Archive of Our Own ^omega

Dream combs his hair out of his face, awestruck as the crowd breathes alongside him. He pushes his fingers up to his eyes again, rubbing, streaking black eyeliner against his skin, the kids in the pit pushing their hands up at him with an unfamiliar type of reverence. George doesn’t blame them, still with his eyes caught in the crossfire. Dream leans into the mic.

“Thank you, New York!” He yells, and New York screams back at him, leaking spit and blood and sweat. He moves backwards again. “You’ve been incredible! I’m Dream and thank you so much—fuck—thank you so much for being a part of my Manhunt. I’ll see you next time!”

Sapnap is the one to tug him backwards as George runs offstage, pulling off the jacket he’s wearing on top of his shirt, losing it somewhere across the ground. It swelters at him, the impossible scream of the crowd, the noise going muffled when Alex slams the door that opens up to the stage. His face is pink and blue in the lights and his voice is barely there. 

“One of the signs is oozing,” he says apologetically. Wilbur speeds past him, giving Alex enough time to clap him on the shoulder in celebration. Wilbur, still decked out in his stage top and stage makeup, grabs him and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Oh my God , Wilbur—you’re all toddlers.” 

“Toddlers who go fucking crazy on stage, though,” George says, and then hip-bumps him involuntarily as Sapnap collides with his back. His sweat wipes off onto George’s shirt, and he can smell the paint-wet thickness of the white makeup on his face. He works with the pushing, trapping Alex into a sweaty hug. “What’s this about oozing?” He asks into his hair. 

Alex pushes him away with giggly complaints, wiping away the lipstick that Wilbur had left on his face. “One of the signs,” he tries to explain hurriedly, directing a group of stagehands to pack up Sapnap’s kit with a thumb. “Straight into the truck, yeah—and you better not fuckin’ break any of the sticks like last time.” 

“Yeah, don’t break my fucking sticks !” Sapnap yells, and perches on his tip-toes like a frenzied bird, deciding whether or not to chase after the stagehands. “Wait! My fucking—I left things on there!”

“Don’t know if I should ask what things he left,” Alex says, and looks over at George for a moment, arms crossed against his chest. George snorts at him instead of responding, looking down at his untied laces and bringing his hand to his throat. His ears are still ringing.

“Dunno,” George says cheerily. Of course he knows. He’s a big benefactor of said things . “It’s his ‘things’ , isn’t it?” He cranes his neck again, and his skin itches against the layers of salt, his hands working against phantom strings. He looks down at the tips of his fingers—bloodied red from where he’d thrown his chip into the crowd. “Where’s Dream?” 

“ Dunno ,” Alex says, in the same tone that George had used just to piss him off. Their conversation is more him taking advantage of the fact that George is relatively still and willing to listen, if anything. “But—as I was saying, the H sign is leaking orange goo everywhere. I know you think it’s punk and I know Dream likes playing around in it like it’s not radioactive waste that’s going to kill him, but—”

“We are back ,” Wilbur says grandly, waving Sapnap’s sweaty bandana through the air like a white flag. Alex fake-gags, but still lets Wilbur grab him around the shoulders as Dream takes his other arm, lifting him up slightly as if swinging him between them both. “I needed a drink, and I got my drink!”

“I needed a drink, too,” Dream announces, trying to articulate as if testing his voice. When he discovers the newfound hoarseness, he pulls back, smiling as if satisfied—and it’s worrying very quickly. George is still buzzing a bit from the lines, so he just watches him, trying to tamp down his own train of thought. 

He knows Dream likes it when his voice hurts after shows. He knows he likes it when he has to bandage his knees, soak in a cold bath, let George run his bloodied hands under the tap and force-feed him alka seltzer. George doesn’t like it, when Dream gets self-destructive, but Dream needs it after a show more than anything else. 

“Where’s Sapnap gone?” Wilbur asks, twisting around as if to find him close by.

“Stalking the roadies,” Alex says, which isn’t untrue. “Hotel night tonight?”

“Apparently,” Dream says, and finally looks at George again. The larger-than-life smile occupies his face again, corners creasing his cheeks so bad they tilt over his lips. “George—” 

He tumbles forward and throws himself into George’s arms and kisses him, fingers grabbing at his face and then pounding at his chest, shoving him backwards as if looking for a wall. He’s too solid. George laughs, and he can hear it clearly even as his teeth clank against Dream’s, his tongue finding its natural place into his mouth. He bites Dream’s lip and he yelps. It’s more of a game than a kiss, especially with foreign eyes burning into them. 

George can fucking hear it already— D’you know the bloke from Manhunt is sleeping with his bassist? Yeah, I could tell. It’s so obvious. He can feel the eyes of the roadies on their backs, catering people and lighting tech all watching Dream suck all of the life out of him. It’s so obvious. 

He doesn’t stop, of course. He doesn’t know how to. 

“Fuck, that was so much fun,” Dream says excitedly, pushing backwards and gripping George’s forearms. There’s always this moment of guilt, on stage, that George is taking away from Dream’s full potential just by breathing in the air around him. He’d probably jump off of the stage and into the crowd if he could, play right in front of the crowd. “Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? You were so fucking good during Road Trip, I could’ve kissed you right there —”

“You did,” George says. It wasn’t really a kiss. He’d just delivered a pretty sick guitar solo and Dream had licked the color off of his lips.  

“Oh, right,” Dream says, barely pausing, and George kisses him again. It’s very hard not to, which is why it’s nice when he has to. Alex clears his throat, but when George pulls away Sapnap and Wilbur just look bored.

“Keep it to the stage, morons,” Sapnap says.

“Or the room,” Wilbur says dryly. “Don’t know your lives.” He still claps Dream on the shoulder as he walks past, Alex padding behind him to ask him how regular of a happening the Dream and George thing is. George doesn’t bother answering his question because he’s busy with Dream, who’s pushing him against the wall and kissing down his neck.

“Not here,” George mumbles, and then Dream says, “It’s dark,” and rustles at his belt. 

George sighs. He should know better than to try and tame post-show Dream. Really, he’s just the third round of Dream burning off his energy, after the groupies and the drugs. 

“‘We could get back to the room,” he says, “Mine or yours, doesn’t matter—” but then Dream eases himself back into George’s mouth, against his chest, leg pressed between his thighs. He’s moving, desperately, the little thrum of power in his heart escaping and pounding out against Dream’s throat. “ Dream . You can’t keep from being a fucking whore for two seconds?”

Dream clicks his tongue, cold press of his teeth flattening against George’s neck. “Not with you,” he whispers, moving his mouth against George’s ear. “You have no fucking idea how I feel right now.” He runs his fingers across George’s forehead, teeth slanted into his collarbone like he’s trying to skin him dry. “Ask me how I feel.”

George laughs, sticking his fingers against the sweat drenching the back of Dream’s neck. “How do you feel?” 

“So fucking alive,” Dream says. “I can never die. I could jump off that stage and let the crowd pick at me like vultures and I bet I wouldn’t even die .”

“I totally would,” George says. 

“You wouldn’t,” Dream says, and shoves his leg against George harder, fingers feeling at the bones under his shoulders, picking out all of the tension under his skin. Running fingers along the bruised surface of his throat. Feeling the jagged rips at the tips of his fingers. “Come on, George. Say it. No—seriously. Say it. I’m never gonna die .”

“Dream—” George says, but of course it doesn’t work. Dream bites his bottom lip, hard, trying to draw blood—but George doesn’t have any left on him. He thinks it all got on his guitar pick. Flung onto the crowd like a sun shower. 

“Okay,” he says, a moment later. Breathless. “Fine. I fucking—fine. I’m never gonna die.” He raises his eyebrows at Dream, pushing his head against the wall. “There. Happy?” 

“Yes,” Dream says. “I’ll make sure. Pinky-promise.” 

“Yeah right,” George says, with a tiny scoff that shows he appreciates it a lot more than he lets on. He kisses Dream again, raising his hand to rest alongside his jugular. His hum reverberates through George’s mouth.

“You taste like coke,” Dream says. “Can I—“ 

And he falls to his knees in a heaping pile of candle wax. George feels his back thud against the wall, and he looks around, trying to spot producers or Alex’s all-encompassing posse of roadies. They’re in one of the wings curling away from the main access into the stage, where Alex had dragged them to privacy. There’s a storage closet and a box of guitar picks. George needs those. “Here? I mean—“ 

“George, I need to,” Dream says, but he says it all in one breath, looking up at George in a fit of smudges. He’s managed to wipe most of the eyeliner away from the bottom of his eyes, and now it streaks against the red veins of his scleras, black-and-red like ligandrol. He’s still in his stage clothes, hair gelled to stick up in every direction. George is sure he isn’t looking much better. 

“You can’t wait?” George asks. “Lemme take you back to the hotel.” 

Dream just shakes his head quickly. He’s nuzzling against George’s cock, now, cheek pressed through a layer of denim, probably scratching at his skin. “No, I’ll do it fast,” he says. “Please, it’ll hurt for the rest of the night, and I want to feel—just—normal.” He’s already undoing George’s belt, fingers accidentally slipping through the wide holes. “I swear, your cock is like—oh, fuck, you’re so big. I fucking need it all the time, like, in a to-go bag or something.” 

“I sometimes think I just—holy shit ,” George says, and leans a hand forward to thread through Dream’s hair, trying to stabilize his head. He’s still jittery, adrenaline making his tongue work in uncertain movements. “Easy, Dream. Calm down.” 

“I’m calm,” Dream says, and pushes his tongue against the underside of George’s cock, making him push his hips against the wall again, thread his fingers against the gel in Dream’s hair. 

“Okay, well, take a deep fucking breath to prove it,” George says, and Dream rolls his eyes, pushing his mouth away, making a show of blinking up at George boredly. “I sometimes think I just happen to be attached to your favorite thing.” 

“You’re not one-hundred thousand dollars in cash,” Dream mumbles. It takes George a second to realize it’s a joke, and then he’s laughing while Dream pins his hips down against the wall again. “I mean, fuck . One-hundred thousand , George. We’re gonna fucking die rich.”

“Thought we weren’t gonna die?” George asks, still with his hand stuck firmly against the back of Dream’s neck. His skin is hot and pallid.

“Not by natural causes, that’s for fucking sure,” Dream says. He bobs his head downwards to try and take George in. George cradles the back of Dream’s head gently, working himself into the warm crevice of his mouth. 

Dream moves his head faster, tongue gliding against George’s cock in an unfeeling heat. His head thumps against the wall so loudly he picks it back up to try and contain himself. He can feel the bruises blooming underneath him.

 “So—fucking good at that,” George says, voice strangled. “Fuck—”

But before he can rain down another neverending array of useless compliments—shit that goes in one ear and out the other—he hears the stomp of people’s shoes rounding around the corner, and he curses again, yanks at the top of Dream’s hair. “Shit—wait.”

Dream jumps up in a giggle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, saying, “What is it? Too good, huh?” And pushing forward, tugging George’s zipper back up at the same time that he shoves his teeth against his neck, letting George force him to grind his mouth in harder. 

“As long as you get it by tomorrow, I’m really not fuckin’ bothered,” Sapnap says to someone George can’t see, and George shoves Dream’s hips away with a sudden thrust of his hand, looking to the side, flattening himself against the wall again. He and Alex freeze in their tracks once they see them pressed against the wall.

“Are you guys fighting again?” Alex asks. 

“They’re—” Sapnap says, but then Dream says, “Yeah. Yep. Me and George—fighting. We do that a lot.” 

George has to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that he kind of has a point. Dream’s covered in wounds by the end of their shows anyway, but it’s not just because he throws himself in the air and skids against his knees—sometimes it’s because George will trip him over or shred his guitar straight into his ear to try and burst his eardrums. 

But that’s on stage. It’s part of the Manhunt dynamic or whatever—something Karl always tells them to play into, because their batshit stage antics seem to sell. George doesn’t mind. But they don’t do that in their real lives. At least not as violently. “We weren’t fighting,” he says, aloud. “Hotel night?” 

“Hotel night!” Sapnap cheers, and Alex sighs and treads behind him to pick up the box of guitar picks, moving to load them back into the bus. George looks back over at Dream again, watching him dip his tongue underneath his grinning lips.

“You better not pull that shit again,” he warns, even as Dream rounds back into his space, shoving his fingers into his belt loops. “God, I’m serious—what, you want us to get caught just ‘cause you can’t keep it in your pants?” 

“What’re they gonna fucking do?” Dream says. “Hmm? I just made them half a million fucking dollars , George, what’re they gonna do? Kick me out? Tell me I can’t get fucked right on stage? That’s what they’ll do?”

“You’re insufferable,” George says, but he can’t help the pound of rapid excitement in his bones, the way he knows Dream is right —they’re not going to die anytime soon. And if they do die, they’re going to die rich. “So fucking insufferable.” 

——

Dream is on him the minute they climb into the car, biting the crux of his jaw and feeling against his crotch in his jeans, a leg strewn across George’s thighs. It’s not that different from when they used to huddle together after shows before they started hooking up, but Dream’s mouth on him is definitely a more isolated incident unless they’re both on a lot of drugs.

Everyone in the car is looking for the next line to snort, the next person to tug into an empty bedroom, so George lets himself touch back, wrapping the scratch of his nails against Dream’s neck. He still has certain obligations when they’re in a cramped Range Rover surrounded by their bandmates, but it’s hard to resist the occasional flashes of light that expose his pale throat. 

“Groupies waiting on the fifth floor,” Wilbur says. Alex scoffs, a little bit, but Sapnap turns around from where his thigh is pressed against George’s in interest.

“How many?” He asks.

Wilbur shrugs, looking back down at his phone. “Niki said at least eleven.” 

“Oh, fuck yes,” Sapnap says. “I’m not fucking sleeping tonight, that’s for sure.” 

“Don’t forget you have meet and greets until four tomorrow,” Karl pipes up from shotgun. That makes everyone tucked in the backseat groan, separate shouts of “Oh my God, Karl” and “No, Karl” and “Until four ?” 

“Yes, until four,” he says gleefully, seemingly taking pleasure from knowing that they’re suffering. “No stage clothes, don’t worry. But I don’t want any of you to be fashionably late again. Dream and Sapnap, I’ll set your alarms for you if I have to.” 

“You don’t have to,” Sapnap says, almost uneasily. 

“I expect you to be up and at ‘em by nine,” Karl says, twisting the mirror just so he can see the bemoaned expressions on their faces. “Cry all you want, bitches. It’s not my fault meet and greets make you money.” 

“You gonna come out with us afterwards, Karl, dearest?” Dream asks, daring to try to get on his good side. He purses his lips.

“If you’re not on PCP at the meet and greet again, I’ll think about it,” he says. Sapnap hisses air between his teeth, and Wilbur mimes an airplane going down with his hand, one that crashes and sputters spectacularly. 

“You tried, Dream, mate,” Wilbur says. 

“I’m insulted with how much you doubt my self-control,” Dream says to Karl. He snorts. 

“I’m pretty sure your hand is up George’s shirt—should we really talk about self-control?” He asks, craning around in his seat to look over at them. 

Dream snatches his hand away from George’s stomach, his nails having been trailing comforting lines down his skin. He’s stopped darting off the windows, and he looks down at George guiltily, tracking the slow movement of his eyes. 

“You did PCP,” George says, feeling stupid. Again. He did it again. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Everyone in the car knows it isn’t the first time, and they know—even more strongly—that if Dream does a substance once, he’s definitely going to do it again. Even if it almost kills him. 

Dream squirms against the window. “Just a little,” he admits, evidently aware of the stuffy press of the window to his side and how tightly George’s leg is clutched to his side. Not to mention the other people in the car absolutely listening in. “Just a sherm. I—you know how it is, George.” 

George doesn’t say anything; Dream's stomach is lined up rigidly against his back. The car is silent, stuttering over the road like a train over tracks. 

“What’s Niki’s tracklist for her show tomorrow?” Dream asks, trying to break the silence. Alex and Wilbur break into an unsteady conversation, trying to at least keep it long. 

Once the car goes under a tunnel, straining back into downtown Manhattan, Dream starts looking for an in. He slides his hands under George’s shirt again, trying to hold around the cool expanse of his stomach. He presses his face to George’s forehead and moves to kiss his neck. 

George doesn’t indulge him with any movement. Dream pulls away. 

—— 

Before they can head up to their rooms, Karl stops George on his way to the stairs, looking flustered and aged. People are rolling out of the entrance of the hotel, leading straight into a packed street. Even late at night. He can hear the commotion from the fifth floor. 

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry if I did anything,” he says quickly, looking around as if to catch sight of Dream. “I didn’t mean to—make a problem. I didn’t realize—I didn’t know it was such a point of contention for you guys.” 

“Oh,” George says. He figured he’d deal with this on his own, but it’s nice of Karl to notice. Though he doesn’t really know how people wouldn’t notice. “Yeah. It’s okay. He just—I don’t like it when he does it.”

George has tried to be smart about it. He can’t ask Dream to give up anything else—the late-night practice sessions, the benzos he needs to calm down before a set, the girls he borrows for a night and then promptly forgets. The taking-care-of-Dream job is one he takes very seriously, but he’s not always at the top of his game. 

“I get it,” Karl says. “I didn’t mean to start any shit. Last thing I’d want is a breakup.”

It’s both the double entendre of the phrase and the way that he says it that makes George wince. He isn’t Dream’s wife or his caregiver or his parents worried after a night of heavy binge-drinking. He’s his friend, above all, and all of his friends worry about him, but they’re just a little closer than most friends. That’s all.

“The band’s a little stronger than that,” George says, instead of anything else. And then Karl kind of tilts his head. “Oh. Oh . No—um, no, me and Dream aren’t together.”

“...Okay,” he says, after a pause. “But you’re something.”

“Everyone’s something,” George says vaguely. “He’s my friend. My best friend.” 

“Most people don’t sleep with their friends,” Karl says.

“Okay,” George says. “Maybe most people don’t. But some people do. And you don’t—you don’t get it. It’s only on the road.” It’s only on the road, because when they’re not on the road, they’re writing music—and when Dream’s writing music he can’t do anything else. It takes over. “It’s like stress relief. Or something.” 

“Or something. You’re trying to play dumb so I’ll leave you alone,” Karl infers wisely. “Fine. Sure. I’ll leave you alone. Goodnight, George. Up early tomorrow!”  

“Goodnight!” He calls back to him, and then makes the trek up to his room. He slides his room key against the door, unsure if Dream is actually asleep. He’s not. He’s sitting on the bed, dicking around on his phone. His backpack’s flung open and George can see clothes spilling out. He closes the door gently behind him.  

He really doesn’t want to talk to him. He’s not angry, but he can’t talk to him—he can barely look at him, the uneven way he’s holding himself against the bed, like he’s not sure if George is ever going to touch him again. Like that’s really something he has to think about. 

“You mad at me?” Dream asks, shyly. 

“Shouldn’t I be?” George says, his voice leaking out of him the minute he opens up the dam, turning away from a moment to contain himself. He needs to… not be looking at Dream right now, because if he does, he’ll say something ridiculous, like he always does. 

He really does always do it. He’ll tell Dream he’s worried about him, probably, ask him why he couldn’t just stay away from one vice, board up the rest so they’re always there for him when he needs them. And then Dream will look up at him and apologize, kiss him on the neck again, tell him he’ll never do it again. Ever. And George will listen. 

 George looks over at him for a moment. He can imagine it perfectly because it’s happened so many times. He’ll push gentle fingers against George’s skin and then cry out more apologies when he fucks him into the bed. “Feel like we should all be a bit mad at you, but Wilbur and Sapnap would never be. ‘Cause they do it just as much as you, don’t they?” His eyes flash. “Or do they not, not in the slightest?”

Dream clenches his legs against his chest. “D’you—d’you want me to go to another room or—”

“What—fucking no ,” George says. Like that’s the fucking problem here. He doesn’t know why Dream can’t just make him a genuine promise instead of a half-assed compromise for once. “I just want you to not almost die of a lethal drug overdose again. What’s wrong with you? I’m not telling you to stop . I’m off three fucking lines, I obviously can’t tell you to stop, but—” he looks over at Dream again, and his eyes are so wide, he almost looks like he’s actually listening. But of course he isn’t. It only manages to piss George off further. “You think this is just about my morals?”

“Never fucking said that,” Dream says, stung. “But now that you say it—”

“ Oh my fucking God,” George says, turning away from him to face the window. He can see Manhattan and its inky, foreign glow—the lights of their expensive hotel so immediately separate from the residential housing it jars him. It’s hard to feel above the world when Dream’s so intent on toppling everything they’ve made. “Idiot.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Dream says. “Sapnap wasn’t happy with me either, but he—I mean, it was just a sherm, really. Just one joint. I didn’t think anyone would notice.” 

“Don’t give me that shit,” George says, and turns around, crossing his arms. “Are you trying to hug me?”

Dream moves his arms away guiltily, turning to sit back on the bed. “I thought we were done. I am sorry, George. I’m really sorry.”

“We’re not fucking— done ,” George snaps at him. “You—you can’t just—you know, haven’t we had this conversation before? You said you’d stop.” The unspoken for me lies in the air. George wishes he could take it back.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.” And then, even though it’s not true, not really, he says, “It’s hard,” and George looks at him, eyes sad and tilting by the minute, and the guilt wracks across Dream’s face again. “But. I’ll try. Harder.” 

“Dream—” he says, and then catches himself. “Whatever. This really isn’t anything, so—if you don’t want to listen to me, you don’t have to.” 

“It’s—” Dream says, and freezes. “What do you mean? What’s this ?” 

“Don’t play stupid,” George says. He walks over to where his own suitcase is toppled open on the ground, poking through it to find a change of clothes he can sleep in. “Me and you. The shit we’re doing. I don’t know.” 

“What?” Dream asks, and when George looks up at him again, all of the guilt is gone—the realization that he’s done something fucked up has disappeared completely from his face. Replaced entirely with another train of thought. Per usual. “I’m not—like, I know we never gave it any… names, or anything, but we’re… something. We’re not not anything .” 

George can’t tell if it’s very carefully aimed naivety or genuine confusion. “You’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend too,” Dream parrots, as if reminding himself. But it doesn’t wipe the frown off of his face. “But… come on. You get pissed at me when I hook up with the groupies.” 

George doesn’t look up at him. “Don’t want you giving me chlamydia, so… obviously.”

Dream scoffs, a little, like he doesn’t believe him, cutting his eyes at him as George finally unearths an oversized shirt to sleep in. “I use a condom.” George doesn’t say anything else. “What the fuck? Is that really it?” 

“What else would it be , Dream?” George asks, looking up in frustration. “You obviously don’t give enough of a fuck about either me or the band, so—why would I give a fuck about what you get up to?” 

Dream looks at him for a second longer. Like George isn’t supposed to fight dirty right back. “Fuck you,” he says, and grabs the jacket he’d flung across the bed, swiping past George in a sudden dash forwards. George spins on his heel, watching him open the door before dropping the keycard to the room to the floor.

“Fuck you !” He calls back, but Dream doesn’t seem to hear—he slams the door behind him, enveloping George in the yellow light of the Manhattan buildings blinking up at him. 

“Fuck you,” he says again, just to himself, kicking at his suitcase. He kicks it again for good measure, but it doesn’t do anything to calm his nerves. 

Fuck this. Fuck Dream . He always has to pull the same shit every single hotel night—get himself into some kind of trouble with either Karl or any of the other members of the band. Mostly George. Especially George. He’s the easiest target, because he’s the one who Dream can apologize to the easiest. 

He lasts a while without Dream, but very quickly gives up a little bit past two. Their room’s on the seventh floor, so it’s a two-floor elevator ride down to Sapnap and Wilbur’s hotel room, which is easy to identify because the door is still creaking open and he can hear them blasting music from a speaker. 

He doesn’t knock. He slides inside easily, looking around the already dirtied hotel room for a familiar face, but all he’s met with is girls hanging against the edges of armchairs, boys mixing drinks together as if to maximize alcohol efficiency. The two beds are taken up by writhing forms, and the en-suite bathroom is blasted with a ray of purple light.

Of course. Because the shows are never enough for them. They need the rest of the day to be just as loud and to-the-point. George stomps over to one of the beds and moves his hands through the bodies, looking for people he recognizes.

He pushes over Sapnap, who has a girl on his lap and one at his neck, both holding matching yellow pills on their tongues. “Kind of in the middle of something, man,” he snaps up at George, who huffs and pulls his pillow out from under his head.

“Don’t care,” he says. “Is Dream here?”

“Dream?” Sapnap repeats, and squints at him. “Oh. Yeah. He ran in all pissed off, left with some guy—”

“ Left ?” George repeats. “Why would you let him leave?”

“He just went to some hotel room,” Sapnap says. “One of the rooms near ours. Chill. You expect me to stop Dream from doing something he wants to do?” 

George doesn’t even dignify him with a response before pulling away, leaving the sweat-smelling hotel room to trek down the rest of the hall. A few of the rooms next to them are just as firmly packed as Sapnap and Wilbur’s hotel room, so he looks for the only one that’s locked shut. He pounds a fist against the door, leaning back when a man opens it.

He’s a little taller than him, red-cheeked, the collar of his t-shirt evidently ripped downwards. “Woah,” he says, widening his eyes at George. “You’re—”

George pushes him to the side so that he can look through the entire hotel room—for fuck’s sake, they have the same jawline, same color hair. Dream could’ve at least tried to make it a little less obvious. He catches him lounging on the bed, still fully clothed and definitely less rustled than the boy who had opened the door. Because he’d known George would come. Obviously.

“Get up,” George snaps at him. 

“Get up ?” Dream says lightly, while the boy walks a wide berth around George to dip back onto the side of his bed. He sits up, rustling a hand through his freshly-washed hair; he’s still wearing the green shirt and black jeans he performs in, makeup still streaking his cheeks like freckles. “Why would I get up, George? The party’s still getting started.”

“You’re GeorgeNotFound,” the boy says, voice shaking with wonderment. George looks over at him for a moment, feeling only slightly guilty that the boy’s definitely going to tell this story to his friends and they aren’t going to believe him at all. 

“What gave it away?” George asks dryly, and leans down to put a hand around Dream’s elbow, yanking him upwards. “Come on. Let’s fucking go. Meet and greets tomorrow.”

“I’ll still fucking make it , thank you very much,” Dream says back, pulling his arm towards himself. He remains firmly planted against the bed, and George brings his arms to his chest, crossing them in irritation. “I don’t need you to babysit me, George, don’t worry. Since that’s all you’re fucking doing for me lately, huh?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” George demands. 

“Um—” the boy says, trying to inch away slightly, but Dream traps him in place with a look and then glances back up at George, bracing himself against the bed. 

“It means, if you wanna fucking tell me what to do with my time ‘cause you’re so worried about me not caring about the band, maybe I won’t fucking listen,” Dream says. “Because I don’t need someone to look after me . So you can fuck off, if you think that’s something you have to do.”

“You’re such a fucking dickhead,” George says. “I’m not— telling you what to do, you whiny little bitch—God. Get the fuck up, Dream.” He leans forward and slides a hand against the back of his head, digging his fingers against his scalp and pulling his head backwards. “Now.”

Dream stares back at him, eyes blown-out. If the boy next to them notices how they’re looking at each other, he doesn’t say anything.

“Fucking fine ,” he says, finally, and lets George manhandle him out of the room.

 The hardest part is always the extraction, but there’s always the breaking point—because as much as he tries not to admit it, Dream’s always looking to George for what to do.

George opens the door back up and pushes him back into their room. It’s easier, if Dream has a right-hand man, someone who’s in his world but always has at least one foot out of the door—a little bit more cautious than him, always ready to yank him out of certain situations. That’s always been what George has had to do for him. He’s usually taken up the task with as much liveliness as he can muster, but sometimes, it gets to be a bit too much.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” George says, and then Dream is turning over to him in a minute, saying, “ You can’t believe me ? Are you a fucking idiot or what? God!” And slamming himself back down on the bed, clutching the edges tightly.

“You’re such a petty fucking shithead,” George snaps down at him, pacing towards the other side of the window. His mouth itches and he wishes he was on something. It’s always easier to fight with Dream when he’s on something. “Did you really go and find some guy to sleep with just because you know it would piss me off?”

“That’s the thing , though,” Dream says, voice dripping with sweetness like he believes every word he says. “You said you didn’t give a fuck what I got up to, right? So I guess I should be able to do whatever I want.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” George says. 

“It’s not what you meant?” Dream snaps back. “Sounded like it was what you meant. It was what you said .”

George shoves his hands back into his hair, willing himself to keep from screaming—or doing something even worse, like darting out and kissing Dream with everything he fucking has just to prove him wrong. He doesn’t know how else to prove him wrong. “You know what—I should still be fucking pissed at you . You’re the one who used again after I told you to stop doing that shit.” 

“George, I’m fucking trying !” Dream says, loudly, and George pauses, looking up from his frantic pacing to the sight of Dream with his fists clenching the bedsheets, face flushed red. “Jesus. I’m sorry—I’m sorry it’s not fucking fast enough for you, but I’m trying . It’s not exactly easy. You know it’s not fucking easy.”

“I know it’s not—” George says, but his voice already feels brittle. “I know it’s not easy, Dream, God. But you don’t even—if you actually are trying to stop, don’t you want—like—why wouldn’t you ask us for help?”

Dream looks away. Stiffening his face, ears flat against the sides of his head like a scolded cat. “‘Cause I’m dealing with it on my own.”

“You obviously don’t,” George says, moving to stand in front of him, still with his arms crossed. “You obviously don’t, if you’re using that shit again and not telling me. But that’s fine. Nobody expects for you to deal with it on your own.”

Dream still doesn’t say anything. George tries to continue. “Look,” he says, and moves to the side so he can sit on the bed next to Dream. “I’m not telling you you can’t sleep with other people—”

“So you want me to sleep with other people?” Dream snaps at him, still looking down at his lap. George sighs.

“I’m not—telling you not to,” he says, evenly. The truth is that he’d really like to tell him not to. He feels like people should know not to. It’s an open fucking secret, at this point—if the roadies and the tech people have figured it out, the fans definitely have to have figured it out. They haven’t exactly been secretive about it. Dream’s neck is covered in bruises the shape of George’s mouth. “Do whatever the fuck you want. I’m just saying that—I’m allowed to worry about it. That’s all.”

There’s a beat. “You don’t have to worry about it,” Dream says, trying to keep his voice light and kind of failing at it. It’s already so charred and broken-up by the constant screaming during the concert. “‘Cause we’re not anything, right? We’re friends.” 

George knows he’s the one who said it, and it still hurts like a motherfucker. “Dream, I was—I tried to—I was very clear with where the line was.”

“I know,” Dream says.

“Because I didn’t want this happening,” George says, grasping at straws a little—Dream hadn’t exactly asked for him to elaborate. “I didn’t want any of the—jealousy, the arguments, the petty fighting. This. I didn’t want this .”

“Well, too bad,” Dream says. “You got it.” They’re silent for a minute longer, and then he can feel Dream looking over at him. “But whatever. Fine. If that’s what you want—we’re just friends.” 

“Great,” George says. “Just friends.”

He isn’t sure which one of them kisses the other first, because they both end up on the bed at the same time, George pinning Dream down with his legs and shoving his mouth against his throat. Dream pushes his hips up, groaning into his ear, trying to shove him onto his back, but George doesn’t let him move. He pushes downwards, pinning Dream’s wrists above his head.

“Just coke and molly,” George says firmly. Dream blinks up at him, eyes woozy and lips painted artificial red. “That’s it. No more of this—no more of the shit that can kill you.” 

“Nothing’s gonna fucking kill me,” Dream snarls back. And then George is shoving down to kiss him again, keeping a hand tucked firmly underneath his jaw, making sure the back of his head is pressed against the pillow. He shoves two hands into the front of Dream’s shirt, tugging him upwards until he bangs his head onto the edge of the headboard. He hisses, trying to pull himself upwards. 

“I’ll make sure something does,” George says. “And if nothing does, and you somehow make it past the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I’m going to kill you myself.”

Dream kisses him again, so harshly it feels like he’s forcing himself into it, trying to cause them both mental turmoil as well as physical pain. He wriggles his hands under George’s thighs, moving to undo his belt, but George smacks his hand away.

“ Down ,” he hisses. “You better not fucking touch, or I’ll make sure you don’t cum for a week.”

“Prick,” Dream says under his breath, but George ignores him, ripping open his belt and sliding it through the loops, digging his fingers against the hem of his jeans. He tugs, shoving Dream’s shirt up with his other hand, pressing his mouth against the revealed skin. He digs teeth and fingers until Dream is squirming.

“God,” he says, voice squeaking slightly as he tilts his head, looking down at George. “Can’t you just—”

“Quiet,” George says. He finally fists a hand around Dream’s cock, moving his head down to press his mouth around the head, watching Dream squeeze his eyes shut at the feeling. “See what happens when you listen to me , Dream? Maybe I’m nice when you listen to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dream bites back. “Listen to you about what?”

George doesn’t answer. He feels like the answer should be obvious. He moves his mouth down to suck a dark mark into the conjunction of his hip, and then he’s pressing his mouth to the base of Dream’s cock again, moving his mouth upwards until he’s shoving all of Dream into his throat, feeling him writhe underneath his lips. 

Good. It’s not good enough until he can hear Dream trying to hold back his begging. He looks up at Dream under his eyelashes, and he has his eyes screwed shut, a hand placed firmly over his mouth while the other one tugs against George’s scalp. George screws a hand upwards, pulling Dream’s elbow away so that the hand on his mouth flings to the side.

And then he dips his head back down, feeling Dream’s leg convulse as the hand in his hair tightens. “Okay—fuck, okay, okay, George, get off,” he says weakly, but George hollows his mouth and Dream says, “Fuck— fuck , ‘m so close, please,” and George pulls away, says, “You want to cum when I’m fucking you, huh? Perfect little whore that you are?” And Dream gasps, “ Yes —please. Please.”

So he pops his mouth off and grabs Dream’s thigh, digging his nails in until he flips over, laying flat on his stomach with his shirt hiked high off of his back. George pushes his mouth down against his shoulder, bending down to ruffle through the luggage spilled over the ground. The lube’s where Dream had left it.

“I should’ve fucking known,” George starts, shoving a hand firmly against the small of Dream’s back, “That you would pull that shit just to get back at me. You knew how crazy it would drive me, huh, Dream? Knew that I’d only fuck you like this if you got on my nerves?”

Dream tries to laugh, but George makes sure his mouth is screwed against his pillow. “How else am I supposed to get what I fuckin’ want? Ah ,” Dream says, voice going high at the last second as George knees his legs open and pushes a finger inside. “Oh, fuck . Don’t stop.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do, how about that ?” George snaps at him, and ducks his head so he can push his mouth against the back of Dream’s neck, tasting scabbed-over scars and radioactive waste and tears and sweat. “Fuck. Always act like you can—tell me what to fucking do.”

“‘Cause you listen,” Dream breathes, pushing himself up with an elbow as George curls his finger, sliding another one inside just to watch his shoulders hitch upwards. They’re basically still fully-clothed, so he has to shove Dream’s shirt even higher up his back, running kisses down his spine. “What, I’m supposed to—not take advantage of it, when you listen to me? Obviously I’ll do—fuck—whatever I fucking want with you.”

“Whatever you want with me, huh?” George asks, razor-sharp. He lifts himself up onto his knees, pulling fingers out to wipe across Dream’s back, watching him hiss in distress as he rolls the condom on, as slowly and as steadily as he can. “Like you’re not the one splayed out under me like a fucking slut?” 

“You’re the one who couldn’t stay away,” Dream says, between gritted teeth. “Couldn’t leave me alone for one fucking night, could you? God— fuck , you feel good.”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” George snaps, jutting his hips against him, screwing his hand back around Dream’s hair to pull his hair back. He can feel Dream bare his teeth against the hand in his hair, moaning brokenly against the grip. “Can’t ever shut you up unless you’re underneath me. Fuck—is this how everyone else deals with you?” Dream doesn’t respond, panting heavily underneath him, so George thrusts forward again. “ Huh ? Or is it just me?” 

“You’d like that, huh?” Dream says, voice low, letting George yank his head to the side, bite down on a spot behind his neck as he rounds his hand from his hair to his throat. “Want me to tell you it’s just you? Thought we were just—”

“ Don’t ,” George says, and plants another hand against Dream’s thigh, moving his hand between his legs to push against his cock. “Don’t you even fucking say it.”

He can feel Dream laughing as he ducks his head and lets George fuck into him again, cock leaking against his palm. George’s mouth has made so many marks against his skin that whenever he leans forward the back of his neck is covered in wetness. He’s pure poison to George’s will but he still swallows everything down. He still pins Dream forward with his body like he has nowhere else to go.

“Close,” Dream says. “Please—please, can you—”

“Wait,” George snaps, and then digs his fingers back around Dream’s neck, forcing him to fling his head backwards, running a thumb into his mouth. “C’mon, Dream—yeah—good— fuck . You gonna cum for me?” 

“ Mhmm ,” Dream says, around his finger, and then he’s gasping against George again, his cock writhing in his palm as he says, “Oh, fuck , George—” and then George can feel him go slack, his voice cruising to a steady halt, and he bites Dream’s shoulder again when he cums inside him. Feels his heart rate start to slow. 

Dream falls slack underneath him, and George pulls himself out, dribbling cum against him but trying his hardest not to get the bed wet. He still has to sleep here, after all—he doesn’t know why Karl didn’t just book them a room with two beds.

Well, obviously he knows why . But if they’re at the stage where they can hook up and then immediately go to sleep in separate beds, he’ll certainly take that over the alternative.

He looks over at Dream for a second, but he’s busy turning back around and pulling off his jeans, looking through his suitcase for an alternative. He doesn’t say anything, so George turns back around. Heads for the bathroom. Throws out the condom. 

Waits for some kind of direction, because he doesn’t exactly know where they can go after that. When he leaves the bathroom, running a hand through his dirty hair and trying to work out what time it is by the lighting outside, he catches sight of Dream again, pulling himself under his bed covers.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Dream says. “C’mere.”

George freezes in his tracks, watching him wriggle against his pillow, his hair disappearing under the comforter. “Are you sure?”

“Just get in before I change my mind,” Dream says.

George has just enough time to change into sweatpants before he’s tucking himself in next to Dream uneasily, moving to the other side of the bed unless otherwise instructed. Their fights usually end like this, but he can’t help the nerves. There’s always the chance Dream will change his mind. Maybe they are really just friends. 

“Stop being fucking weird and come over here,” Dream says.

Great. George moves over, turning his head so that he’s looking Dream in the eyes, but then he twists over and looks up at the ceiling, moving an arm over the comforter. At the last second, he pushes himself out and pushes his stomach against George’s back, moving a hand to grasp protectively around his chest. 

“That was the last time,” he mumbles into his hair. 

George knows every interpretation of that line. He’s memorized the way Dream speaks just for situations like this, when he’s stuck between staying and leaving, deciding—for yet another night—whether Dream’s a person worth salvaging. He changes his mind, sometimes, when he thinks he’s had a sober-brained change of heart; when he decides, yet again, that maybe this life isn’t for him, and maybe he wants something normal. Something that will keep Dream alive longer. 

But he can’t die rich if he knows that kind of stability. And either way, the answer is always the same—it’s always the one he regrets the most.

“Okay,” George mumbles, as Dream curls deeper against his back. “Last time.”