else.

He’s rummaging through the fridge when there’s a grumble through his phone. With little cheer – and despite the knowledge that it’s around 3 PM for George – he says, “Good morning, Georgie.”

George hums, audibly stretches, then asks, “How are you feelin’?”

The morning rasp in his voice soothes Dream somewhat. “Absolute shit,” he laughs, “I’m going back to bed.”

“Hmm, okay.” Blankets shift a little until George sounds closer. “Wanna move back to the… the server, so Sapnap can join?”

It’s a wonder George is this awake already, but Dream suspects he’d been listening in quietly, easing out of sleep. “Yeah, give me a sec.”

Having assembled himself a semi-depressive meal of some yogurt and a banana, just to keep himself off death’s door, he goes back to his bedroom. He sets everything he’s holding on the bedside table, sits down, and sighs. “…she’s gone.”

“She is.”

Dream appreciates the lack of distraction or consoling. He’s hurt, he deserves to feel it for a bit. “Just like that, too. No long… goodbyes, or anything.”

“Did she even say anything?”

Dream huffs with a wobbly smile. “Asked for ice cream money and wished me well.”

“Well…” George hums. “At least she’s mature about it, right? No point in arguing.”

“I guess.” They argued enough when they were together. “But– I don’t know. It’s weird.”

Only silence follows. How much of his grief is even real? Is some of it him convincing himself that it’s what he should be feeling? The intensity, it should be real, but with so long faking everything about himself… he can’t tell.

“This sucks.”

“It does.” George moves around on the other end, the sound of the room changing. “But you’ll get over it, I know.”

The almost-dismissive words might sound hurtful if Dream wasn’t already used to George’s struggles with comforting people. To him, it’s familiar. “Thanks.”

Later, when George and Sapnap are in the midst of a half-screaming, half-CS:GO match, Dream’s phone on the other end of the bed and a pillow wrapped tight within his arms, he’s thankful. He’s just thankful.

Dream adjusts the collar of his shirt and picks up the pan of dye.

Mid-dark gray, shade seventy-five, just as he’s always had it. Surprise his hair never really changed colours – or maybe it did, and the shade his mom picked so many years ago was already accounting for that. He’s stuck with it, both because he knows exactly how it behaves, and because its smell isn’t atrocious.

If he has to do it… hey, might as well make it as easy as he can for himself, right?

It’s been a week and a half since him and Sam broke up. Most of his time since then has been spent with his friends, getting his mind off of it. His heart may not have been in the relationship but he still lost someone he’d grown close to; he wants the comfort of his boys.

Despite all that, though, he’s alone right now.

Just him and this fucking bowl. Fucking dye, and fucking expectations, and–

He breathes in and breathes out. Just because it doesn’t smell bad doesn’t mean it smells good, though, and he cringes on the inhale.

This sucks. It all sucks.

He stops mixing the dye and looks into the mirror. He’s wearing a pair of gloves and a shirt he’d never wear outside, stained with flecks of gray. His hair is growing out, falling into his eyes – he should cut it, sometime.

All he can fixate on, though, is the way his hands clench around the brush he’s using to mix, and the crease between his brows.

He’s sick of doing this – has been, for many, many years. Who is he even doing it for? He’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions, breaking up with Sam had been admitting defeat in the face of his own existence and, what, he’s just gonna keep hiding? He doesn’t show his face, he doesn’t go outside, he doesn’t have primary school bullies waiting to pull at his hair. No distant relative is going to point to him with a disapproving frown, not if he has anything to say about it.

He’s his own person. He can decide how he wants to live his life. He can live his own life.

Dream sets the bowl down, pulls off one glove, then another. He sighs and looks back into the mirror.

With a hesitant hand, Dream pushes the hair out of his eyes, dropping it right back after. It’s a familiar dance: him, in front of the mirror, frowning and ignoring what’s looking back at him.

It’s him. In the mirror is Dream, roots showing as dirty blonde, the kind of colour he knows people would be jealous over, the kind he’d get asked wow, what dye is that? over, the kind he’s had screaming matches with his parents over, back when he still had the will to try. Before he cut that chance off himself.

What stops him? Truly, when he thinks about it, what the fuck stops him? Why does he care? Why does he even bother to try if he can’t do something as simple as a relationship right? It’s all lies, it’s all been lies, it’s all wrong.

It’s not him. Dream doesn’t have gray hair and Dream doesn’t get streaks and Dream will never understand what love is, not the kind that society wants him to feel at least. And yet, he deludes himself into thinking that he’ll feel normal if he just pretends.

So Dream takes the bowl, walks into the kitchen, and dumps it in the trash.

He can make his own choices, now, and he chooses this – Dream chooses himself.

Chapter Text

There isn’t much that could make Amazon interesting, especially when it’s for something as mundane as actual online shopping.

“Wait, Dream, look–”

Laughing, George hovers his pointer over what appears to be a Minecraft Steve cosplay for eight-year-olds. Like the easily distractible idiot he is, he clicks on the listing to laugh at the poorly-edited images.

“Geooooorge,” Dream groans, “aren’t you supposed to be looking for something?”

Too busy laughing at the dented head, George doesn’t answer. Dream rolls his eyes, smiling when George asks, “Is this what you look like?”

Dream looks at the child: short, sticks for arms, light hair buzzed short. No streaks. “No? He’s, like, six.” George hums but Dream knows him too well. “Oh come on. George.”

Laughing without a response, George closes the tab, back to scrolling through the front page. “I’m not saying anything. Wait, what was I– oh yeah–”

This time it’s Dream who laughs, almost hitting his face in astonishment. “Are you going to actually do something, George, or am I just here to watch you mess around?”

Despite his light tone, George sobers a surprising amount for the response. “Oh, sorry–”

“Dude, no, it’s fine, just– you know, you have to actually get what you were looking for?”

George scoffs, opens the search bar, and types in streak neutraliser. “Fine.”

Dream doesn’t comment on the pout in George’s words. “What colour were you thinking of getting?”

Too busy browsing the options, George doesn’t answer. He’s got something dark and something light but that’s all Dream knows. He isn’t startled, then, when George picks something for yellows and something for darker purples. What he is startled by, however, is one for midtone greens.

He sits back and watches as George, in silence, adds it to his cart. If he doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t have to – after all, Dream’s friends still don’t know his hair is blonde.

He’s got a solid few inches along his roots, a darker colour than he thought it’d be – the world kept moving even when he wasn’t looking, he changed even when he didn’t feel it. Still, the sight of his natural hair colour, damaged as it is, has brought him joy every time he’s seen it in the mirror. He’s planning to cut it when all the gray would be gone.

A fresh start is what he needs.

“I have an idea for you.”

Dream hums. “For me?”

“Yeah, for you.” George is putting on his Youtuber voice. “It’s– um, it’s a challenge, okay?”

“Okay. What’s the challenge?”

“So, I want to dye my hair” – he scrolls up and down, aimlessly and endlessly – “but I’ve never done it before. So I’m letting you choose.”

“…me?”

“Yeah, you.” George stops scrolling. “Choose a colour for me.”

Oh, the irony. “…well, that’s quite a commitment, isn’t it?”

“Well, you better do a good job then, idiot.”

“Alright, fine.” Dream thinks for a moment, leaning back in his chair. Then, he asks, “Can I, like, know what your hair looks like now?”

“Uh…” Vague mic noise fills the silence. “Yeah. One sec.”

His musings on the version of George in his head are interrupted by his phone lighting up.

Dream opens it to find a picture of George, taken in a room Dream is familiar with from back-camera facetime calls. In the middle, sitting with a bored face, is George: brown eyes, pale skin, dark gray hair with two streaks laced through it – Light yellow and dark purple.

No green.

“Happy?”

“I… I haven’t seen you before.” Dream zooms in on the photo to see better; despite the bad quality, he spots freckles. “You’re pretty.”

George scoffs, then with a fluster in his voice says, “Thanks.”

“No, really.” In the absence of a response, Dream goes back to the initial question. “Uhm… a neutral tone? Something colourful just wouldn’t fit you, I think.”

“I couldn’t see it anyway,” George snarks, and Dream laughs in response. “What colour, though?”

“Well, your eyes are brown…” They look soft, sparkling with the monitor light, and something about the little green circles in the reflection makes Dream’s eyes prickle. “Maybe a dark brown? It should cover well enough without bleaching so it’s less work for you, too.”

“Hm.” The moment George spends to consider the idea, Dream instead spends mapping his schema of George onto this George, the real George. What would his hugs feel like? What does his laugh look like? What does he smell like? “Sure.”

He shuts his phone off and watches George scroll through, reading reviews and considering shades, until they arrive at something they both like: a dark, chocolatey brown, specifically meant for darker grays.

“Have you actually never dyed your hair before?”

“No, I haven’t, but I know you have.”

“Could say that,” Dream mumbles bitterly. “Is someone going to help you or are you on your own?”

“I think I can handle it by myself.” George checks out with no concern for Dream seeing his banking info. “Thanks, though.”

“No problem.”

A week later they meet again, this time with George on his phone and Dream still at his desk, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He’s feeling better than he did a few weeks ago but that cold is slowly seeping back in.

George mumbling as he reads the instructions comforts Dream, somehow. He can’t help and he’s mostly there for emotional support either way, so he listens to the sound of plastic shuffling and crinkling and cardboard packaging and–

“–Dream, are you there?”

“Hm? Yeah, I’m here.”

“Okay.”

“…why?”

“It’s just late your time” – it’s a little past 4 am – “so maybe you’d fell asleep.”

“No, no, I’m– I’m still here. Just… tired.”

George sighs. “Were you up editing again or something?”

“No,” Dream chuckles. “Practicing for the next manhunt.”

Dream can faintly hear wet sounds behind George’s scoff. “You’re such a loser.”

“A loser who’s good at the game, Georgie.”

“…whatever.” The eyeroll is evident in his tone. “Do I use the brush or just my hands?”

“Both are fine.”

“Okay.” Something is set down; George’s phone being on the counter means it comes across far louder than it really is. “Do I just like– shove it on my hair?”

“Yeah, take it and smear it around.” Dream hums, picking at his nails. “…you do have gloves on… right?”

“Uhm…”

“George.”

“Dream.”

He sighs. “It’ll stain. You know that, right?”

George laughs nervously. “I think it’s… too late.”

Dream sighs again, even harder. George doesn’t say anything else, though, so he falls silent to the subtle sounds of wet dye and hands moving about.

He threw away his stock of dye a few days ago; it had been nice to get some of his cabinet space back. Now he wonders if George’s cabinet will look the same in their new house, if Dream will have to look at boxes in the trash again.

It’s like an addiction; no matter what he does, he’s found his thoughts to asymptote to hair and dye and whatever else. Scraping all the paint off the insides of his brain feels satisfying but it’s revealing rot and mold.

“This is fun.”

“You’re the first person to ever say that. Congrats.”

“No, genuinely, it’s like… painting.” That is not what Dream wants to hear, that’s concerning. “I think I’m done, what now?”

“Clean up, then wash the rest out.”

George hums. “Okay, Dream,” he says in that tone that makes him sound particularly British, “I’ll do a little cleaning.”

The phone stays on the counter, so Dream listens to George walk about and throw stuff away. When he’s back Dream rushes, “Wait, you bought the neutraliser, right?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Did you, like, put that on before already?”

“I did that yesterday. It’s just a– a marker, or something.”

“Hmm, alright.”

“Have you never used it?”

“No?” Dream runs a hand through his hair, only noticing when he reaches the ends. “I have no streaks, remember?”

“…oh. Right.”

 “Are you gonna stay on call while you shower?” Dream asks, pulling his hair down to his nose to check the length.

“Uh–” George laughs. “No? Did you want to listen to me shower?”

“No” – Dream releases his hair – “but I’ll be so lonely…”

“Go find a different friend to talk to.” George hums. “Oh wait, you have none.”

“You’re such an idiot. I’m gonna go talk to Sapnap instead.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Dream grins. Low, he purrs, “You will be.”

George audibly pauses. “…what the fuck?”

“Nothing,” Dream laughs. “Clean up, come on.”

As promised, George leaves when he’s ready to shower. Dream is left in an empty room, quiet and oh-so-cold. The blanket doesn’t feel like enough.

Now lacking a distraction, he turns to the mirror in his room, staring at his reflection with a puzzled expression. Seeing himself without gray, it’s like something is horribly wrong. His thoughts race with words others have said. The pride he feels in himself is dimmed by the clouds.

He wants to get out of this apartment. It’s too full of bad thoughts, all dragging him down. He’d never noticed it before but all he can think about is the need to stay as he’d been before: unfulfilled but fulfilling.

Did Sam ever know? She’d had her suspicions, but did she realise it wasn’t just his streaks he covered up, but his whole head?

Maybe the blonde is just darker from a lack of sunlight. He sure hopes that’s the case.

Dream swears not to comment on George's face reveal as much as he did on Sapnap’s.

Sapnap, being one of those dreaded streakheads himself, grew to be confident about it instead of hiding it. Dream didn’t. George must fall somewhere between those two, but Dream doesn’t really know where.

He’s dyed his hair for reasons unknown to Dream, and he doesn’t care enough to ask around, but he doubts they’d know, either; if George didn’t tell him, why would he tell Sapnap, let alone anyone outside their trio? It’s a thought as absurd as it is useless.

George is more private than anyone he knows. Poking won’t earn him anything.

Viewers roll in on the stream. It’ll be completely ordinary, but at the end George has a whole bit planned out where he pretends to accidentally show his OBS with his facecam on – or something. It’s not quite clear to Dream but it’s not like it’s his face reveal. He’s here for support, and maybe to bait in viewers but that’s not the primary motive.

Even during the stream, not many people mention how nervous George is. He’s failing basic Minecraft, stuttering over his words, almost giving the whole game away once with a passing comment that Dream quickly recontextualises. He’s starting to think that Sapnap’s iconic face reveal (real) might have been a very smart idea on his part; this just hurts to watch. It’s like sitting at the dinner table except instead of just your parents, you’ve got about thirty thousand of them, all seated around the table somehow, and you know they’re gonna gossip about this to the rest of your millions of relatives, and–

And Dream kind of hates his family but that’s not really the focus right now. The focus right now is on the silly duels that George keeps losing, but that he laughs after every single time. Some others hop on the SMP, staying to cheer them on, but Dream’s only focus is George – as it always is. It’s always been his boys, no matter what.

Still, George is slowly tiring, and Dream knows their little charade will all crumble soon. Dream calls an end to their squabbles, claiming to be tired himself, and he knows George knows what he really means, because he’s not going to actually leave.

George thanks some donators, reads chat for a bit, and says his goodbyes. Dream is muted: watching intently, waiting for the moment.

       Silence. George groans, mumbles that was fun, and Dream can tell it’s intentional – he’s still using his creator voice – but chat starts panicking, believing their little act to be true. He’s glad he’s muted, chuckling at the spam of YOURE LIVE that follows. George is standing still in Minecraft until the window is dragged over.

He sees live as the ones with less delay process it, followed by the laggier ones, and slowly the chat turns to a choir of one sentiment: holy shit that’s George.

It’s the first time Dream is seeing him as more than a photo; the way he moves, the subtle way he shifts in his chair, the way he sweeps his hair to the side and glances at chat, trying to fight the smile off his face. Dream watches, entranced, as the corners of his lips lose the battle and twitch up, after which he bursts out laughing.

Mapping his George onto this new George is easy. The bright way he laughs, the shine in his eyes, it’s all him.

“Hello, chat,” he says, and Dream listens as if it’s only the two of them here right now. “Guess who!”

Chat freezes multiple times. Dream laughs to himself, then returns to George, who’s smiling through his OBS window preview. It’s such a stupid way to reveal his face, it’s so him, it’s what he needed.

Dream leans back in his seat and sighs. George explains that he finally got his visa, but all Dream can focus on now is his face, seeing it move, imagining it next to him.

George’s face haunts him, but as always, his hair taunts Dream even more. Nobody in chat comments, but Dream knows what’s beneath the dye. He knows about the two streaks, but he knows about the third, too; the third he was never told about.

Hand resting on his palm, he wonders how much longer he’ll have to wait.

Dream grew up in this apartment. Not the way he did at his parents’ house – his really young days, when he’d run around in the yard and shout at his sisters and cry about homework. Not the way his family or his relatives kept him company until they felt less like home and more like a systemic meat grinder.

No, this apartment is where he really grew up, where Dream grew up. Where he started his channel, where the walls know his screams and his laughter, where so many quiet words have been whispered on Teamspeak and then on Discord, where the carpet smells like dust no matter what he does and where the stove is a little unreliable so you need to check it every few minutes. This is where the mirror’s seen him far too many times and where it probably knows more about him than he does right now.

This is also the last time he’ll see it.

It’s so hollow, now; his own furniture – what limited amount of it there was – is gone, only the kitchen and a few items previously already here remaining. That means the stains he always covered with the living room couch are visible once again, and every room he walks into echoes eerily, and he’s sad.

Why is he sad?

Bittersweet: that’s the best way to describe it. This is home, this was home and it will be for a while in his head. This apartment and him, they’ve been through a lot of shit together. Even if his home are currently packing for a flight and a drive, he’ll miss this.

His phone buzzes with another notification, another photo of boxes or bags or suitcases, Sapnap complaining about not being able to fit everything into his car even though his packing method is awful or George claiming he’d be perfectly happy to stay in England if it meant he didn’t have to worry about shipping all his things over.

And despite all the whining, Dream closes the door with a smile on his face.

The new house isn’t far and he doesn’t have much on him, most of it taken by the movers that same morning. He doesn’t look back as he sits into his car and when he meets with the landlord to hand over the keys he ignores the sound of that ceiling fan still playing in his ears. He smiles at her amicably instead.

When he finally arrives at the new house – his new home – he stops the engine and sits for a while.

Despite it being a custom renovation Dream’s never actually been to the house itself in person; The only thing he’d insisted on – and he means insisted, to the point where Sapnap and George just gave up – was the colour. His house has to be green.

Other than that, all he knows is the layout. The rooms have already been divided amongst them.

Dream grabs his phone, steps out the car, and goes and unlocks the door.

This new place is nice. It’s spacious, clean and bright, much nicer than the gray-beige dim monstrosity Dream lived in before and much nicer than George’s mold-infested, probably rotting apartment. It’s empty for now but it’ll fill up fast; they’ll all add a little something to it. Their own signs of life.

…maybe they’ll need an interior designer, too.

After sending a picture of the floor to the group chat, Dream sets about bringing his stuff in.

Most of it will come in an hour or two per the agreement with the movers but the important stuff – his computer or various ephemera and memorabilia – is still with him. He probably would’ve taken more were it not for his current, unremarkably sad car.

Stepping out onto the tile ground of the patio, Dream feels the sun shine onto his pale skin and laughs.

It’s a new day.

By sunset he’s finished unpacking some of his more important stuff, taking stock of what’s already there. It’s been furnished so they don’t need to worry about that, but the job is barren. He’s sitting on the living room floor with a box of takeout and music playing on his phone speaker. The sun’s orange streaks litter the floor.

That same sun wakes him up the following morning.

It’s early as hell and he doesn’t want to rise just yet. Patches, who’s currently locked inside his part of the house so she doesn’t get overwhelmed, is purring next to his face and this mattress is far less tired than his old one.

The first dredge of awareness, however, brings the thought that oh my god my friends will be here today, and Dream practically jumps up from his bed.

Their plan was for Sapnap to pick George up from the airport, and as promised he’s already sent a message of being on the way. Dream lets them know he’s now awake, earning himself a quick good-morning message.

In the bathroom, one empty of most of his usual supplies, he swipes his hair away from his face and worries once again about not having told his friends.

By now all his gray’s gone; he cut it off in one of his usual midnight-energy episodes, left with a pretty choppy look but happier than he had felt in a while – enough for an awkward mirror selfie to become one of the first photos of him in years.

In its place is his natural dirty blonde, a shade he’d so dearly missed: yet another indicator of the new life he’s making for himself. Seeing his natural hair grow out has induced the same joy in him as must be experienced by those finding streaks; one of self-discovery and new opportunity.

Shaking himself out of his stupor in front of the mirror, Dream continues with his routine of getting ready. He doesn’t think about what Sapnap or George will think because, well, surely they’ll understand, right? They already know he’s not into this whole colour jargon the world has made itself into, so it can’t be that wild of a jump that he’s fully exempt from it… right?

He doesn’t dwell – no reason to do that, not when he’s got so much to do today! He has to make sure the house is right before they arrive since they’ll definitely be tired, and he has to unpack the rest of his own things, and he should probably go and get some food or something – he still needs to figure out how they’ll do the meetup since they’ll film it but it’s also Dream’s “official” face reveal– oh, God, there’s so much, it’s like a lore stream or something.

He snorts at his own metaphor.

With a little over ten hours to spare until his – their – home becomes full of life, Dream spends a sizable amount of that twirling around and dancing with Patches in his arms. The euphoria, the mania, has finally struck him.

“They’re going to be here, Patchy,” he says, petting along the top of her head. She’s staring at him with wide eyes, nails extended to hold firm onto his shirt. “Do you know that?” he asks despite having told her many times already and her being a cat either way. “You’re going to meet them, too. I hope you like them, because if you don’t they came all the way here just to go back immediately, isn’t that right, baby?”

Patches doesn’t think much about it and when Dream lets her down she runs off again. He laughs.

Near the end of the dreaded ten-hour-wait – when Dream is tired from making sure all the rooms are clean, having checked them at least three times too many – Sapnap messages him that he’s waiting at the airport. To make sure he stays awake, no longer having to keep his attention on the road, they sit on a call together and Sapnap laughs at how Dream’s voice echoes inside the large house and Dream laughs at the photos of his sardined car. When George joins the channel to say he’s landed in a tired voice, Sapnap leaves his car, asking for directions, and Dream listens as they discuss and search.

“This is like that vlog,” George laughs, “except it’s like… real.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Dream says, laying on the floor and staring up at the ceiling fan. “This is nothing like that vlog.”

“But it’s like… I’m meeting up with someone, and you’re on call.”

“Dream, you’re forever confined to be the third wheel,” Sapnap interjects, and George says something about big words, Sapnap and they continue to argue every quiet moment George has while he goes through security, but Dream hangs onto those words.

…is he?

It’s the kind of question he’s forever asked himself, and no matter how much he tries to accept himself as he is those old insecurities will probably forever haunt him; they’ll expose themselves in the union of unfortunate word choices and his own rushing thoughts – Sapnap didn’t mean anything, but it still reminded him of those thoughts: forever being alone. Forever watching others move on without him. Forever being the one who gets left behind.

“–still there?”

“Huh?”

“I was calling for you dude,” Sapnap laughs, “George is, like, going to come out of the doors right now and we thought, since we’re filming it, that we probably shouldn’t be on call? You know, makes for a better moment.”

The air of the fan makes his eyes drier than they should be. “…I guess so, yeah.”

“Come on, we’ll call you again after that, right?” George asks. It seems the notes of bitterness in his voice have been spotted. “No need to cry.”

“Yeah.” Dream sighs quietly enough that his phone doesn’t pick it up. “Alright. Well, talk to you later then?”

He disconnects before the other two can say their goodbyes.

The room feels much emptier without the voices of his friends, suddenly. It’s like he’s back at the old home, waiting and brooding.

It’s not like that, he reminds himself, and fails to believe it more and more each time he does. They’ll meet in less than an hour. Then they’ll all be together.

His heart still aches for the minutes it takes George and Sapnap to navigate through the airport and to film and to meet up and laugh together and–

Why must they have been apart for so long? These last days have felt like torture – like a razorblade dragged along his whole body.

Soon enough his phone rings once again. The first words are exclamations of his name, then laughter, then George calls out I’m in America and despite his own heartache, Dream laughs along.

They stay on call for the whole ride to their house – their home. They’re so far away, so close, so tangible yet not; Dream wonders what they’ll feel like, how tall they’ll be compared to him, what their hugs are like, what they eat for breakfast and how they organise their beds and–

“Sorry for hanging up on you, by the way,” Sapnap says passively. “Just realised how shitty that probably was. Didn’t think about it that much.”

“Oh… yeah.” Dream is laying on his bed. “Yeah, but it’s– whatever. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” George asks, sounding worried. “You didn’t seem fine about it before.”

“I mean, I didn’t like it, but like– we’ll meet in person for real soon enough.” Dream sighs. “Someone had to miss out either way and I’m fine with it being me. You know?”

Neither Sapnap nor George says anything about that, a minute later starting a conversation on a different topic.

And when his doorbell rings, Dream stands, dashes to the door and catches his friends the moment it opens.

“Oh my god, you’re here,” he says, then, “Hi, George. Hi, Sapnap.”

George laughs, tangled into Dream’s arms. “I’m here.”

“You are.” Dream looks to Sapnap and grins at him, too. He’s holding the camera but the footage he’s capturing must be awful, more focused on getting hugged by Dream. “You’re both actually here. Do you– Can–”

Sapnap laughs at him. “Come on, let us inside, man.”

Dream doesn’t hesitate.

They already know the layout, they know each room, they all know they’ve spent evenings staring at the floorplans and fantasising. Still, they give each other a tour, stumbling over their words and taking every opportunity to lay their hands on, kick and nudge, yell and whisper – everything they couldn’t do before, so distant, now available.

Breathless, they lay across the living room couch, George’s feet in Dream’s lap and Sapnap’s head on George’s shoulder. Patches is hiding somewhere else, already introduced to the two newcomers but still frightened.

Dream knows she’ll warm up. He loves these idiots, he can’t imagine his cat not doing the same.

“You don’t look like what I expected,” George says, looking at Dream. “You’re so stupid tall, what’s wrong with you?”

Dream laughs. Sapnap interjects to ask, “Also, am I the only non-dyed one here?” He shakes his head. “What was all that talk about self-confidence, Dream?”

…oh.

“Uhm… yeah, I guess I dyed it.” He shrugs. “The gray was boring, you know?”

“Mm, it looks good on you though,” George comments, but his eyes are already trying to solve him. “Fits you.”

“…thanks?” That’s a nice compliment at least. “You guys look good too…?”

Sapnap shrugs with a delighted little smile. George blushes but scoffs.

The reception to Dream’s face reveal is… mixed.

Not like he expected much better, really – he knew people would’ve been mean about it no matter what. He’s already muted Twitter, only popping in to see if his friends have said anything and leaving immediately after.

One topic that doesn’t come up, though, is his hair.

(God, it’s always his hair, isn’t it? Whether it’s him making a fuss or those around him, it all circles back to this.)

Being dyed isn’t uncommon for creators, especially for ones of his size; showing your streaks is a sign of vulnerability after all, and Sapnap doing so is still a topic of discussion years later. It’s no surprise then that nobody suspects anything to be off with Dream.

Dream must just be dyed. He must be hiding it. He must be exactly like us! Right? It all makes him sick.

Even his friends who know he doesn’t have streaks haven’t questioned it. They still think he’s dyed even if nothing actually indicates it because that’s what’s normal to them. Dream doesn’t do that.

Whatever. Either way, his face is all over the internet now, responses are both positive and negative, and Dream is now free to go outside.

…but the outside scares him.

It has scared him for a while, now. Before he became famous it was the feeling of eyes on him, judging him for merely existing and looking right through him. Everyone could see he wasn’t built right, everyone could laugh at the freak trying to live amongst them. What if his roots weren’t properly dyed? What if the dye had faded? What if anything at all? This anxiety lingers, still, but he’s working against it.

With fame came a new kind of fear: being exposed. If he spoke too loud he could give himself away, and then he’d be in danger of stalking or someone leaking him or a hater coming up to him in person. If he gave too detailed a description he could be spotted. If he lived life as normal, he’d be ruining everything. Even with someone at his side – his family, and later Sam – that fear grew strong enough for him to refuse outings: something which set Sam very on edge about their relationship.

Now, though, both of those fears war within him violently enough to make him sit in the backseat of the car, hood drawn up, head resting on the back of George’s chair.

“Are you sure you’re fine?” Sapnap asks for the third time. He’s softening his tone more and more each time he asks but the undertone of please just say no becomes more difficult to ignore. “We don’t have to go.”

George, who’s been staring out the window and feigning indifference, shrugs. “If he says he’s fine he must be.” Then, he turns around fully in his seat, still unbuckled. “What would make you feel better, Dream?”

“I– I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s this” – he reaches across to tug at his hood – “for?”

“I– I guess I just–” he sighs feebly. “I’m… insecure about my hair?”

The close-enough explanation has George furrowing his brow at him. “Since when?”

“Since always? You just, you know… didn’t have to see it.”

Sapnap stares at him through the rearview mirror. “You’ve literally never talked about this, though.”

“Because it’s stupid,” he hisses, “for me to be insecure about something like that.”

“Is it, like, the haircut, or…?”

“…no.” Dream runs a hand through his hair, adjusting it under the hood. “No, it’s something else.”

“Wanna tell us about it?”

“Not here.” He looks outside again, cars surrounding them in the parking lot they’ve pulled into. “Not here, please.”

“…alright, so like…” Sapnap taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “You… want a hat?”

He thinks. It might be weird of him but it would make him feel better, right? Wearing a hat everywhere is fine; Sapnap does it too. “Sure. I’ll– I can try it.”

Sapnap climbs out of the car, going to the trunk where he set his bag; Dream knows he carries an extra cap on him at all times. He circles back around, getting back in the driver’s seat and handing it off to Dream.

Dream adjusts the strap until it fits around his bigger-than-average head. Somewhat surprisingly to him it does make him feel better, even though most of his hair is still visible.

“Better?” Sapnap asks.

Dream nudges the cap a little and nods.

“Cool!” He slaps the top of the armature with both hands, producing an uncomfortably loud sound. “Can we go eat now?”

Dream agrees. George thinks for a few seconds longer, then climbs out.

They don’t meet anyone who recognises them in the small restaurant, nor does anyone stare at them, but Dream can’t help the glances he keeps throwing around. It’s second nature, really.

“Dude, calm down,” Sapnap says, nudging him. “It’s fine. You’re stressing me out.”

“Sorry. I just–” Dream shrugs. “Old habits.”

George nods along. “It’s hard to adjust to being known.”

Sapnap, having revealed his face right after becoming popular, doesn’t know this problem. What he does know, though, is the general fear that comes with being famous. “I guess,” he says, shovelling four fries into his mouth at once. “Still, chill out.”

He sighs. “If I could, I would.”

George smacks the bill of his cap. Dream huffs in response.

The next time they go out, Dream hangs behind to grab some silly hat he’d been sent once. Again, the cover makes him feel better; it’s safer, somehow.

The boys don’t comment on it. Dream doesn’t like to think about it.

There’s something deeply entrancing about watching George work.

Seeing someone fully in their element and determined toward a set goal – it’s satisfying. Watching George maneuver his hair around to reach all parts of it with the plastic brush he’s using satisfies Dream, somehow. Maybe it’s the newfound ability to do so, no longer distanced, maybe it’s something else. Dream hasn’t watched him do this yet – only knows the process from himself – and is finding it interesting to follow so far.

George never told him why he started dying his hair; by his own admission, after all, he’d never done so before he started showing his face.

“And if we did stream, I think it should be on my channel.” George dips the brush back into the dye. “Yours is dead either way. It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t say that,” Dream scoffs. “My channel is fine.”

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen them cry every day about you leaving them.”

“Well– okay, I have work to do. The videos won’t edit themselves.”

George hums. He glances at Dream with a mischievous little smile. “My videos all edit themselves, I dunno. Sounds like a you problem, Dream.”

Rolling his eyes, Dream huffs. “You really don’t care about me in the slightest George–”

“Waa waa?”

“–I thought we were friends, and then you just–”

“Cry about it!”

“–talk about my work like this?” He throws his hands in the air, feigning anger. “You’re such a bitch.”

George puts the brush down and rubs his fists under his eyes with an exaggerated grimace. “How sad.”

“Whatever.” Dream gestures at the pot of colour. “Dye your hair whore, all you’re good for anyway.”

Dream only sees George’s roll of the eyes.

He still has the photo George first sent him saved on his phone; he had two streaks, both of which looked nice on him despite George’s own insistence on covering them – along with the third one.

But since George never asked about Dream, Dream never asked about George.

“Did you see Sapnap’s new streak?”

“Hm?” George doesn’t turn to him. He’s working on the very front of his roots. “I don’t really pay attention to his, there’s not much point.”

“You didn’t see the like, greenish one right next to the pink part of his bangs?”

George pauses, then resumes. “I don’t know where that is,” he says, rather terse for the casual tone Dream is taking.

“Oh. It– It’s not important or anything, I just thought you’d maybe, I dunno, noticed it at some point.”

“No. I hadn’t.”

Dream stares at George with a confused expression until George shoots him a flat look.

“Alright.”

Not long after – in a somewhat awkward silence filled with Dream looking around the already-familiar space because it suddenly feels suffocating to talk without knowing what he just fucked up so bad – George sets the brush down and checks his work. There’s a few spots of dye on his skin, ones that will most likely stain just enough to see up close.

He stands up and wanders to stand behind George. Dream traces him in the reflection: his somewhat hunched shoulders; his hands, removing the gloves and swiping at his sweaty skin; his pinched expression.

Dream reaches around and takes one of those hands into his own, brushing a thumb along the back of the pale skin. It’s smaller than Dream’s. Instead of that, all he says is, “You’re warm.”

“I don’t think I am,” George mumbles, eyes falling half-lidded. Something guarded in them draws Dream closer. “I’d say I’m pretty cold right now.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

Dream turns the hand, using the awkward angle to push George closer to himself until they’re chest-to-back and George is having to bend his neck to prevent the dye from catching in Dream’s beard.

Dream doesn’t say anything, staring straight into the mirror, and neither does George. They stand there and breathe quietly; Dream can feel the ghost of George’s heartbeat – only enough to know it’s there.

The smell reminds him of being young again: young and oh-so-very confused, standing in the hair dye aisle, his mom comparing the pictures on the fronts of boxes to him and pouting when none of them were quite what she wanted.

He sighs and tracks the shiver that runs through the man in front of him. “I miss your natural hair.”

George tenses minutely. “What?”

“It was nice.” He leans his head down onto George’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar smell of his deodorant. “Why did you dye it?”

“Why not?” George looks away, then makes eye contact through the mirror. Dream vaguely thinks they look like partners – something him and Sam never did.

“You didn’t use to.”

“A lot of things I didn’t use to.” George’s shrug doesn’t dislodge Dream. “People change.”

Dream looks at himself, then – ever the egocentrist – and considers how much he’s changed. The answer, as always… a lot. Everything is a lot. It’s always just a lot. He sighs, earning himself a curious glance. “I know you pretty well, though.”

“You do. But not like this, evidently.”

Dream echoes the last word. Evidently. “I want to.”

“You can’t.”

Leaning further onto George, he closes his eyes and thinks, long and languid thoughts. “Why not?”

George squeezes their hands once, and Dream doesn’t know if it was intentional or not.

Never has Dream really wanted a partner for himself, but the image he sees when he looks again – two people, standing with hands held, in a setting as domestic as dying – it gives him an idea and suddenly, he gets it.

If he could spend the rest of his life with his friends by his side, he’d do it. He’d do it without hesitating, and he’d do it easily.

…what a distant fantasy that is, but what a nice one nonetheless.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

George squeezes their hands again, this time definitely intentional. “I do.”

“Then tell me. What’s wrong, George?”

He’s being stared at, now, tearing him raw in the reflection. Under two sets of eyes, Dream feels viscerally bare in a way he only has in late night calls from empty beds and cold blankets, from desk chairs with knees pulled up to rest one’s head on. George stares at that same, weak, vulnerable, unfiltered and uncovered version of Dream, nothing but affection in his eyes, and treats him like he’d treat everyone else.

If Dream is outside the ingroup, George is the midpoint. The intersection.

“It got really lonely.” George’s eyes flick to their hands and a familiar look – pained, longing, wanting, unable – covers them like a film. “Back in London.”

Dream nods.

“Yeah. Really lonely.”

He tilts his head, chasing the warmth of George’s cheek. He doesn’t cower under the flecks of dye; in fact, he’d wear them proudly. I can see him, touch him, know him. You can’t.

“Is it better now, though?”

“It’s better,” George says, genuine and warm, and looks at Dream again. That want is still there, but it’s lessened. “It’s a lot better. I’m… okay, now.”

“But it still happened.”

“It did.”

Dream knows intricately the kind of loneliness they’re talking about. It’s one that hangs above you like a hurricane warning, leaves you to cry while cooking instant noodles because it’s all you can eat, stuck in the inbetween of not knowing and never having control. It must’ve been worse for George, so far away.

George plays with a ring on Dream’s hand. “It fucking sucked.”

“Yeah. I bet.”

George shifts, then, drawing himself out of the hold. “I need to wash my hair now,” he says, and steps away to arrange bottles in the shower.

And Dream, still feeling pliant and uninhibited, blurts out the first thing that settles on his tongue.

“Can I do it?”

George turns around slowly, scowling at him in startled confusion. “…can you wash my hair?”

Dream freezes, then backtracks, “No, I– nevermind, don’t– don’t mind me, I–”

“No, Dream–” George steps over and– since when were his hands in his hair? – George pulls them out and swirls his thumbs along his palms. “Dream, it’s fine, I just…”

“You can say no, it’s– it’s fine, really.” Dream looks down. “Sorry.”

George thinks, eyes fixed on his own hands. “I wasn’t expecting it,” he mumbles out, then looks up to more clearly say, “that’s all.”

The inevitable must come any moment, now; George will say no and Dream will have one more awkward moment to leave papercuts on himself with.

“You– you can.” George drops his hands. “But like… how? I’m not– sorry Dream, but I’m not getting naked with you.”

Dream dismisses the comment, too shocked. “You– You’re not upset?”

“No, why would I be?” George goes back to rearranging things, pointedly facing away even though Dream already saw the flush across his face. “It’s not– not that big of a deal.”

“…yeah, alright. Um–” Dream laughs quietly. “We can just, like, stay in our underwear or something.”

George laughs, too. “Sure. Yeah.”

“…are we having a bath, or…?”

“Uh… yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

Then, Dream bursts into wheezing laughter. “This is so– why are we so awkward? It’s not like we’re having sex in the shower or–”

“Dream!” George shouts, the flush intensifying, and Dream feels the heat across his own cheeks, too. “What is wrong with you?”

“It’s not that big of a deal! Like just” – he gestures at the tub – “just put the water on and we can sit and take a bath together. It’s whatever, really.”

Despite his lasting giggles, George does as asked while rubbing at his laughter-pained cheeks. He turns the tap until warm water flows into the tub, sprays the wet on his fingers onto Dream, sits down on the floor and leans into Dream’s space when he does the same.

Under his breath, George mumbles, “I don’t think I’ve ever taken a bath with anyone.”

“Well, there’s always a first for everything.”

“…sure.”

Dream leans forward to pull off his sweater, revealing his undershirt. He tugs at the hem, raising his eyebrow at George who shrugs. Dream ends up leaving it on. “You need any special shampoo?” he asks instead.

“There’s a conditioner that comes with the dye, right?” Dream nods. “I don’t know why, but you know, I’ll use it.”

Dream smiles down at him. “Well, it makes your hair really soft.”

“And what does that do for me?”

“I don’t know.” He looks back up at the mess that is George’s hair, shiny with dark dye. “It’s nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah. Do people not touch your hair?”

“…No?”

“Oh.” Leaning his head back to rest against the edge of the tub, Dream starts, “When I was a kid, everyone kept touching my hair because they wanted to know why it was blonde.”

“Really? Isn’t it just dyed?”

“Uh…” – he laughs awkwardly – “um… no…?”

“…wait, what?” George turns, hands on the ground and staring at him wide-eyed. “You’re naturally blonde? How?”

“We– uh, yeah, we don’t know.” George doesn’t seem angry, but Dream learned quick enough to never accept first judgements. “It’s always been blonde; I used to dye it but when me and Sam broke up I realised I just… didn’t care?” He shrugs. “So I stopped.”

“Huh.” George looks up at his hair, raising a hand to touch it – a movement he soon aborts. “That’s strange… Makes sense, though. I never knew that was, like, possible.”

“Well, neither did I. I’ve never found another person like me, no matter how much I searched.” He twirls a section around his finger, then drops it. “But it doesn’t matter, right? Why should I care, it isn’t my problem what others think about me. Not even– it’s not even that big of a deal, really.”

George doesn’t respond, deep in thought if the way he bites on the inside of his cheek is any indication.

Instead, Dream checks the temperature of the water and, finding it warm enough and almost to the top of the bath, turns the tap off. “Bath’s done,” he says, turning back around to George. “Should I get in first?”

“I don’t know, how are we going to fit?”

“Well, if I’m going to wash your hair, it makes sense for you to– uh, to sit on my legs. Right?”

“Y– Yeah. Sure, of course… yeah.” George coughs, hiding the red still scattered across his face. “Get in, idiot.”

Dream laughs and tugs off his clothes, paying no mind to the other person in the room. It’s not really weird to him; he’s taken baths with his siblings, he’s gone swimming with his friends. He’s helping George – the strange warmth in his hands means nothing. As he said: it’s not like they’re having sex in the shower.

After Dream has sat down, having to bend his knees a little to fit, George steps into the bath and stiffly lowers himself. Dream has to raise a hand to help him loosen up, reassuring him that it’s okay; Dream knows what he asked for. He could never be uncomfortable like this.

After the reassurance and the slow touch, George sinks into the water with a long sigh. Dream scoops him just a little higher, mumbling out a quiet don’t drown.

“But the water is so nice.” George waves a hand along the top, rippling the water and making small waves splash against the very top of Dream’s knees. “I haven’t had a bath in ages.”

Right, George didn’t have a tub in London. “You can have however many you want, now,” Dream says, “don’t drown yourself on the first one.”

George scoffs. “Okay dad.”

With his arms set around George’s waist, hands resting on his stomach, Dream lets himself relax. He manages to stretch his legs out just a little more so he’s fully under the water, George’s feet reaching to the other side. “This is nice,” he mumbles out, dropping his head back on George’s shoulder, just like they’d been standing before.

“It is.”

George probably dropped some kind of soap in the water before they got in because it smells vaguely cold in the way only men’s 3-in-1 really can – the same smell that has stuck to George since he got here: some kind of nondescript man smell that’s still different to the kind of man smell Sapnap has. Dream raises his head to look around and does, in fact, find a large bottle of something blue titled Arctic Frost.

His own shampoo is watermelon scented and George is using that? How weird, yet oddly endearing.

“Are we just going to fall asleep in here until the water goes cold,” George eventually asks, “or are we actually going to wash up?”

Dream smiles into the skin of George’s shoulder. “Impatient, aren’t you?” he purrs.

 “Yes,” George huffs, “as a matter of fact I am.”

Taking his arms off George’s waist – the cold air making him shiver, the hair on them rising – Dream reaches for the small bottle of conditioner George left on the edge of the tub. “Fine. You need to get your hair wet first, though.”

George only has to plug his nose for Dream to hold him above the water again. “No, no, idiot, didn’t I say no drowning?” He reaches around, making grabby hands but not quite reaching. “Give me the shower head.”

George laughs but does as asked. “Careful.”

“When am I not?”

“I– I don’t know. But– still. Careful.”

Dream imitates George’s accent badly. “Caehfuhl,” he laughs softly. “I’m always careful.”

With you goes unspoken.

Once again George stays quiet. Dream has already picked up the shower head from George when he mumbles a barely audible you are. He decides not to draw attention to it.

Dream instead focuses on wetting George’s hair, holding a hand at his hairline to prevent any water from dripping onto his face. George leans into the touch.

Satisfied, Dream stops, sets the head down, and squeezes the conditioner into his hands. He lathers it only a little, then starts to massage it into George’s scalp.

He’s done this so many times to himself that it’s almost muscle memory: moving back and forth, clenching and unclenching. George hums, eyes closed, tilting his head so Dream can reach all the spots that make the corners of his lips rise.

“You ever thought about becoming a hairdresser?”

“Hm?” Dream threads his fingers through the hair, spending far more time than necessary. “Why?”

“You’re good at this.”

“Am I, now?”

George tries to hide a yawn but Dream spots the movement of his cheeks. “Yeah, you are. Why have you never done this before? This is great.”

Dream laughs. “You’re so spoiled, Georgie.” He does one last pass, reluctantly drawing his hands out of George’s sudsy hair. “I could do it again. It’s relaxing.”

George snorts. “For you?”

“Yes, for me.” He adjusts himself, steadily slipping lower in the tub. “Well, now we have to wait a bit.”

George turns his head to lay flat on Dream’s chest. “Mmh. You’re really warm.”

“The bath is definitely warmer than I am.”

“I dunno.” With a big shuffle, George turns his whole body – water sloshing onto the sides, a little probably falling out. The pose can’t be comfortable; George is trying to cuddle in a bathtub that already barely fits Dream. Despite the struggle, though, he relaxes again, as if it’s the softest bed he’s ever felt.

“You never struck me as affectionate.” Dream runs a hand along George’s side, feeling the muscle underneath tense, shudder, then relax under his fingers. “Where was all this before?”

“When we were a million kilometres apart?”

“Okay, that’s a bit much. That’s, like, way more than the distance to the moon, isn’t it?”

“I don’t care.” George shrugs. The sensation is weird against Dream’s skin. “Felt like it, at least.”

Dream huffs. He knows.

“Okay George” – Dream shakes his elbow to get him to move – “it’s time to wash that out. Sit up again.”

George opens his eyes only enough for Dream to see him roll them, then lifts himself back to the normal orientation. Dream quietly thanks him, already searching for some shampoo more respectable than whatever George previously put into the bath. Finding something that appears to be coconut scented, he deems it good enough to place next to them for later and starts on the task of rinsing out George’s hair.

The conditioner runs down George’s skin and he makes sure to wash that off, too, just to be thorough. He probably wouldn’t admit it outside their current situation, but he enjoys this kind of touch – intimate and without clear lines in the sand. It feels like he could do anything, right now.

With George clear of foam, Dream drops some of the next product into his palm, straight away hit by the pleasant scent. George must feel it too, humming curiously. “What’s that?”

“Shampoo.”

“I don’t remember owning that?” He gestures for Dream to give him the bottle, then smells it. “This is nice, why didn’t I know I had this?”

“I don’t know George, it’s your bath, not mine.”

George shrugs, handing the bottle back.

This time, Dream is less thorough; too much product is bad for the hair and George’s scalp has been scrubbed plenty. He doesn’t want to harm; he wouldn’t do anything to ruin George like that, especially when he trusts Dream enough to let him do something like this.

George stays quiet during the whole routine. The relaxed look has dissipated from his face, replaced by something tense. Dream washes his hair until the shampoo, too, is gone, then lifts his hands to George’s face.

Smoothing circles along his jaw, Dream asks, “Are you okay?”

George peeks through his lashes. “Yeah,” he lies – Dream can tell. “Why?”

“You look stressed.”

“I’m…” he sighs. “I’ve got a lot on the mind.”

“Tell me about it.”

George doesn’t say anything else. Dream pivots instead to “Do you want me to wash your body as well, or is that too much?”

When George gives the barest of nods, Dream reaches over for the only body wash he can find – the dreaded 3-in-1, which he scoffs at with a quiet remind me to buy you something better – and silently lathers it over George’s shoulders.

His own hands cover wide spans of George’s skin; he lets his palm linger on George’s shoulder blade for a few moments too long; he’s only a little more tan, having spent so long holed up inside.

Slowly, he lifts George’s arm up, running a hand along it in circular motions. He has to take more soap, then continues.

“Do you promise not to judge me?”

Dream pauses, fingers around George’s wrist. “I wouldn’t judge you for anything, George,” he says, as earnest as possible, slowly starting his motions again. “What would I judge you for?”

“It’s not even that important, but…” his eyes are now fixed on Dream’s hands, having moved to George’s other side. “It’s weird. But I want to tell you.”

“Take your time.”

George thinks for a while – a while Dream spends scrubbing at George’s skin. He finishes the upper body, gesturing for George to move so he can scrub at his legs, too.

George obeys. They’re now sat at opposite ends, Dream holding one of George’s calves above the water so he can spread the soap along it, too.

They’re beyond a limit, now; Dream knows that, even if this means nothing special to him, it’s unusual for just friends to do this.

George is special. He doesn’t know if he’d even do the same for Sapnap – although, thinking about it some more, he would.

This… this is something, then, right? It’s something beyond what he usually does, something beyond their usual affection.

Dream doesn’t know what that means.

“If I told you I’d been in love with you for years, would you believe me?”

Dream stills, now – fully stops, setting George’s leg back under the water, hands still resting on the pale skin.

“I didn’t– I didn’t tell you because it didn’t seem important, but– I’m–”

“Are you still in love with me?”

Despite his soft tone – his hand still on George, swirling slowly along the skin – George tenses. “I– I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t think so. But– well, love is hard.”

At Dream’s lack of response, George says, “You know, right?”

“…is the third streak me, then?”

Shamefully, George nods.

Dream, in silence, goes back to scrubbing George.

“Are you– Dream, please say something.”

“…I’m not mad,” he starts, quiet. “I’m just thinking.”

George draws his arms close to himself, holding himself. “Okay.” He nods. “Okay.”

Dream had always thought there’d been something he’d missed; some kind of overtone in all the conversations about him and relationships, something in the way George spoke about Sam, something in the way George spoke about Dream.

The reason he dyed his hair was so Dream wouldn’t find out, right?

Why didn’t George trust him enough to tell him? Did he really think Dream would be upset? Did he think Dream would stop being friends with him, hold that kind of knowledge over him, mock him for it?

All it makes him feel is a strange sense of responsibility; George said he didn’t know, and Dream… understands, probably. It’s like the distant sense of warmth he still has for Sam when he thinks about her randomly, right? It’s that same kind of residual, latent emotion, only more intense.

Even when they’re so close – even when they’re drenched in the same water, Dream sometimes feels like George is still so very far from him; like they never met, like they’re still waiting for each other, like he has to hold onto George with all he has because the moment he closes everything down, George is suddenly gone.

It’s like that, maybe. London had been lonely after all.

“I’m not mad,” Dream repeats. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t mind.” He lowers George’s leg back into the water. He’s all done, now, having finished the soaping. They still have to rinse off in the shower, currently surrounded by sudsy bathwater. “I don’t think it– well, it does matter, but I don’t judge you.”

“Even if…” George gestures at Dream’s hair.

“Even if I don’t get it?” Dream shrugs with a smile. “Well, what does it matter? Just because I don’t feel it, doesn’t mean you can’t.”

George sighs. Dream gestures for him to turn back around, missing George’s weight on him. Clambering back, George buries himself into Dream’s chest.

“It’s fine,” Dream says, “if you still love me. I love you too, you know that, right?”

“But it’s not–” George’s words are muffled. “It’s not the same.”

“Then we make something different out of it.”

He sets his chin on George’s head, holding him close. “When I stopped dying my hair, I struggled with that for a while because I was so used to hiding it. You know, everyone in my family had always thought that I was such a freak – that I should hide it, even though most people would’ve thought nothing of it. But even though I had never really thought those things – I always disagreed with them, I thought what they said was stupid, we argued a lot when I was a teenager – I still couldn’t get those ideas out of my head when I stopped.”

Dream sighs. He couldn’t look in mirrors for a week after he decided to stop – every time he did, he’d start seeing his roots, obsessing over the fact anyone who saw him would’ve been able to tell something was wrong with him.

Now that it’s all grown out and he’s had time to get used to it, he’s fine – but it’s hard.

“No matter what you think people want from you,” Dream starts again, “you can always choose to do something different. If you want to be in love with me, you can. I don’t care – that’s just how we will do it, then. Okay?”

“…okay.” George lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed but no tears have dripped down. “Yeah, that– thank you.”

Dream squeezes George’s shoulder once, twice, then lets his hand fall to George’s bicep instead. “No problem.”

The water is starting to become cold; they’ve sat in here for so long that all of Dream’s fingertips are wrinkly. Seeing George’s sad state – knowing he needs every bit of comfort he can get, right now – he lets them stay for a little longer.

It isn’t Dream who proposes for them to stop, though; instead, George looks up again, brows furrowed. “Don’t you also need to wash yourself, now?”

“If I rinse myself off, I’m fine,” Dream chuckles. “I showered this morning.”

“But then we’re not equal.”

George’s petulant pout makes him laugh. “Well, that just means we have to do this another time, right?”

He’s answered by a scoff.

They stand up, let the water drain, and Dream sets the showerhead back onto the rod, raising it so he doesn’t hit his head on it every time he moves.

They rinse off far quicker than they bathed. They wrap themselves in towels, and George leaves to get dressed and fetch Dream some clean clothes after that.

Left alone in the bathroom, Dream leans down to set his elbows on the counter. Facing the mirror is familiar, even if it’s rather unwelcome given the emotional hurricane he’s standing in the eye of right now.

Dream didn’t lie; he isn’t bothered by whatever George feels, in fact the idea comforts him. For a long time he’s thought of his friendship with George as the closest to something romantic he will ever get and seeing that intensity reciprocated tells him he’d been right.

But at the same time, there’s something so weird to it. What does he feel? How does Dream rationalise what him and his boys are, if they’re not lovers or the typical kind of friends?

What’s that inbetween?

(Dream can’t resist the urge. He checks his roots before George comes back.

He doesn’t say anything about them all being blonde, but it haunts him for the rest of the day.)

Dream twirls his hoodie strings around his fingers, lost in thought. “I used to take Sam here, sometimes.”

“Am I a rebound?”

Dream looks back at Sapnap to smile. “No, idiot, it’s just…” he looks around. “I guess it’s one of my favourite places.”

The place in question is an old playground, not quite falling apart but unmaintained, in the middle of a large park. It’s dark, so late at night as it is, the few streetlights with years-too-old bulbs not managing to light the area enough to dispel the ominous look it all has.

Still, tugging Sapnap along, Dream continues on the stone path.

“This? Dream, there’s easier ways to kill me.”

He scoffs.

Finally, he spots the swing set, the creaky slide and the empty sandbox. It’s all home to him, calls in the same way. “See?” Dream points to the open area. “Told you there was something here.”

Sapnap, with a shake of the head, follows him to the swings that Dream is headed for.

They sit down, picking seats next to one another, and Dream starts to swing himself back and forth, back and forth.

“I used to come here a lot when I was younger,” Dream tells Sapnap, focused on the motions of gathering height. “It was quiet and nobody would bother me. You know how I argued a lot with my parents?”

“I remember.”

“Well, I would leave for a while and I’d just come here. Felt like nothing could get to me.”

Sapnap looks around. The stars aren’t all visible, only a few brighter ones poking through the light pollution. The air is still fresh. “I had a place like that, back home.” He shrugs. “I guess we both argued a lot with our families.”

Dream sighs at the very top of his swing; he stretches his feet into the sky and wonders not for the first time how many stars he can touch from here. It’s a childish thought, one he can’t let go of no matter how many years pass. “It all comes down to streaks, doesn’t it?”

Sapnap scoffs. “It’s so stupid. Why couldn’t something else be magic? This is so useless.”

“Believe me, I know,” Dream laughs.

“It barely even means anything for me! I have seven,” Sapnap continues as if Dream hadn’t even spoken. “Seven! What am I gonna do with those? Why are they even permanent?”

“At least you’ve got them. I got stuck with nothing.”

“How would you know? You’ve been dyed since, like, we first met.”

“Did you–” Dream scuffs his shoes on the ground to come to a stop, leaning forward to look Sapnap in the eye. “I lied, Sapnap. I’m not dyed anymore.”

“Wait, but–” Sapnap looks up above Dream’s eyes and he sighs, already preparing his scripted explanation. “But you’re blonde.”

“I am. I dunno, I’m just… like this.” He looks away to the dark treeline. “It never bothered me but, well… you know how parents are.”

“Oh.” Sapnap hums, tip of his toe swinging him like a breeze. “I… never thought about that being possible.”

Dream shrugs. “I’m the only person I know.”

“But that’s so– wait, so do you still, like, fall in love?”

“Uh…” Dream looks back down. “No, I don’t– not the way you do. But like– Okay, Sapnap, what is love?”

“Well…” Sapnap laughs quietly. “That’s a really big question, man. I don’t know how I’d explain it.”

“Okay, so– George said love is easy, and that it’s about trust.”

“That’s true.” From the motion of his chest, Dream knows he’s nodding. “Love is very… it is about trust.”

“But how is it any different from what I feel for you guys? I don’t get streaks but I trust you more than anything.”

“It… It feels different?”

“But how?”

“I don’t know! It’s, like, physical?”

Dream snorts. He’s leaning against one of the chains now – careful not to lean too far – and watching Sapnap. “Everything is physical, Sapnap.”

“No, like–” he groans. “You know, butterflies or whatever? Blushing? I dunno.”

“That’s such a stupid explanation, though. So what, if I feel dizzy around someone I’m in love?”

“It’s– it’s hard to explain! What do you want from me?”

“For you to tell me what love is!”

Sapnap adjusts his cap – nervous fidget, Dream knows – and messes his colours up even more. “It’s… wanting? Like, okay, imagine you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, and you’d do anything for them, and–”

think about them the first thing in the morning, and you want to take care of them, and they’re so, so important to you and

“–Dream?”

He startles. “Sorry, what?”

“Were you listening?”

“Uhm…” Sapnap’s skin glows in the faint streetlight. “…not really. But I think I know what you mean.”

It’s so quiet here, just them two. It’s the reason Dream likes it here so much after all, especially late like this; nothing could bother them. Nobody will judge what they say.

“Are you ever sad you don’t feel love?”

“Well– okay,” Dream scoffs, “I’m pretty sure I still feel some kind of love, just not… streak love. You know?”

“What does that feel like, then?”

The stars are so far, and he knows that even if he reached the very top of the swing – if he plummeted down the other side instead – his feet would never ever reach them. “I think it’s similar.”

“So you’re not really missing out.”

“I don’t know.” Dream leans closer to Sapnap again, the metal having grown painful on his shoulder. “I might be, I might not be. Why worry about it?”

Sapnap hums his assent.

Dream’s had a lot on his brain since the bath, most of which can’t really be solved by talking about it. Some of it he needs to piece together on his own, with his own thoughts and his own logic. Nothing good has ever come from someone else telling him how to live.

“I guess I do still feel bad for not loving Sam.”

The sigh next to him makes Dream glance away. “You can’t do anything about it, especially not anymore.”

“I know.” Dream readjusts his hat. “Still, if I could, I wouldn’t get together with her, for her sake.”

“Were you two even serious?”

“Kinda? It definitely mattered, but we never… I don’t know. We didn’t even kiss, you know?”

“Wait” – Sapnap turns to him fast enough for his curls to bounce when he settles again – “You didn’t kiss?”

“No? Yeah, that’s like… something people usually do, but we didn’t.”

“Was it you or her?”

“Who didn’t want it?”

Sapnap nods. He looks stern, maybe focused, maybe confused.

“It was me,” Dream laughs. “She had a streak for me, come on. She wanted to, you know, go the whole way, but she was super respectful when I didn’t want to.” He sighs wistfully. “Great girl. I think she knew something was up, honestly; I’m glad it ended when it did.”

Sapnap reaches around to pat Dream on the shoulder. “Good on you, man. Glad you stood up for yourself.”

Dream laughs again. “You make it sound like she, like, forced me to do something and I had to physically fight her.”

Sapnap shakes his head. His hand lingers for a second, then he draws it back. “No, but you didn’t really want that relationship, so–”

“Whoa, whoa, what?” Dream waves his hands around. “No, no, I was fine with it. I don’t have anything against it, I just don’t think it should’ve happened in hindsight. It wasn’t too bad, really.” He sighs wistfully. “Honestly, I… I liked being in a relationship, I just felt really bad for not loving her.”

Sapnap thinks about it, chewing on his lip, but eventually nods. “Makes sense.”

Dream draws circles with the tip of his shoe. “I don’t care for firsts, but it does feel a bit weird to never have had my first kiss.” He looks up at Sapnap. “It’s like, something I should’ve done by now, you know?”

“It doesn’t matter if you should’ve done it or not.”

“But I– I don’t know.” He looks away again. “Have you had your first kiss?”

“Uh…” Sapnap tugs at the collar of his hoodie. “…no?”

“Wait– wait, really?”

“Yeah, I– I wasn’t with anyone back in the day and now I don’t really have anyone, so…”

“That’s sad, I guess.” Dream adjusts himself in the seat, still gently swinging back and forth. “Or, uh– you know what I mean. Since you want it and all.”

“It’s not that important, but I guess it’d be a little embarrassing to die without ever having had one.” Sapnap laughs. “A million streaks and no kiss? I’d be in the news.”

Dream laughs along. He thinks, too, eyes fixed on the expanse of trees surrounding them. They’re black in the meager light.

“Can I–” He looks back down at the ground, then at Sapnap. “Can I ask you something really, really weird, and if you say no you have to forget about it forever and never bring it up again?”

“Uh– Sure? Yeah, whatever. Go ahead.”

“Would you…” Dream coughs, readjusts himself, thinks for another moment. Even as he fiddles with his ring, Sapnap waits patiently. “Would you… be okay with us being each other’s first kisses?”

Sapnap straightens, staring at Dream’s anxiety-stricken face. “You…” he gapes for a second. “You’d want that?”

“I know it’s weird but– I don’t know. I wouldn’t want it to be someone I don’t genuinely like, and well… you’re my best friend, so it should be you.” Dream breathes, throat dry from rambling. “And if I’m a bad kisser, you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

The confession brings a smile to Sapnap’s face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He shifts closer, setting a hand on the edge of Sapnap’s seat to drag them closer. “I’m sure.”

Sapnap turns, legs thrown on either side of the seat. The only thing separating him and Dream is the set of chains between them. “I’d be okay with that.”

“Would you want it?”

Sapnap breathes out through his nose, then hooks a foot around Dream’s – now still on the ground – to keep them even closer. “Yeah. I’d want that.”

Dream smiles at him. “Alright.”

Sapnap huffs back, grinning in a way Dream can only describe as cute. “Alright,” he mocks, “You’re so roma–”

Sapnap can’t finish the rest of his sentence before Dream pulls him close by the collar. Warm breaths intermingling, he asks one last time, “Are you sure?”

Sapnap raises a hand to the back of Dream’s head, fingers resting among his overgrown curls. He nods.

And Dream doesn’t know what a kiss should feel like; he’s read about it, sure, but books are made to be dramatic and everything he’s seen has focused on exactly the wrong parts.

Sapnap is warm. He’s warm like a summer day in your childhood, like your favourite blanket after a day spent outside, like a cup of tea prepared for you when you’re sick. It’s all sickeningly familiar despite the brand new action – Sapnap tugs on his hair a little too hard, moves like he’s doing it all for the first time and hasn’t learned the rhythm, and their teeth touch a few times and it’s messy and gross and Dream never wants to do it again but he’s at home here. He feels safe. He feels cherished.

Sapnap draws away first, out of breath. His hand doesn’t leave the back of Dream’s hair, still clenched tight, and Dream, reflectively, doesn’t release the collar of Sapnap’s hoodie under which his hands are buried, only pulling him closer until their noses touch and they’re breathing the same air, both lightly heaving, both with far too much spit on their lips. They giggle: a little delirious, a little drunk, young and stupid.

The stars don’t see the gentle, parting touch shared between them – a goodbye, a see you never.

“We’re not– not great kissers… are we?” Dream whispers, only loud enough for them, and Sapnap laughs along with him.

“No, I think we’re– quite shit, really.”

“But we did it.” Dream licks his lips and sighs shakily, finally getting a grip again. “I– I love you, you know that, right?”

“I do.”

Sapnap unclenches his hand, leaving it to rest on Dream’s nape and drawing shivers out of him. “Was that what you wanted?”

Dream holds the world by the scruff right now. “Perfect,” he breathes with a grin, “let’s never do it again.”

Sapnap leans away with a smile of his own. “But what about the second kiss?”

Dream pulls him back until their foreheads touch, eyes closed and only short puffs of warm air escaping him. “You’re so stupid,” he whispers, “there’s no such thing.” He opens his eyes again. “But maybe if you’re good enough.”

Sapnap snorts. “If I’m good enough?”

“Mhm.”

“Whatever, dude. You’re an idiot.”

Dream finally lowers his hands until they’re resting on Sapnap’s waist, the hoodie fabric dividing him and the skin underneath. He twists his head to rest on Sapnap’s shoulder, dodging the chains. The rubber seat is starting to dig into his ass. “I’m your idiot.”

“Are you now?” Sapnap gives an experimental tug at his hair, enough to make Dream scowl up at him. “Fine. Yes, you are.”

Dream smiles. “I like the idea of that.”

“What, being mine?”

“Yours, yeah, but George’s too.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you?” His hands shift to the inside of Sapnap’s hoodie pouch, tangling in the fabric. Sapnap’s foot is still behind his ankle; they’re still connected. “You mean the world to me.”

Dream feels the rumble of Sapnap’s throat as he says, “I see.”

It’s stupid late out, Dream just had his first kiss, and it doesn’t mean anything, really; they’re two friends and they kissed, it’s not even a topic of discussion. He loves Sapnap. He loves him so much he can’t help but blow a little puff of air onto his neck just to get a reaction – a confused glance and a subtle shift of the shoulder. He realises, then, that they’re essentially cuddling on a swing set.

“When me and Sam were here,” Dream starts, cheek still on Sapnap’s shoulder, “she used to say this place was weird. She came back with me, though, because she loved me.” Dream looks up at Sapnap. “Can I take you back here?”

Sapnap takes his other hand – the one previously on Dream’s thigh, holding them closer but not holding him tight – and moves to rest it on Dream’s waist instead. “You can take me back here,” he mumbles, quiet and private. “I like this place. It’s quiet.”

“Right?” Dream closes his eyes again; they’ve started to swing once more. “It’s so peaceful, there’s no… obligations, or anything.” He pouts. “Are you gonna tell George?”

“Tell him what?”

“That we kissed?”

“Why should I?” Sapnap’s hand kneads into Dream’s side. “Will you?”

“No, it’s a secret.”

“Oh, so I’m the mistress now?”

“Mhm.” Dream knocks his stomach with his hands, making Sapnap wince but laugh. “You’re the sidepiece to… to nobody. That’s how sidepiece you are.”

“I’m the main sidepiece.”

“You’re always my main sidepiece,” Dream says, tone mockingly genuine, then in a moment of vulnerability mumbles, “I love you. Again, just so you know.”

“I know.”

Dream scoffs. “Alright, I bear my heart out and don’t even get a love you too?”

“Nope.”

“That’s mean.” Dream headbutts the side of Sapnap’s neck, then laughs. “Say you love me.”

“No, Dream.”

“Say it!”

“No!”

“We kissed and you’re not even gonna say you love me?”

“Are you gonna hold this over my head forever?” Sapnap taps a finger on Dream’s neck. “Fuck you, Dream.”

Holding back a catty do it yourself, he lets Sapnap push himself away to stretch, arms high above his head. Dream notes his dazed expression. “Are you tired?”

“Me?” Sapnap adjusts his clothes from the rumpled way Dream left them. “Uh, a bit, yeah. Why?”

“Should we head home?” One of Dream’s hands is now resting on Sapnap’s thigh, the other looking for his phone in his pocket. The moment he finds it, though, he shakes his head and stuffs it back.

“What?” Sapnap looks at his free hand. “Is it dead?”

“No, just– you know, if you look at the time, you’re taken out of the moment.” Dream leans back, too, resting as well as he can against one of the chains. Sapnap stands up to do more stretches. “Dude, you’re just showing off, now.”

“Showing off what? My arms?” Sapnap holds his hands out in front of him, studying them intensely. “I know I’m hot and all, but–”

“You’re so stupid.”

“–I don’t need to flex it. It’s… natural beauty.”

Dream shakes his head. “Whatever. Let’s go home.

He stands up, too, finally – almost collapses, because one of his legs has fallen asleep – and starts to pull Sapnap away, back in the direction of the entrance.

Right before they leave the clearing, Dream turns back and smiles. Absently, he swipes a thumbs along the corner of his mouth.

“Coming?” Sapnap asks, now in front.

Dream looks at him with a grin. “Right behind you.”

They sit back inside the car, Dream behind the wheel and Sapnap right next to him. He starts the engine, the drive passing in silence; the radio is turned almost too low to hear and neither of them breaks the quiet atmosphere they’ve created. Sapnap rests his hand between them and Dream takes it, absently swiping along the back of it.

When they pull into their driveway, no more than twenty minutes later, Sapnap is dozing, hat askew and head leaning against the window.

Dream leans over and shakes him awake. “Hey darling,” he says, not noticing the slip, “we’re home.”

Sapnap blinks his eyes open, groaning. “Oh, cool.”

Dream laughs, remaining in the car even after Sapnap pulls his hand away and steps out. He sits, staring forward as Sapnap stumbles around sleepily, entering the house. He leans back and thinks for a second, about the verbal and the actions, about what it all means.

Falling, in whatever way he’s doing it, seems far less scary than it should be. It had been an idea in his head for a while but the kiss – warmth, safety, a lingering desire to keep and hold safe – had buried it deep into his brain as a core need.

Dream rests his elbows on the nooks of the wheel, sets his head in his hands, and drags his fingers through the front of his hair.

He’s actually in love. He still doesn’t know what that means for him.

Finally, he knocks his head against the top of the wheel. He’s glad the car’s already off because if it had beeped he would’ve never entered that house again.

When he steps inside, he finds Sapnap sitting in the living room, lazing on the couch. Dream walks over and collapses next to him, arms snaking around his middle. “Hi,” he mumbles, burying his face in Sapnap’s chest.

“Hello.” Sapnap rests a hand in his hair, tugging off the hat. “What were you doing outside for so long?”

“Thinking big thoughts.”

“Wasn’t that why we went to the park in the first place?”

“My big thoughts?” – Sapnap nods – “Well, now I have other big thoughts.”

“Do these ones require a kiss, too?”

Dream laughs. “You just want a second kiss, don’t you?”

Sapnap shrugs, but it’s in that exaggerated way Dream knows means it’s a joke.

“No, they don’t.” Dream snuggles closer instead, reaching across to pull a blanket off the back of the couch and throw it over them so only Dream’s head peeks out. “’m sleepy now,” he idly comments.

“If we nap on the couch we’ll be sore later,” Sapnap says, hand falling down to rest over the blanket where Dream’s lower back would be.

“Don’t care” – Dream yawns – “too comfy.”

Sapnap shrugs. “Alright. Well, good night then.”

“Good night, Sapnap.”

The last thing Dream feels is a head atop his curls. He smiles softly and doesn’t remember the rest.

And in the morning he wakes up, him and Sapnap share a gentle smile, and they don’t talk about it. After all, what’s there to discuss?

Dream hasn’t seen a box of dye in the trashcan in a while, nor has he seen George with the same shade of hair as usual.

Hairdye, unfortunately, dulls over time. Dream adjusted quickly to checking his roots, visible before his blonde would start actually peeking through. Though he doesn’t do it anymore, years of following the ritual has given him an intimate knowledge of the process and all variables it involves.

That all means that one day he sees George and immediately knows his dye is fading.

It’s not something he’s seen happen; George has kept his brown as opaque as possible, since streak neutraliser can only do so much. Seeing it so dull immediately makes Dream stop.

“Did you…” Dream squints. The image doesn’t change. “Has your hair always been that colour?”

George looks up, his phone lighting the bottom of his face as whatever he’d been watching endlessly loops. “What do you mean?”

“Your dye. It’s fading.”

“Hm?” George shrugs, eyes snapping down for a second. “I don’t know. I don’t really feel like dying it, anymore.”

“Oh. That… is interesting.” Dream comes closer, leaning to sit on the back of the couch George is laying across. “Why so?”

“Well you know now, so… there isn’t much point, is there?” He rolls his eyes. “Also, it’s so needlessly expensive.”

Dream snorts. “You at least have a normal dye. I had to get some specialty shit ‘cause all the other ones didn’t look right.”

“Well I bet you’re glad you don’t have to do that anymore, huh?”

Despite the slightly more personal question – it took Dream many years to learn that people might get insulted if you ask about their dye – George seems perfectly at ease, not even really reacting to Dream’s curiosity. He nods, then continues, “So the only reason you dyed it was because of me?”

George shrugs. “Mostly. I just don’t care anymore.”

“That’s great, George! Or– I’m proud of you? You know what I mean.”

“You… are?”

“Of course I am? It takes a lot of courage to be that vulnerable, you know that, right?”

“Yes, I do, but… well, it’s your streak. I don’t know if I can, like… take that as mine?” George shakes his head. His phone has gone dark while they’ve been talking and he finally puts it down, sitting up properly. “I don’t care. I don’t know how you feel about it, though.”

“George, it’s your hair, I can’t make any sort of decision on it. I’ve made my opinion clear, haven’t I?”

George stares at his now-empty hands for a few silent moments. Dream takes that time to think; what would’ve helped him when he first stopped?

“I guess you have,” George finally mumbles.

“I have. Anyways, do you want to go cut all your hair off?”

George blinks, then whirls around to stare at Dream like he’s finally lost it. “What?”

“What?” He shrugs. “It might help you feel better, getting it all off right away. It’s like a fresh start.”

“…that might help. Maybe.”

“Well” – Dream stands and orients himself to be in front of the couch instead, holding out a hand – “Wanna do it together?”

George snorts. “You’re gonna shave your hair?”

“Okay, don’t be an idiot,” Dream jokes.

George finally takes his hand, allowing himself to be pulled up.

Dream’s never done this to someone else before, but it seems the past months have been for discoveries. That’s how he ends up choosing the longest tip for his electric razor, standing next to George, who’s holding his head above the counter in Dream’s bathroom.

“If I look stupid after this I’m blaming you,” George says when he hears the razor turn on. “You’re to blame. I’m gonna tell everyone to attack you.”

“It’s fine, Georgie,” Dream mumbles, threading a hand through George’s dulling hair for what will likely be the last time in many months. “It’ll grow back.”

“But I’ll look stupid until it does.”

“No, you won’t.” He sets the razor on George’s neck, less than an inch from the first strand of hair. “Okay, are you sure?”

“I’m… Yeah, I’m sure. I don’t care.” George laughs. “Take it off.”

The first locks fall to the stone and George picks one up, inspecting the small, dark gray section at one end. “I’m gonna look so boring,” is all he says, and Dream laughs and continues.

The last time Dream shaved his own hair was in the old apartment, and he’d had cheerful music playing and had been waiting for the chance to do it for weeks. This sort of impulsive why-not thing has never been his deal; it’s either celebration or emotional breakdown, not much inbetween there.

“My head feels so much lighter,” George laughs. “How much hair did I have?”

Dream pulls the stuck sections out of the razor. “A lot, apparently.”

Once Dream has gone over a section enough times, only the very tips of the remaining buzz are brown; everything else is the nice charcoal Dream has only seen once before, only on a photo, only from afar.

“I never got to see your natural colour,” he idly comments, and George hums. “It’s nice.”

"You’ll get to see it a lot more, now.”

“I look forward to it.”

When they step out of the bathroom, George wiping tiny hairs out of his face and Dream with a proud look on his face, they don’t think to tell Sapnap – or, rather, they think it’s funnier not to tell him, so they go back to lazing on the couch.

And Sapnap steps out of his room, comes downstairs, starts heading to the kitchen – and stops.

“What the fuck happened?”

George looks up. “I had a makeover.”

Abandoning his goal, Sapnap comes closer to look at what’s left. He stops at the green, staring at George with concern. George shrugs. “He knows, already.”

Dream understands, then, and smiles and nods when Sapnap glares at him for a second. Whatever secrets are kept from him, he doesn’t mind. He trusts them to be good to him, and in return he’ll be good to them.

“We can be a trio of hat wearers for now,” George mumbles when Sapnap and Dream stop having their silent promises. “I’m not going outside just like this.”

Dream laughs, “Then why’d you do it?”

“Because I wanted to.” George shrugs. “I just wanted to.”

He’s been there for Sapnap’s face reveal, then for George’s, and his own was left in the hands of the others.

He never did a separate, formal one, instead letting everyone see him just as his friends did: at the door to their new house. There’s enough screenshots and photos and videos of him out there, now, that he never had to organise his own special event.

And now, Dream still gets that experience despite not having needed it.

He tilts his webcam, watching the preview intently. He wants this to be perfect; it’s a big deal for him, this stream, and if it goes wrong or he says the wrong thing he’ll be haunted by it forever.

Dream’s finally at a point in his life where he can choose what to do, how to live, who to love, and he’s taking advantage of that freedom to the fullest.

“Mic test mic test mic test– okay, levels are good,” he mumbles to himself, “What’s with the focus oh my god–”

Patches, loafing on the bed, meows at him.

“Yes girl, I know.” He adjusts the dials on the camera and frowns when it goes more out of focus. “It has to be good, though.”

Another meow. He looks back at her, then, and reaches across to pet her little head. “You’ve got my back, right? ‘Course you do.”

Putting it off is only making him more anxious, sickness becoming a constant. He sits down – adjusts the focus dial because he’s still blurry – and counts his breaths.

The announcements are already out; he can’t stop now, can’t decide to draw back.

Dream wants to do this; he wants to stick up for himself, he wants to tell his tale, he wants to comfort those who feel like him or Sapnap or George. He wants to make the world a better place. He wants to prevent the hurts he experienced.

Maybe if he shouts enough, the world will echo back in his own voice.

He clicks go live.

The stream is only a black screen right now, no audio, no camera. He takes the time to adjust himself; he’s wearing one of his beanies, feeling a little silly at it but not enough to not go through with his plan.

Slowly, he greets the stream, still watching viewers pour in. He’ll switch to camera when it starts to plateau, he tells himself, knowing well that it won’t happen.

“This is a serious stream, alright? Serious. I have something really important to talk about.”

He switches to his camera, and chat explodes. He laughs at their spamming. “No, I’m not the important topic – I am also very important. No, no, it’s– it’s this.” He tugs at his hat. “I’m doing a hair reveal.

“And you might be wondering, well, why? And why did I even hide my hair in the first place, right?”

He looks away for a second to his reflection in the preview. He takes a breath, releases it, and finally says, “I’m a natural blonde. I’m not dyed.”

Dream lowers his head, and in a move he knows he’ll see clipped for weeks, pulls off his hat and shakes his hair out.

“Surprise!” he laughs, “I’ve never had gray hair!”

He waits for a few seconds, glancing between chat, the camera, and the preview. Then, he talks, and he tells far less than he did to Sapnap or George but he still tells a lot more than he ever thought he would. At the end of his life story, he throws the hat behind himself and curses it out for good measure.

“So, uhm… I guess if you feel like the world isn’t fit for you, make it.” Dream gestures vaguely. “Find people who will accept you. This is, like– a coming out stream now, oh god. Uh– don’t hide yourself for others, though. That never ends well.”

When he ends the stream, he feels lighter; light enough to run to his friends who, of course, were also watching, and celebrate the milestone it feels like.

A few days later they go out to eat and Dream doesn’t cover himself up, doesn’t fear everyone’s eyes on him. The crowd has been defanged, to him, and looking around he feels like he belongs here; even if not everybody knows about his story, even if they still think he’s got gray underneath, he doesn’t care.

What others think about him is none of his problem.

He looks down at George, walking next to him, also hatless. His hair grew out enough that they could cut off the last brown tips and it’s all now gray, his three streaks displayed proudly. They grin at each other, neither covered, neither hiding, and they walk on.

Dream watches Sapnap push off, roll down the ramp, then kick himself into the air. Judging by his frustrated expression he still didn’t do the trick right, and thus he climbs back up the ramp to try again.

Watching someone learn is always interesting; they repeat over, and over, and over again – the same motions, the same routines, again and again until they’re happy enough, knowing they’ll mess it up the next time they try despite it.

Dream leans his elbow on his knee, his cheek resting on his palm. The concrete under him and George bites his skin through his jeans but he doesn’t move, fixated on Sapnap.

George is also watching, but not quite as enthusiastically as Dream – he keeps checking the time on his phone, swiping to look at his notifications on autopilot. One of Dream’s hoodies is draped over his shoulders, too big yet perfectly at home on him.

Dream reaches into the bag of chips between them, pulling one out and biting it, spilling tiny crumbs everywhere. “How many times do you think he’ll do this before he gets tired?”

“Oh, he’s been at it for a while,” George says, checking his phone again. “Like… five more minutes?”

Dream hums. “You have so much trust in him.”

George snorts.

They’ve been here for a little over an hour; Sapnap had decided in pretty much the middle of the night that he wanted to go skate, and Dream and George had wanted to tag along to enjoy the atmosphere.

A quick snack run later, they sit on the concrete edge of a planter box, a bag of chips and two drinks sat between them.

“You’re staring,” George notes, tossing a chip into his mouth. “What’s up with that, hm?”

“Nothing. I like watching you guys.”

“Hm, nothing creepy about that.”

Dream scoffs. “It’s not creepy. It’s… affectionate. I’m not, like, a stalker.”

“Mhm.” George nods, chewing. “I’ll make sure to lock my doors tonight so you can not be a stalker in my room. Yeah?”

“Sure.”

Maybe a little ogling was Dream’s motive. It’s not a bad thing – Sapnap is a handsome guy! Dream’s allowed to find his friends handsome, and admire them every once in a while. The stans are right, after all; they’re a trio of pretty best friends.

Sapnap messes his trick up once again. He stands at the bottom of the ramp, dejected, then faces the two sitting off to the side and throws his arms up.

“What do you think that means?” George asks quietly. Sapnap and them are far enough apart that they have to shout to really hear each other.

Dream hums. “I think he’s annoyed. Should we go to him?”

“Hm, nah.” George flips Sapnap off, then changes his hand to an L. “Loser.”

“You couldn’t do any better either.”

“No, I could. I could do it so easily.”

Dream knows he’s wrong, but the idea of George picking up a skateboard for what’s probably the first time and landing a trick perfectly makes him smile stupid. “Alright, George. Whatever you say.”

George sips at his drink and shrugs, struggling to drink through the grin on his face. “I’m just that good,” he says after pulling the bottle away.

The light of George’s phone illuminates them once again. The last number is an eight; Dream can’t see much else.

In the light, George glows a vibrant gold; all of them are gaining a fair tan to their skin and George is no exception. The light yellow in his hair has turned silver, the purple a fine blue, and the green a pleasing lime.

Seeing George finally carefree about such an intimate part of him – it comforts Dream, yet unfurls a bright fire of pride in him; he helped both of his friends despite his own issues, they all struggled and they all arrived at the same point: acceptance.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” George says.

Dream snorts. “I’ve told you a lot of things, George. Please be more specific.”

“About like, relationships, that’s what I mean.” Sapnap groans at another trick failed. “That you can always do something other than what others want from you.”

“What about that?”

“How did you figure that out?”

“I… I don’t know.” Dream shrugs, thinking of a better answer. “I decided to fight for myself instead. Whatever that means, it doesn’t matter – I do what makes me happy, not my parents.” He sighs. “Maybe others seeing that will make them realise that, too.”

“That’s the responsibility of a celebrity, isn’t it?” George mocks. “Be a role model?”

“I don’t know, if someone genuinely figures something out about them because of me, I guess I’m happy.”

“You got me to figure stuff out about myself.” George moves his hair out of his face, then adjusts his hoodie. “I’m pretty thankful about that.”

“I did?”

“Well, I never thought you’d be, I don’t know, fine with me loving you. I always thought I’d have to take that to my grave.”

Dream hums. “I love you too much to make you keep that kind of secret.” His eyes are on Sapnap, his mind is somewhere else. “Why would I have any issue with it?”

“Usually people would.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why, Dream,” George says, sarcastic as always. “That’s just the way it is, alright?”

“Haven’t I made myself clear? Always question things, George.”

George stuffs another chip into his mouth, then passes the bag to Dream. “Now I do, but– it was complicated, before.”

“Won’t it always be complicated?” Dream asks, tilting his head. Sapnap lands his trick, does it again, and fails.

George shrugs. “That’s life, though. It’s always complicated.”

Dream stares ahead, then turns to George. “That was, like, unexpectedly profound.”

“Your mom’s profound.”

“…and you ruined it.”

George laughs, nudging Dream with his shoulder. “I’m the comedic relief,” he says, then does a stupid face. Dream can’t help but laugh at it, too.

Late nights have always been their favourite time to spend together, just a little sleep-deprived and delirious. Interactions are ephemeral, frail; they’re lost the moment they’re over.

“I’ve been afraid,” Dream starts, “that I’m not enough for you guys.”

“What?” George frowns at him, jabbing him in the cheek with the cap of his bottle. “Where are you getting those thoughts from?”

“I just–” Dream plays with his own bottle, turning it to feel the water slosh about. “I’ve been… worried, since Sapnap got his streak.”

“What, that he’s going to leave?” At Dream’s silence, George scoffs. “Dream. Sapnap isn’t going to leave us because of some girl.”

“But what if he does? What if he thinks love is more important, suddenly?”

“He’s not going to. Stop thinking so hard, idiot,” George says, slapping him on the back. “Aren’t you supposed to be the confident one?”

Dream shrugs. “I guess, but that’s only for like… speedrunning, or whatever.” He fiddles with one of his rings, watching the reflected lights change. “I’m not like that, really.”

George hums. “Agree to disagree.”

“What– George! You’re supposed to be on my side, not the haters’!” Dream laughs.

Sipping at his drink, George hums. “I’m on nobody’s side. I’m neutral in this.”

Dream scoffs. “Okay. So if Sapnap–”

“Why does Sapnap get brought up no matter what?” George pouts. “You’re just so obsessed with him, you know that?”

“I’m not obsessed with–”

“You are–”

“–just been my friend for so long,” Dream continues in a louder voice, “that he’s a big part of my life. Alright?”

George hums his assent in a way Dream thinks is extremely condescending. “Okay, so if hypothetically you could – for the rest of your life – you could be with either me or Sapnap, who would you choose?”

Dream, too stunned into silence by the ridiculous question, blinks at him multiple times before he says, with a tone so high it could build skyscrapers, “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever asked me. Neither!”

“Why neither?”

“Because I don’t want to lose either of you?”

“That’s so endearing of you, Dream.” George glances away toward Sapnap for only a second. “Sounds like plain greed to me, though.”

“If I have to be greedy to get both of you,” Dream says, “then I’m going straight to hell.”

“Ooh. That’s such an epic line you just said.”

“Shut up.”

Dream shoves George, gets shoved back, and by the time Sapnap comes back to them – frustrated but content – they’re yelling loud enough for it to echo, hands on each other’s throats.

The Florida sun barely compares to the heat across Dream’s cheeks.

He nudges George to the side, gets shoved back in return, laughing all the while. He’s got the giggles from something Sapnap said almost ten minutes ago and both of his friends are making fun of him for it despite how notoriously long his laughing fits can be.

Dream looks over at Sapnap and bursts out laughing again.

“Dude, it’s not that funny.” Sapnap looks over at George, who’s holding back his laughter a lot better, only maintaining a polite-enough smile. “What’s his deal?”

“You–” Dream coughs, then continues cackling. “Aah, you can’t just– just say that, you–”

George hits him on the back as if Dream had been choking on a piece of food and, unsurprisingly, it doesn’t help the situation. Sapnap shakes his head in disappointment as if he hadn’t been the one to say the thing Dream is now losing his mind over – whatever it had been, since he can’t even remember the exact words, only that it had been such an out-of-character joke that it had absolutely wrecked Dream.

“Get it together, Dream,” George utters, offering him a bottle of water and directing him to sit down on a nearby bench. “You’re going to pass out.”

“I– I won’t, I’m… fine, but th– thank you,” he gasps out. The water is nice and cool, having sat in George’s backpack for a while, and it makes Dream sigh after he takes his cursory sips. “Thanks, Georgie,” he adds after taking a few more, despite already having thanked him.

George scoffs. “You’re welcome.”

He sits down next to Dream, slowly recovering. Sapnap comes to sit on Dream’s other side, discreetly holding his hand. They’re not in the shade but it’s not the warmest it’s ever been today, even a light rain predicted closer to sunset. As it stands it’s just humid; Dream is coping with it the best out of the three of them.

“Wait– look!” Dream follows Sapnap’s arm, pointing to the large ferris wheel they just-so happened to sit near. “Can we go on that, next?”

George leans forward to look at Sapnap. “Sure.”

Dream, though, is a lot more hesitant. “That is… really high off the ground. Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah, you’re scared of heights…” Sapnap thinks, hand on his chin and everything. Dream thinks it’s cute. “Well, we’ll all be on it together – if something goes wrong, you know… at least we’re all fucked?”

Dream snorts. “You’re so good at comforting people, you know that, right?”

“’Course I do.”

He looks up at the wheel, lazing its rounds, and sighs. “Fine. But if I cry that’s your fault, not mine, and you will buy me a snack as compensation.”

Sapnap coos and George says something about always caring for him, and despite their joking tones Dream knows they’ve got him, they’ll hold him safe and dear. It’s not like the wheel is unsafe or anything; his fear is less of something going wrong and more the feeling he gets when he looks back down – his depth perception’s never been great.

If he doesn’t look down he’s fine, right?

They queue up and right away Dream starts having second thoughts, however the knowledge that if he really, truly wanted to, George and Sapnap would let him leave – he’s not here against his will and he can always say no – keeps him comfortable enough to waddle through until they sit down in their little cabin and Dream crushes himself as into George’s personal space as he can. Having let go of his hand in the queue, Sapnap starts toying with Dream’s foot instead to distract him from the feeling of the lift, ending up as a game of footsie so intense George physically stops them.

Then, the wheel stops.

George is already holding him down before he can whip his head around. He stares at the two of them instead. “Why did we stop?”

“They’re letting other people on.” Sapnap scoots closer to the window to look down. “Yeah, look, there’s others getting in.”

Already knowing that that’s a horrible idea, Dream refrains with a small no thank you. George, no such fear found, peeks over and oohs at the crowd. “Good thing we queued early. There’s so many of them, now.”

“Think they’re all fans?”

George looks up at Sapnap’s smug face and scoffs. “Obviously.”

Instead of the ground, Dream looks at the sky around them. It’s cloudy but not quite overcast, sunrays poking through in that way that looks more like an underwater shader than real life. It’s pretty and he says as much to his friends, both of whom look away from the ground.

Sapnap gestures for Dream and George to move over and after they do, squeezes himself between Dream and the wall. The bench isn’t quite long enough for all of them, especially with Dream twice as wide as either of the others, so they end up with legs strewn over one another and arms holding each other from falling.

They always make it work. It’s incredible, really, what love does to the concept of space and conservation of mass.

They sit in silence, then, for a while. The clouds drift along, far above them, and each time the wheel stutters they squeeze each others hands. Dream wonders if, once they start going to cons and the like, Sapnap and George will also hold his hand during the plane takeoff. It’s his least favourite part; the flight itself is fine and the landing is… manageable, but takeoff has always scared him.

They would, wouldn’t they?

They’d care for him no matter what. They’ve always cared for each other; when Sapnap got four streaks in a year, he remembers sitting on call with him until far too late, talking about the world and nothing at all until he felt better, until his own internalised ideas didn’t try to drown him. When Dream and Sam broke up, George kept him company for days after it, and even if he hadn’t liked Sam – something Dream only now knows, only now can place into the tone of discontent always in his voice when she was the topic of discussion – Dream had been more important to him. They’ve all kept secrets for each other – ones Dream knows he doesn’t know. They’d do anything for each other.

Their little cabin is almost at the top. Sapnap rests his head on Dream’s shoulder and yawns.

“It’s still insane to me that we’re all here, now,” George mumbles. “I always wanted it, but… I guess I also lost hope at some point.”

“That’s what happens when you hold onto a goal for so long,” Sapnap says, eyes half-lidded. Dream feels the same exhaustion tugging at him, too; they’ve been at this fair for a while, now, and running around like they tend to has tired them all out. “You stop seeing it as the goal, and more as the process.”

“Wow, that’s so smart.”

“I am smart.”

“I believe you.” George doesn’t sound very earnest. “You are very smart.”

“Dream, defend me.” Sapnap knocks him weakly a few times. “Tell him I’m so smart.”

“Yes, Sapnap, you’re extremely smart. George, leave him alone.”

George pokes out his tongue. Simp, he whispers under his breath, but Dream hears and rolls his eyes at it. “I can be a simp if I want to,” he defends, “I’m a– what, I’m a Sapnap stan. Do you even have like, a name for your stans?”

“I dunno.” Sapnap shrugs, adjusting his hair. He blended all the colours nicely today. “Saplings?”

“Okay. I’m a sapling, then.”

“You’re small and green.” George hums. “Yeah, that fits.”

Once again, Dream affords George a roll of the eyes. “How am I green?”

“That’s your whole, like, brand. You’re the green guy.”

“I’m so much more than the green guy.”

“Mm, unconvinced.”

The wheel jolts. It’s almost at the top; one more and they’ll be the highest they’ll get.

“This only goes one round, right?” Dream asks, back to squeezing their hands.

“I think so.” George’s tone leaves much confidence to be desired.

“Yes, it’s only one.”

“See, Sapnap is much smarter than you, George.” Dream sets an arm around Sapnap, hand on his shoulder.

George weasels his way under Dream’s other – not to say he encounters much resistance. “Fine. Truce.”

They shake on it. Their hands remain joined, falling onto Dream’s lap.

Another silence falls onto them. It’s comfortable like this; maybe it’s good the weather isn’t too nice because otherwise it’d be too warm to hold each other like this.

“…I love you guys, you know that, right?” Dream mumbles, head falling to rest on George’s. “I’m really happy we’re all together, now.”

Sapnap snorts. “Together.” George reaches around to hit the back of his head, striking more of Dream than of Sapnap.

“I dunno,” Dream continues despite the scuffle. “I don’t mind saying we’re together.”

“Never said I had anything against it.” Sapnap shuffles closer – not much more than an inch because they’re already close as can be. “Dream Team forever, right?”

Dream nods. “Yeah. Dream Team forever.”

He looks over at George, then, and frowns seeing the sad expression on his face. “Hey,” he mumbles, “What’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t know.” Absently, George’s hand twitches where it’s resting behind the two others. “It’s just… it still feels wrong for me to do that.”

“Why?” Sapnap looks over at George in a way that dislodges his hat; Dream takes it off his head to make sure it doesn’t fall. “George, stop being a coward.”

Dream hits him with the hat. “Idiot.” Then, he turns to George. “Why does it feel wrong? We have no problem with it.”

“It just… You know, you guys are– this is stupid. I thought of you as something more than a friend and you guys didn’t.”

“Oh, we kissed in a park,” Dream blurts out and receives his own smack. “Okay, okay, I know it was a secret, but like– we did. We’re not clean either.”

“Wait– you did?” George stares at them in shock, still curled into Dream’s side. “When? How did I not know about this? What the hell!”

“Because it wasn’t important?” Dream shrugs. “We’re each other’s first kisses, now.”

George pouts. “That’s so unfair.”

“What, was your first kiss some random girl?”

“Yes! It’s so stupid, I’m pretty sure we were both drunk and she was a terrible kisser.” He makes a little choking noise. “It sucked.”

“I can give you something more than a kiss,” Sapnap says; George grimaces.

Dream, too, grimaces, quietly mumbling gross. The wheel takes that moment to make its last turn, now at the very top.

“…fine,” George says, “if you’re fine with it, I don’t mind.”

“Wait, so we’re together?” Sapnap looks up at Dream. “Come on. Come on,” he pleads, like Dream is his dad and he’s asking for a new toy.

“Yes, we can be together. Literally what does that mean, though?”

George shrugs. “We’re not, like, boyfriends. We’re not married, either.”

“Friends is a bit… eh.”

“Partners?”

Dream hums. “I think it doesn’t really matter what we are, does it?”

“What do you mean?” George looks up too, now. They’re all so close, right now, and Dream feels right. “Isn’t it important to know what we call each other?”

“I don’t think it is. I mean, we’re all coming at this from different directions, so obviously we’re all going to take different directions too, right?”

Sapnap shakes his head, lowering it again. “So we just… call each other whatever we want?”

“Well, yeah. I guess boyfriends would be a bit weird, but otherwise… I don’t think it really matters, does it?”

After all, Dream is as much George and Sapnap’s as he is without a title to the kind of ownership; it doesn’t matter what they call it. They’re together. It’s a relationship-of-sorts. It’s whatever they want it to be.

They met online and ended up moving in together, successful and happy. Nothing they do is typical; why is it important why they’re the way they are?

Dream thought he would never find a place in the world and needed something to remind him of his worth; Sapnap felt unstable in his everchanging emotions and sought something to hang onto; George wanted to rid himself of his wants and found he couldn’t pull out the clinging tendrils.

Never having, having too much, having it wrong – none of it fits what others would want of them, right?

“We’re each others, right?” Dream says, and the ferris wheel finishes the turn and they start heading down again. “We’ve always been.”

Sapnap hums, George nods, and Dream feels at peace.

He’s found his place, his home. He’s found the ones that won’t judge. He’s found his home and he will hang onto it for all he has.

They’ve separated from each other by the time the cabin reaches the ground. They climb out, holding hands as they continue around the fairsite.

It’s a beautiful, overcast, cloudy day. It finally rains when they get home and all Dream can feel is joy, enough to make him laugh.

He looks up, then; he should never look down.

Long, hard thoughts. Things that make Dream’s head hurt and eyes heavy and hands shake and his phone is open on the page for hair dye.

Ever since he saw George running around with the bright, forest green stripe tangled in his hair, Dream had considered it. It’s not like he’s never had the idea; before Sam, before the YouTube success, when he’d still been living with his parents, they’d suggested it, just so he stops standing out as much. It had been the one thing he’d stood firmly against, then – no faking. Covering, yes, faking, no.

Still, despite his own strong stance, the idea burrowed deep into his brain, a frequent thought amidst midnight breakdowns and too-long pensive sessions. It hasn’t made its unwanted way back into his brain in a while but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.

Dream, standing in front of the mirror, hands clenched around the counter, is debating the pros and cons of finally committing the biggest moral sin he could think of: dying a streak for Sapnap and George.

He’s in a– a relationship, or… something of the sort, they didn’t really talk about the terms. They’re just together and Dream’s pretty happy about the whole thing, even if his meaning of the word is different from George’s is different from Sapnap’s.

And they’d want something, right? They’d want something to prove it, because Dream himself can’t but he can show that he would if he could. It would just confirm that he’s theirs, even if he doesn’t work the same way they do. Does Dream make sense? Eh, maybe, but the tangle of emotional baggage, pulled off the shelf by an all-nighter, has been weighing on him far too heavy to merely brush off. It’s kept him up, it’s distracted him from work, he can’t look at his friends– partners– boys without guilt and what feels like seven grand pianos being added to his heart.

He loves. He wants to love. He–

“Dream?”

Dream whips around to see George, standing in the entrance to his bathroom. He looks bleary. It’s 4 AM.

He turns his phone off and slips it into his pocket, sliding his best easy smile onto his face. “What’s up?”

“How long has it…” George yawns “…been since you slept?”

His reflection’s adorned with eyebags such a deep purple they might as well be painted on. “Like… a while. Not that long, but–”

“It’s so late, why are you even up?”

“No reason.”

George levels him with a look somewhere between exasperation and a deep, unending fatigue. “Dream. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not! It’s not– not even important–”

“Dream.”

They’re both tired. They’re both straining to stay awake.

Dream sighs and drags a hand through his hair, catching a few smaller tangles along the way. “Do you… Okay, do you think I’ll ever just– randomly get a streak?”

George squints at him.

“Like, it’s not… not impossible, right? Maybe I’ll wake up and oh, there it is! A little… I don’t know. George, I have been awake for far too long.”

Instead of responding, George just holds his hand out and, when Dream only stares in confusion, says, “Your phone. Give.”

Dream sighs. He drops the phone in George’s hand and watches as it’s unlocked – they all know each other’s passcodes and -words – to show the storepage.

George frowns. “Why are you looking at this?”

“I– I don’t know.” He leans back into the counter, marble digging into his hip. “I guess I just… I don’t want you to think I don’t… I feel like I need confirmation, of some kind.”

“Do you need confirmation” – George pockets his phone, crossing his arms now – “or do we?”

“…both.”

“Dream, no.” The bathroom feels smaller than ever as George steps close enough to set a hand on his shoulder, a faint concern creasing his brow. “We don’t need anything from you. We don’t even want it, you don’t… Dream, you not getting streaks is fine. It’s not good or bad; it’s fine. It’s okay.”

“But…” He groans. “Okay, I still feel like I’m missing something. Like– I like that we’re… whatever, now, but it just–” He waves a hand around in despair, completely unable to untangle or even begin to articulate the knot of complicated feelings, all of which eventually turn into a stable I feel sad, colon open parenthesis. “It’s not even about the streak, even if– I guess that’d be the best way to do it, but–”

“Slow down, please slow down. Take a breath.” Dream does. George smiles at him. “Okay. How about we… talk about all this in the morning? Does that sound alright?”

Only then does Dream realise that he’s discussing their relationship without the third member of their trio. “Oh. Uh, yeah. That… that sounds good, actually.”

“Right. So…” George gestures at Dream’s bedroom. “Go. Sleep.”

And sleep Dream does. In fact, when he wakes up, it’s almost 6 PM and he still doesn’t feel rested, not really. The only things holding him back from falling under again are the memory of last night and the fact that he has to go to the bathroom.

He eventually waddles out of his room, still dressed in his rumpled sweats, and greets Sapnap and George, sitting at the counter snacking on candy and discussing something on George’s laptop in frustrated tones. At the sight of Dream, though, both perk up. George greets him back with a small smile while Sapnap gets up to lay an annoyingly loud kiss on his cheek, one Dream wipes off when Sapnap’s turned back around. George sees, though, and hides a laugh behind a hand.

Sitting down next to Sapnap, Dream doesn’t get to see what they were debating before the screen is closed and both of them have their attention on him. “So,” George starts, “Food first, then important talk? Or other way around?”

Dream repeats communication is important in his head like it’s the only thing keeping him alive to refrain from avoiding the difficult tangle of emotions and half-understood remains of what had been so deeply ingrained into him. “…food first,” he grumbles, leaning on the counter. He owes his exhaustion to the weird sleep schedule instead of whatever is going on around him.

He eats some microwaved meal while the other two go back to discussing. They’re arguing over editing, which is, honestly, hilarious to Dream, but also partially far too relatable. It’s something about the length of a cut relating to the music choice, or whatever. They know the system; Dream edits for favours, never for free, and while seeing them every day is nice, it is not, in fact, a favour.

He eats his final bite and pushes the dish away. Both sets of eyes instantly flick to him.

“Alright.” He pats the counter. “Important talk.”

George pushes his laptop shut. “Okay.” He takes one look at Dream and frowns. “Calm down. Nothing’s wrong, right?”

Sapnap glances at Dream. “We’re just gonna talk, man,” he assures, reaching over to take one of Dream’s hands in his own. “That’s it.”

Dream stares at their intertwined hands, takes a breath, and nods. “Yeah. Just talking.”

He isn’t used to just talking. That’s a new concept taught to him by the two in front of him now; with everyone else, it’s always been a mix of just give in to make it easier and pretend to agree until you can leave. This is not his normal. Solve the problem is not his normal.

Still, Dream is determined to make this work. He has his favourite people in the world, he wants them to be happy, he wants himself to be happy. He chose himself once, he can do it again.

So he talks.

Everything, literally anything that could be related to this, comes rushing out his mouth. Everything from how insistent his parents were to Sam’s struggle with his hair to his own thoughts of not being worth it; how everyone has made him think the way he loves isn’t enough; how he feels like he has to prove himself; how he thought they’d fall apart at some point because he’d be the only one to never fall in love the right way. He explains, and the entire time, Sapnap and George listen. They sit there and they listen like his worries are serious, and he knows they are but nobody’s thought about how it’d affect him before.

Another new concept: listening to what Dream wants. He knows how he wants to live his life; it’s a matter of letting hi/m do so.

By the end he’s almost in tears, gripping Sapnap’s hand hard enough to turn his fingers white, and George says, quietly, “That’s a lot. I’m sorry.”

“Well…” he laughs. “I spent most of my life hearing shit like this.”

Sapnap is quiet; Dream knows he, too, struggled for a bit with what he’d been told about relationships. George doesn’t have that experience, his admission into their weird little trio is his love for Dream, not a societal rejection of some kind. He’s welcome, but he doesn’t really get it.

“Okay, I guess I’ll start.” George chews on his lip for a second, then states, “I don’t like the idea of you dying a streak.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t feel like you. You– that’s a part of who you are, and it’s not what you want, is it?”

Dream thinks. “I…” Is it? No, not really. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“So you wouldn’t be doing it for us, or for yourself.” George huffs. “Who? Your parents?”

“I think the sentiment is good,” Sapnap finally says, looking like he’s still in thought, “but I don’t like the streak idea, either.”

“Okay, no streaks then.” Dream raises his hands, one still intertwined with Sapnap’s. “But I do want something. That’s– that’s my own wish… if you’re okay with it, of course.”

Sapnap pulls their connected hands back down, now staring at them. George hums and proposes, “What about, like, a… a chain, or something? You know, so we’re always–”

“Wedding rings.”

Both Dream and George snap to Sapnap, still staring down at the hands. George laughs, more-so out of awkwardness than actual humour, “…what?”

“Wedding rings.” Dream allows his hand to be raised along with Sapnap’s and, once they’re in the air, lets Sapnap tap at his ring finger. “We wouldn’t actually get married, but just… just the rings. It’s a sign of dedication, which Dream wants, it’s a sign of, uh, societal defiance, which we all like, but it still shows that we’re, you know, together.”

Lowering their hands again – it’s like they’re playing traffic coordinators, him and Sapnap – Dream mulls it over. The idea of something he could wear that would show everyone he’s taken, it’s a nice one. It’s a really nice one, actually, and the point about sticking it to people with rigid ideals also appeals to him, since it’s somewhat the whole reason he’s chosen to live like he has, anyway.

“That… I like that,” he tells Sapnap, who preens a little at the approval.

“God, you sometimes have such smart ideas,” George adds, which immediately flips Sapnap’s cute little smile to a scowl.

Dream laughs when they start to bicker, as they always do. He listens along, letting the (hopefully) lighthearted jabs wash away the weight of the serious topic. Along with that dread, though, he also feels the years of fear and despair start to break down until it all feels manageable.

It’s not like one conversation will solve everything; he doesn’t think they need to have that sort of burden on them, because this is Dream’s own insecurities to learn to live with, and eventually, overcome. Just being listened to already helps, though, and he’s hopeful for the future. Dream is choosing to look forward instead of looking back.

There are so many things Dream thought he couldn’t do just because of the cards he’d been dealt in life; being with Sapnap and George shows him that no, he can still do all those things: they go on silly “dates” that are nothing more than hangouts with a different name; they allow themselves to be affectionate until they can’t pass each other without a cursory touch; they learn to live around, and with, the others, in a way where not having each other feels like it’d tear them apart in the most literal sense.

In the process of love, they fall more and more, until all that divides what Dream feels when he looks at his phone homescreen – a photo of them all, wet from the ocean waves but grinning stupid – from what he doesn’t feel is the words he uses to describe it.

And after a few whispered words and exchanged rings, Dream sits at the kitchen counter, staring at the golden band on his finger, tracing the shape of it over and over. It’s late and he should be in bed by now, and he knows that if he can’t sleep he can always ask for help, just like with anything else.

He still struggles, and sometimes he feels doubt and insecurity and that awful weight makes itself known in his chest, but it’s better, now. He’s healing. He’s learning to live life for what it is for him.

Here’s what Dream thinks love is: Love is living the way you want to and seeing who follows.