Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What is love? Love is playing every game as if it's your last.

― Michael Jordan

Etho Arena, Orlando, Florida. Home of the Kings.

Dream Clayton pounded down the glossy wood of the court, thigh muscles straining, huge biceps pumping, and sweat dripping into his eyes from his blond bangs. The ball sang against the boards in front of him and popped back into the palm of his wide-fingered hand as he dribbled furiously, strides ahead of the enemy, in perfect position to score.

He didn’t.

Instead, he popped the ball behind him with the next dribble, and George Davidson caught it one-handed and continued the dribble down the center of the court. He didn’t have to look behind him to know George was right on his heels—he never had to look behind him.

George would be there.

George didn’t know how to fail. And this way, when the opposition came up behind Dream, arms spread, legs wide, ready to block the shot, Dream was there with surprisingly wide shoulders for a guy who stood six feet, four inches tall.

And George, the center, leapt into the air, twisted his body, and made the shot with a chest-high dunk, and the fifteen thousand fierce voices, echoing around their bodies until the sound was so thick you could cut it with the slice of a sweating hand, exploded into shrieks of unholy, furious joy, singing George’s praises. Just the way it should be. The whole world should sing George’s praises.

Dream and George passed each other as George recovered his running stride from the dunk, and as they got into position to intercept the other team, they faced the opposite direction. That’s when their arms swung down from the elbows in a smooth low five, and they snarled at each other in triumph.

God, they loved this fucking game. Dream would live for it, George would die for it, and together, they would never stop creating spectacular feats of magic on the court. It was who they were, dammit, and not a soul on the planet could take it from them.

Oh, please, God. Don’t let anyone take this from them.

Please.

George's hand slapped Dream lightly on the hip, and Dream’s eyes slid down, a moment of softness in this hard-edged, bright-lit world, the hot and shiny sunshine in the center of the magnifying glass. Dream had learned a long time ago that it was so easy for the world to take things away. George had been Dream’s only reason to believe that sometimes God gave them back.

Chapter Text

Eight Years Earlier.

It was cold, and the light was fading, but Dream was damned if he was going home. His mother would be home, with her crack-smoking boyfriend du jour, they'd been inhaling and fighting and exhaling and fucking, the apartment would stink and there would be no food, and if either one of them heard Dream hanging around, someone would try to kick the crap out of him.

Dream was tall—five-foot, ten inches, even at fourteen—but sometimes he could swear the bones at his wrists were wider than his biceps, and it didn't help that there was never any food in the house, and he didn't feel like smoking crack to stop the hunger, like his mother kept telling him to do.

So, it was late, and cold, but out here at the basketball court in the community park, there was just him, and a street lamp, and his smoking breath. It didn't matter that he didn't have a sweatshirt, or that he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. All that mattered was that the ball—his only possession, stolen from Walmart in a moment of desperation—felt right in the palm of his hand, and that he could pound it rhythmically across the cracked blacktop and hear the regular jangle-swish as it blew through the chains of the basket.

But it was hard to focus when you were that hungry, and when a voice tried to get his attention, Dream had to squint and concentrate on where it came from. "Oh, come on! Aren't you going to throw it to me?"

Dream was so surprised that he did. The boy was shorter than him by a good six inches, but was still his age. His hair was dark brown and waved softly to one side, he wore trendy jeans and a blue sweatshirt with a print on the front. His eyes were so brown that from across the court, they looked black. He had a pointed chin, a pouty mouth, and a smile of such cheerful goodwill that Dream almost felt like he owed it to the kid to give him the ball. Who could resist that bouncy humour, or that amazing happiness, even as the sky darkened to twilight?

The kid caught the ball easily, and dribbled with a natural grace toward the basket. He shot and missed, then shot and scored, only to have looked upwards with a grin on his wide, smiling mouth. "Well, aren't we going to play?"

Why not? Dream's hunger was forgotten, and he started to guard the basket. The kid was good. Not as good as Dream, maybe because he hadn't been forced to use a basketball hoop in a park's vacant lot as refuge from too many things to count, but he was quick and agile and he kept up a steady stream of banter that eluded Dream as they played.

"What, you think I didn't see that? That was a feint, I got it... no! You blew right by me! That's okay, I'll getcha... no no no no no, he shoots, it swishes, he scores!" Dream was up by five shots out of twenty, and having the time of his life, when there was a sudden smell of food and a voice across the court.

"George? George, honey, I'm so sorry I'm late!"

George (apparently) slowed down as he was approaching the basket and turned toward the voice, and Dream took that opportunity to steal the ball and score. George turned to him with a sheepish grin and an "Oh! Man, that's no fair!" and Dream blushed.

"Sorry," he said softly. The smell of food hit him again, and his vision went a little black. He missed catching the ball on the dribble and tried to keep his knees steady as he turned to say goodbye to the boy who had been, for an hour at least, his friend, his family, and his entertainment, all in one.

But the boy wasn't going. "Hey, Mum! Can that kid come home and eat with us? He's an amazing player, Mum, you've got to see him shoot!"

Dream blushed to the roots of his fluffed, blond hair, and looked at his companion with a little bit of awe. He sounded like... like... like a little kid, the kind who expected someone to answer him when he spoke, and in Dream's neighbourhood, you didn't talk to a parent like that, because it never happened. Ever.

"I don't know, George—it's late. Maybe someone expects him home?" The woman had phrased the question like she was expecting Dream to answer, and Dream fumbled for a moment.

He was never good with words, mostly because he was never expected to use them. "No one cares," he said, and then he felt stupid. There had to be a better way to say that, but he couldn't think. And then, in the middle of the almost shocked silence, his stomach grumbled. Loudly.

The woman looked at him with a half smile on her face, like she understood what it was like to be young and growing, and then something in his own expression made hers change. "He's welcome, George. But we need a name first, okay?"

"Dream," he mumbled, so desperate for whatever that smell was that he probably would have done any matter of terrible, illegal, disgusting things, just to have a bite. The sweat and adrenaline and joy of the game had faded, and all that was left was pewter-grey nausea and dancing spots in his vision that came from being young, growing, and literally starving to death.

"Okay, Dream," the woman said softly, "I'm George's Mum, Emery. C'mon with us, and we'll feed you, okay?"

Dream nodded and lured by the smell of chicken and by George's triumphant smile, tucked his basketball under his arm and followed the two of them as they walked home.

The suburb where Dream lived was a curious mix of older houses and apartment buildings, the kind where you moved in without having to give first and last month's rent. Dream lived in an apartment house about a block away from the high school, which was mainly why he went to school—it was close, and he got a free lunch, because he had filled out the paperwork and forged his mother's signature at the beginning of the year.

George lived in one of the older houses, the kind with the two stories and the big yard with, from the sound of it, a dog in the back. As Dream followed George and Emery through the door and even now, Dream was getting the habit of ducking a little at doorways.

Dream soon discovered that the inside of the house was even better than the outside. It was cluttered—there were books all over the coffee table and end table and whole shelves for them in the living room—and the couches were worn and a little threadbare on the arms. There was a girl who looked just like George lying on her stomach with her feet in the air, poring over a history book, and a grown man doing the dishes over by the kitchen, which opened into the living room on the far side of the house from the entryway.

"Jeez, Emery, I thought we were eating out because it was quicker than cooking!" the man called, and George's Mum walked up to the guy— he was about Dream's height, with brown hair and glasses and a small, 'pretty' face— and Emery kissed him on the cheek with only a little reach. In the light, she had blond, curly hair, slightly wide hips under jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and she laughed at her husband (Dream assumed) as she set the food down on the (crowded) kitchen table so she could give him a hug.

"You would not believe the line at the KFC, seriously. Just miserable. And George went to the park while I was there, and we brought home a stray." Dream felt himself the victim of a cheerful once-over. "Holy God. Feeding you must be a full-time job."

Dream smiled greenly and wondered if the light really was that dim or if it was the whole 'haven't eaten' thing. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'd like it to be." That earned him a laugh, and his next smile had a little more strength behind it.

Then George said, "C'mon, let's clear off the table, Dream, and we can eat."

"Never mind that," George's (Step-dad? Mother's boyfriend? What was the guy?) said. "We'll eat in the living room. It's getting late, and we need to wrap dinner up and get to homework."

"Aces." George grimaced, all sarcasm. "Way to suck the joy out of dinner, Dad."

"Just doing my part," said George's 'Dad', and Dream tried not to boggle. He'd thought those were an urban legend. It didn't take long before Dream was seated quietly, balancing a plate of chicken with fixins on his lap, and listening to the family banter back and forth.

By the time dinner was over, he'd learned that Penny, George's sister, was in all of the advanced classes, George was struggling with Algebra, Emery was a lawyer from the teacher's union, who couldn't talk about her work but made a lot of eye rolls when certain subjects from school were brought up, and Jed was George's father, and he taught Junior High math in another district.

He could sit there and listen to them talk for hours. He didn't say anything himself, of course, but he did look up gratefully when Emery put two more pieces of chicken on his plate after he finished off the two he started with. When those were gone, he found that Jed had given him the last of the potatoes and gravy, and he ate that gratefully too.

And then, like there always is, he found that there was a price for the good, because he was the center of attention when Jed asked him how he was doing in school. He felt the sweat break out under his loose T-shirt collar. "I sleep a lot," he mumbled. Well, school was clean, it was safe, no loud noises, no one having sex or getting high—how was he not supposed to sleep?

"You can't sleep through your classes!" George said, with so much suppressed passion that Dream blushed more and wished for a quick death under the beat-up, comfortable couch. "If you sleep through your classes, how are you going to try out for the team?"

"The team?" Dream said blankly.

"Yeah! The basketball team! They start playing in a month. You can still try out, but you have to get your grades up!"

Dream looked at him helplessly. "You think I could make the team?" Oh God. He loved basketball—he did. He would sneak into the local sports bars or restaurants, just to watch the games on television. He would walk three miles and hover in the shadows of the Etho Arena on game day, just to watch Techno Blade and Fruit Berries walk in the back for practice.

But staying awake for class? Christ.... He looked at George's face then, expectant, anticipating, excited. No, not Christ. George. He'd do it for George. "I'll talk to my teachers," he said through a dry mouth, although he wasn't sure if he remembered their names. "I'll talk to them tomorrow. Maybe I can fix it."

Maybe I can move mountains, change the colour of the sky and tilt the center of the world, just to play basketball, just to see you look at me like I can do anything, just so I don't let you down.

Eventually dinner was over, and he'd helped clean up, and even he could see that this nice family would be wrapping it up. Eventually he told his first lie, one about going home to sleep, and he left. Before he went, tucking his basketball under his arm securely, he told George that he'd meet him at the cross street so they could walk to school together.

He did go home. His mother and whoever were both sprawled on the couch, stoned and out of it, and he had time to look at her through eyes that had just seen a functional little family, and he felt a surge of anger. Goddammit, all he'd ever asked for was some food and a little attention, but even before the drugs, that hadn't really been in the cards, had it?

But he didn't stay long, not this time. Instead, he took a quick shower and changed his clothes, then got a blanket and a pillow and snuck out to the stairwell behind the laundry room. The dryer usually ran all night, and this way, he could stay warm.

He figured out that his teachers had been rooting for him all along. They had let him sleep because he needed it, and when he asked for his work, they gave it to him.

His English teacher gave him notebooks for free and had a bucket of pens for the taking. His math teacher let him clean desks during lunch for extra credit. His French teacher told him that there were usually leftovers from the Asian club meetings after lunch and made sure to have some wrapped in foil for him after he got his free lunch at the kiosk. His basketball coach tutored him in history because that was the subject he taught when he wasn't coaching.

George gave him an 'old' backpack—the same 'old' backpack that Dream would forever remember him having as they walked to school that first day after he'd dined on KFC and mashed potatoes. That started a tradition of the two of them walking to school. It gave them time to talk about their classes, about basketball tryouts; both of them were shoo-ins from the start, about pretty much anything they wanted to talk about, and the tradition continued until they were sophomores, the next year.

They'd spent the summer practicing, because they loved it, and getting Dream a job, because he needed one, and he was tired of not eating.

His plan was to spend his late evenings loading boxes at Walmart, pretending he was sixteen, his early mornings doing homework, sitting on the bus bench waiting for George, his days in school, and his afternoons in basketball practice, where he felt he belonged. He told George he needed the job but not why, exactly, and until that day in late September, George never realised how bad that need truly was.

"What's with the shades?" George had grown four inches during his freshman year in high school, but Dream had grown four as well. Together they still managed to walk comfortably, and Dream never felt like he towered over his friend, which was nice, since he towered over nearly everyone else.

"S'bright," Dream mumbled, and George stopped and looked at him, square and irritated.

"It's the same bright every other day. And those look... Jesus, Dream, you've still got the tag on the front of them, and they're hella expensive...." George's eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head dangerously, looking both betrayed and furious at the same time.

"Dream, did you steal those?" Behind the sunglasses, one of Dream's eyes went wide. The other one was swollen shut.

"I had to," he rasped. "I'm... I'm sorry, George. I... I just fucking needed them, okay!" He tried to make his voice angry, but George looked so hurt. His own voice ended up breaking, and he turned his face away, so he could run away from it, all of it.

"Fuck." George mutters and before Dream could take his first step to flee, George's hand came up and snatched the shades away.

"Does your Mother know you talk like that?" Dream snapped, taking the shades back and shoving them down on his face. His eye was swollen shut and his nose was just swollen, and now that George could see his whole face, he could probably see that what looked like a chapped lip was really a split lip.

"Dre- Dream! Wait! Goddammit, wait!" George broke into a run next to him, and the cool fall morning was clouded by the spatter of his feet on the green-shaded sidewalk. George's hand came down on his shoulder and whirled him around, and Dream, who could face an opponent on the court without flinching, cringed from that touch on his arm like a child would cringe from a smacked bottom.

Dream found himself hunched and backing up toward the hedge that separated the residences from the thoroughfare and trying to escape his best friend like a shy field spider would escape a screaming girl. But George didn't scream. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Dream shrugged. "Don't want to talk about it," he muttered.

"Too goddamned bad. You tell me, and tell me now, or I'll turn around and go home and phone my Dad, and he has to report abuse, it's the goddamned law, and that'll be a big fucking mess. Talk to me, Dream." George had fair skin—beautiful, star-pale skin that set off his night-dark eyes—and now it was blotchy and red, his chin was quivering, and his eyes were too bright and rimmed with pink.

Dream had an urge to just hold that quivering chin and smooth his thumb over George's plump lower lip and tell him not to cry.

Don't cry, George. I'm okay. I'm here with you.

"Mum's boyfriend." Dream didn't even know this one's name. "He wanted my uniform money for basketball. I told him no."

George's eyes got really big then, and he looked around wildly. "Where is he? Jesus, did he get that money? Dream, we're playing varsity this year. You can't not sign up for ball!"

Sophomores in varsity, it had been a big deal the year before and it loomed no less glorious now. Varsity. Harder games, harder players—a chance for Dream to run and run and run and pound out the pain of the everyday on the court with more fierceness than ever. Varsity. It even sounded sexy.

And then it hit George. Dream could see the moment that it hit him, and he almost felt bad for his friend. "Omigod!" He sounded like a little kid. "Dream, I don't even know where you live!"

Dream's bruised lip quirked up, and the entire swollen side of his face gave an enthusiastic throb of pain. "You think there might be a reason for that?" He asked simply, and George clapped his hand over his mouth.

"You never said," he muttered, devastated. "It was so bad, and you just showed up at my door, and you never said—"

Dream yanked his shoulder around protectively and shoved his stolen glasses up on his face. "You've got a good life, George. You've got a good family. I didn’t want them to think I was too much trouble, 'kay?"

"No!" George was honestly in pain, and Dream didn't know what to do. His hands fluttered, until they ended up on his friend's shoulders, and he looked around anxiously. He and George always went early, but there was always the chance that someone would catch them acting like fags on the street corner, and he could kiss basketball goodbye.

He couldn't imagine playing basketball and having that sort of thing bouncing around. There would go his teachers' respect and all of the shit he'd worked for so hard the year before. No. No. He would just calm George down, and they could go back to walking, side by side, on the way to school.

"Look, man," he whispered, furiously. "Just calm down! Calm down! Usually I'm smarter, okay? But I got home late, and he spotted the money in my backpack, 'cause I got paid last night, and, well, I don't know what the fuck to say! I was stupid! I got caught! It won't happen again!"

But somehow, that just made George cry more. "You weren't stupid," he muttered, his voice clogged, and Dream looked around frantically.

"What?" he asked, distracted. Damn, George and his happy family. If he'd ever had to hide anything about himself at all, he'd know better than to fall apart on a street corner where anyone might see.

"I said you weren't stupid!" George all but yelled, and Dream would have smacked his hand against his forehead, but his whole face still hurt.

"Well, we're being stupid right now!" he hissed, and George, being open, easy, trusting George snapped back, "Well someone needs to stand up for you!" And Dream saw some more students coming up the walk, far enough away not to see them, but coming their way. Dammit!

He knew they couldn't see him, but that didn't stop him from turning around and grabbing George's hand, hauling him up around the hedge and dragging him to the little hollow between house and hedge and the gate to some poor slob's backyard. They were probably trespassing, but Dream didn't give a shit. They were hidden from view, behind a bus stop bench and behind a hedge. They were safe.

They stood there for a moment, panting, glaring at each other, while George wiped his pretty face with his sleeve and tried to pull himself together. "You don't deserve this," he said after a moment. He was looking at the ground, and perversely, Dream missed that moment when they were glaring at each other.

"It's not about deserving it," Dream told him fatalistically. "It's about getting it. My Mum's a drug whore, George. I don't know what else to tell you. My apartment is a pit. I have to sleep under the stairs by the dryer if I want some goddamned peace. My best meals are at school and—" His voice caught, because he couldn't be defiant and defensive when he was talking about George's family. "And at your house," he finished, embarrassed. "What do you want me to say? I still gotta' go to school. I still gotta' play."

George looked at him, outrage sparking those night-dark eyes. "Play? Play? Goddammit, Dream! Shouldn't you be worried about something else? A place to sleep? A foster family? Jesus, how you let me just run you around this last year, dragging you into the fucking team and nagging at you about your fucking homework! Fuck the game!"

"Don't you say that!" Dream was horrified.

"I mean it!"

"Don't you say it!"

"Fuck the motherfucking game!"

"Shut up! Shut up! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Dream realised that he was shouting, but he couldn't seem to help it. Dream never shouted. He never shouted, and he never got angry, and he never let shit bother him.

He just did what the teachers asked and did what Coach told him and followed George blindly into the lunchroom and onto the court and into hell if he asked him, because George and basketball were the two things Dream had locked into the laser scope of his brain that he would never change up for another target. Ever. And George was just going to smear those images, throw them away, take away the only two things that had ever meant a fucking thing, because Dream hadn't been able to sneak quieter or duck quicker, and it wasn't any fucking fair.

"Shhh!" George said frantically, looking up at the small window above their heads. With any luck, Mr. and Mrs. Side-yard had already gone for work, but you could never tell.

"You can't take it from me!" Dream half-gibbered. "Dammit, George... you- the game... it's all I got!" He meant 'You and the game' but he was never sure if George heard that part.

"But... your face, Dream! Dammit, your face, man! Have you even seen it?"

Dream shrugged, trying to ignore the tears pooling in his glasses. "Wasn't that pretty anyway," he muttered.

"Shut up," George snapped, and his complexion grew even blotchier. Dream watched in wonder as, in the midst of everything else they were doing in this stranger's side yard, George Davidson blushed.

There was an awkward, flustered, and blushing silence between the two of them, and Dream looked away. He was surprised when George reached out with two fingers and pulled his chin back, forcing Dream to look at him.

"Now take off your glasses," George commanded, and Dream sighed and did it, because he really would follow George into hell. George's thumb came up, gently grazing Dream's ravaged cheek, and Dream, about to snap 'Get off me!' or something equally macho, or brought up his hand to yank George away.

But that's not what happened, though. What happened was that he trapped George there, and then his hand started trembling, and then... then... his eyes locked with George, and they were frozen, George's hand against his bruised face, his own hand keeping it there.

"I'm not pretty," Dream whispered, unable to let go. He knew he wasn't. He had high, slavic cheekbones and an overly long jaw. At fifteen, he had to shave every morning, or he'd be shadowed by the afternoon. But that's not how George was looking at him now. Not even a little.

"You're my friend," George whispered back, and his other hand came up so he could rub Dream's lower lip with his thumb. "That makes you beautiful."

They stood there, transfixed by each other, until they heard the voices coming up the walk. The kids that had sent Dream running for this private spot in the first place had finally wandered down, desultorily, and were passing their spot, chatting loudly. Dream and George froze, staring at each other in fear of discovery and wonder at what it was they were doing that would be discovered.

It was George who made the first move; maybe he knew that Dream wouldn't put up a fight when they were so close to other people. Maybe it was the way Dream was staring into his eyes with wonder and hope and terror all mixed in. Dream had never asked him, not even in all the years that followed, what made him do it, for fear that his answer would be that it had been a whim, or a game, or for the hell of it. It would have been just too cruel if the most magical moment of Dream's life had happened for the hell of it.

Slowly, George raised himself on his toes and pulled Dream's head down for a kiss. It was nothing, at first. Just a bare brush of lips to lips. Dream had never kissed a girl, and to his knowledge, neither had George, so at first just the taste of the other's breath as they rubbed lips was enough. And then George pressed a little harder, and Dream's lips parted and George's tongue slipped in, gently, licking at the inside of Dream's mouth until Dream had no other choice. He opened his mouth fully, and welcomed George in.

Dream wasn't used to this, but he couldn't push George away, because he liked his presence against his own and he didn't mind George's exploration, even if it was sloppy and forced. And George, for all he was six inches shorter than Dream, groaned, pushing at Dream until his back was pushed up against the gold stucco of the house. Dream would be wiping pale yellow stucco dust off the back of his grey sweatshirt for the rest of the day.

The inside of Dream's mouth was tender and sore, and George was inexperienced. A clumsy foray by an enthusiastic tongue made Dream whimper and had George pulling back, looking both exhilarated and frightened. "You... you don't want...?"

Dream's chest was heaving, his hands were shaking, and without meaning to, he clenched his fingers even tighter over George's hand. "I want," he muttered, shocked.

His life had been... running. Running, finding shelter, finding food. Brushing his teeth had been a challenge. Clean laundry had been a difficult priority. Taking a shower was a matter of stealth and strategy. In all of this, he'd not been listening to his body's other priorities. He'd followed George because he had to, because George was all that was light and kindness, and Dream craved him. He'd never thought that George's body—his male body—was something else to crave.

George's smile was blinding then. "You want? Me? It's—" He flushed. "I mean, you know, that means we're... you know—"

Yeah, Dream knew. He knew the regular word and the street words. He knew the word the teachers would use and the word the students would use. But none of those words mattered, not the politician word and not the taunts that would be levelled at them if anyone found out. All that mattered was George.

"George," he said, marshalling his thoughts, his runaway heartbeat, the aching surge in his groin. "You understand, right? A foster home would mean I'd leave."

George brought his shaking hand, the one that had been cupping Dream's chin, to his own mouth, and he shook his head. "Aww... Dream. Christ. You... you can't stay... not if—" His eyes started to water, and Dream finally dropped their clenched hands to his side and brought his other hand up to wipe away George's tears with his thumb.

"I can do anything if it means I don't have to leave you," he said honestly. "If I can play basketball, it will all be okay." George levelled him a mutinous, angry look, and Dream recognised it. He'd shown it to his parents when they told him that if he didn't bring up his math grades, he'd have to quit the team. He'd shown it to their dumbfuck World History teacher when she'd commented on Dream's torn and oft-worn jeans. He'd shown it to kids at lunch when they suggested (none too subtly) that maybe he'd want to stop tagging along with the poor kid, when they had better parties to go to.

"You can't live there, either," he said with determination, and Dream looked at him helplessly. George's parents probably would let Dream sleep on their couch for forever, but Dream didn't want that. George... George sort of respected him. Dream didn't want to be some useless thing, just leeching off of George's family.

Dream's sense of these things was hazy—he only had two reference points. There was the filth and spareness of his own home, and the sweetness and comfort of George's. The adults in that home worked in partnership. The adults there provided. Dream didn't recognise that he was barely fifteen. He just recognised that if he was ever going to... to be with George, then he didn't want to be a leech, or a burden, or a charity case. He wanted to be a partner.

"An apartment," he said brightly. "I'll... we can fake an ID or something. I can get an apartment. She... she won't know where I am. She won't care. I... I just—" George was looking at him with big, bright eyes, as though he were making sense, as though he really could change the axis of the earth with a few wishes. "I just need to be able to play," he said helplessly, and George's look... dimmed a little, became fond, and Dream knew it had been the wrong thing to say, but he couldn't seem to find the right one.

"We can do that," George said, and he nodded, and Dream became acutely aware that they were up against a stranger's house, their bodies plastered together, their hands clenched like lovers.

"Can we—" Oh, God, he hated to ask. "We have to go, but can we—" He needed it. George's lips were swollen, and he'd tasted so... so golden. So warm and sunshine-y. Dream wanted to taste him again, to make sure it hadn't been a fever dream, a mirage, hatched in desperation as he huddled under the stairwell by the dryer. George's mouth was on his again, and he let go of George's hand and wrapped his arms around that smaller, more slender body and pulled his friend, his saviour, deep into whatever haven he could give.

He had so much he wanted to say; don't leave me, George. Don't let me leave you. I need this. I need you. I'll do anything, move the world, move out of my Mum's place, get an apartment, pass all my classes, anything, just stay here, right here, forever. And he tasted so sweet.

They pulled back, panting, and suddenly George's hands were smoothing his shirt and wiping the corners of his mouth, and Dream found himself doing the same to George. They needed to straighten up, he thought giddily. Couldn't have the student body knowing that their two basketball stars were swapping spit with each other, now could they?

Oh, Jesus. No one could know.

George was staring at him, backing away, looking a little embarrassed and a little mischievous and a little wonderful, and Dream wanted to tell the world. "Don't leave me, okay?" he said before he could stop himself.

George look puzzled. "Okay, big guy. I thought the point was that you wouldn't leave me, right?"

Dream shrugged, and shivered, and gave George's lips one last brush with his thumb. "Either way, it would be bad."

George nodded, caught his hand and released it. "Gotcha, okay? We're together. It's good. We're gonna be late, though, okay? We need to make up that quiz in Algebra this morning."

Dream nodded, and they both listened carefully, and then walked to the edge of the divide between the hedge and the road. Dream came out first, looking around, and then said, "c'mon. We're clear."

George rounded the corner, too, and then they both shouldered their backpacks and broke into a trot, trying to get to school before the masses.

Chapter Text

They managed to get the apartment, but barely. George had to steal his mother’s credit card, and then replace it in her purse before she knew about it. Whilst Dream had to find someone to get him a fake ID that made him eighteen instead of fifteen.

In the end, they had a small, unfurnished apartment about two blocks from the high school, in the opposite direction as Dream’s mother. Dream figured his mother wouldn’t care, and one night he simply stopped showing up at her place and took a blanket, a pillow and a garbage bag full of clothes. They were the only furnishings in the place.

George managed to find a couch that had been left outside for free; the two of them hauled it a mile and a half after school one day, and then up the rickety flight of stairs so that Dream would have some place to sleep.

Tucked in George’s pocket was an old alarm clock of his sister’s, because Dream didn’t even have a cell phone or a watch, and George had woken him up on several occasions since he’d moved in, simply by pounding on the door and hollering for him to get a move on. Dream was working from nine p.m. to four a.m. at the local Walmart, unloading the truck, and the two and a half hours of sleep he got every morning just didn’t seem to be doing it for him.

The thing was, rent cost seven hundred and fifty dollars every month, and he needed to work nearly full time to keep himself in a safe place. He had about two hundred dollars a month leftover to help pay for basketball and food, and George did his best to supplement that, because Dream’s wrist bones really were wider than his biceps at this point, and he seemed to exist in a haze of perpetual hunger.

Maybe they could have done it like that until school ended, maybe not, but one day, George lost his temper and his composure and inadvertently blew Dream’s secret all over the basketball court.

Coach had been particularly tough that day, and Dream, hungry, tired, and generally out of it, could barely keep up during the suicide drills that the team hated to the depth and breadth of their souls.“C’mon, Clayton, you’re behind! You’re behind the seniors, behind the juniors, Jesus Christ, kid, you’re behind the fucking sophomores! You think varsity is a given? I know your head’s in the goddamned clouds, Dream, but you need to get your eyes focused here! Move it, dammit, move it, move it faster faster faster faster!”

And Dream just about found his rhythm. His head was in the zone, he was picking up speed, he was moving it faster, moving it stronger, moving it moving it moving it… until his ankle rolled underneath him, and he practically exploded across the floor with momentum, speed and pain. He came to a stop on his back, staring up at the arched ceiling of the gymnasium, wondering why they couldn’t seem to get that balloon wreath from the last rally from around the pipes at the top.

He was pretty sure most of his body was bruised, and not sure if his ankle was going to be walkable, but for a moment, a sweet, soft, wondrous moment, he honestly thought about just laying there and letting the world spin around him while he drifted off to sleep.

Then George’s voice woke him up. George was yelling at Coach, “Goddammit, leave him alone! He’s starving and he’s exhausted, and he’s doing his goddamned best, okay!”

Dream’s shoulder was being shaken, and he looked dreamily up at George, pretty George, who had kissed him a month ago, and who had not kissed him since. He would really like to kiss him again, but there never seemed to be a right moment.

George was a good boy, and went home after practice, and Dream had only a couple of hours to do his homework before going to work. They might have had other time, they might have time after school on non- practice days, spare moments on weekends, between games, but George insisted that Dream needed his sleep.

Was he not kissable anymore, now that he was a grown-up? Dream longed to ask him that, but right now it would just be great if the room stopped spinning.

“Dream, you okay? That was an epic roll. Say something, right? I didn’t see your head hit, but you’re looking out of it!”

Dream smiled a little. “Just thinking about a nap. You think I could take one right here?”

“No,” Coach said decisively, and then he leveraged a meaty shoulder under Dream’s arm to help him up. George got the other side, and in spite of the fact that Coach was bigger, and probably stronger, Dream found it just felt safer to put all his weight on George’s shoulders.

Coach sighed and backed away as George helped him hobble off the court, and Dream found himself sat down hard on the bleachers while he decided if the black spots dancing in front of his vision meant business or were just fucking around and promising nausea. Nausea would probably be a lot more likely if he wasn’t so damned hungry- huh?

Dream blinked as a penlight was shined directly into his eyes, and Coach’s broad, dark fingers probed his skull. Coach was a thirty-ish pale man with a wife, and several kids, a spreading middle, and a smart mouth, and most of the kids would lie down in traffic and die for him. He didn’t hear outbursts like George’s often, and Dream blinked hard and tried to read the man’s expression.

“You didn’t hit your head,” Coach said with authority. He probed Dream’s ankle, and although it was a little bruised it was definitely still functional. “Ankle might keep you down for a day, but it's not fatal. Care to tell me why you were down there so long, Clayton?”

Dream tried to focus again, and got lost. “Tired,” he grunted. “Sorry, Coach.”

“Mmm-hmm. Alright, you two. My office. Now. Sam?” An alumni student, who had a good job now but loved the game enough to be Coach’s second, nodded and blew the whistle to start drills again.

Dream struggled to his feet, only to find George under his arm, helping him along. He was just tired enough and needy enough to keep his arm around George’s shoulder under pretense. George’s tight, muscular body felt so sweet next to his, and, oh God, when they were touching he wasn’t alone.

Together they struggled through the side door of the gym to the white hallway, and into Coach’s office. When they got there, Coach sat them down on his battered red couch, then offered them each a bottle of water and power bars—in Dream’s case, two.

Dream was too out of it to be proud. He ate both power bars and guzzled the water, and then stopped, aware that the only sounds in the office were him eating, and George’s careful breathing.

“I’m sorry, Coach,” George said after a really awkward moment. “I got nothin' but respect for you, y’know? I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” George stood then and offered Dream a hand.

Dream had taken it and was leveraging himself up when Coach said, “Clayton, Davidson, sit the hell down.”

George’s eyes locked unhappily with Dream’s, and Dream shrugged. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could have kept it up.

“Why you starving, Clayton?”

Dream looked at George, and George shrugged, and then picked up the burden. “I didn’t get him enough food,” he said, and that pissed Dream off.

“That's not fair! You been feeding me for two months!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t bring you more bread this morning. I’m sorry. I slept late, and I forgot. I mean, I know you get free lunch, but that’s your only meal—”

“Wait wait wait wait—” Coach said breaking the enlarging argument and Dream looked up from his furious opposistion with George, and they both subsided. “George, why the hell you bringing him food?”

George flushed. “He doesn’t have much left after rent, Coach. He eats dinner with us a couple nights a week, but, y’know, he can’t work more hours because he doesn’t get enough sleep as it is.”

Coach let out a big long sigh. “You paying rent at your house, Clayton? What’re your parents doing?”

It was Dream’s turn to flush, and he found he couldn’t answer. There was a terribly awkward silence over the coach’s office then, and Dream found himself counting the number of celebrity ‘Got Milk?’ posters on the walls.

He’d gotten to eleven, and was trying to figure out who the cute (male) tennis player was, when Coach cleared his throat and apparently stared down the weak link in their little chain of two. “Got anything to add to that whole lot of nothing, Davidson?”

Dream turned his head back in time to see George flush helplessly. “Dream’s story, Coach.”

“Yeah? You been sneaking him food from your parents" table, seems like maybe it’s your story too, you think?”

“That's the only story you need to know from me, Coach. Can we go now? Dream needs to eat before he goes to work.”

Coach's eyes narrowed, and George worked hard to keep his expressive, angel’s face straight. “Where do you work, Dream?”

It seemed to be an innocuous question, so Dream and George exchanged glances and Dream answered. “Walmart.”

Coach pinched the bridge of his nose then. “Aren’t you fifteen? Walmart doesn’t take you unless you’re eighteen.” Dream made a little helpless sound, and George let out a sigh, and Coach tried one more time. “Okay, boys. Davidson is going to sit down, Dream’s going to eat another power bar—”

“But, Coach, they make my stomach icky!”

“Dream’s going to eat my sandwich and yogurt I left for lunch, and we’re going to start from the top, and if either of you ever wants to play for me again, you had better clear out the smell of bullshit in this room with some sweet-smelling truth, you boys hear me?”

They nodded reluctantly and sat down, and Dream got a salami sandwich on sourdough, while George did all the talking.

When he was done, Dream was still cleaning up the strawberry yogurt, and the Coach looked like he might be getting an ulcer. “Son,” he said after a moment.

Dream stopped scraping the yogurt container and looked up. “Sir?”

“Why didn’t you get help? We’ve got foster services, and social workers and—”

Dream thought for a moment he was going to get sick. “Yeah, but… but—” Oh God. “But I’ve got two things, you know? I’ve got basketball and George, and you put me in services and they both go away!”

Now Coach looked like he might throw up. “Yeah, boy. I hear you. Okay, change of plan. Kid, we can’t have you living like that. We just can’t. It’s going to kill you, and you need a safety net, and that’s just the way it needs to be.” Coach though for a moment, eyes dazed deep in concentration, the same face he makes when Dream’s on the court.

“Let me make some calls, okay? At least let’s get you a place to sleep, okay? You’ll probably still need a job, but I think there’s a halfway house about a mile from here—sort of place foster kids can go before they turn twenty-one. Let’s see if we can get you a spot there, okay? It’s going to be tough, and we’re going to have to finesse it. But I think we can do it.”

Coach looked at Dream with a frightening amount of understanding in his face. “Basketball and George, huh? Well, let’s see if you can keep ‘em both, at least until we get you a scholarship and the hell out of here, okay?”

Two weeks later, Dream had figured out that if he got up at six, he could take the bus and be at George"s place at six thirty. George didn’t usually leave the house until seven, so Dream huddled on the porch under his blanket and did reading for English in the early December chill.

He was interrupted when George himself came out, a bag of garbage in his hand, grumbling something about “Well, if Id known about it last night I would have taken it out last… oh shit! Dream!”

Dream scrambled up and shoved the book in his backpack, then tucked his hands under the armpits of his hooded sweatshirt, so short it rode up his middle and turned with George to put out the trash. “Hey,” he said.

“You got here. I didn’t think you would get here—I mean, I’m glad you got here, but, Jesus, how early did you have to get up?”

Dream shrugged. “It’s easier with sleep.”

The halfway house wasn’t bad. He’d gotten another job doing fast food, one that let him buy clothes, sort of and food. He had a bed, but his feet stuck over the edge and he shared with three other boys. No one got high and no one hit him, it was all he could ask for. Well, except for George. He could ask for George.

“Well, you look cold!” George said, dropping the trash in the can. He gave the can a few yanks until it was out on the curb and then turned and took Dream’s hands from under his arms and held them, blowing on them.

Dream looked down at his… friend? Boyfriend? The focus of his life and center of his universe? George looked up from warming his hands and gave a crooked smile. He reached up and tugged on Dream’s bangs, hanging low over his eyes from the part in the middle. “You still look tired, Dream,” he said softly, “but I’m glad to see you here in the morning.”

“Your Mum still mad?” Dream asked, and George grimaced, dropping his hands back to Dream’s. Dream turned his over and engulfed George’s in them, and then damned anyone watching in the chilly pre-dawn and pulled them to his chest.

“She was mostly mad because she was worried, you know,” George told him. “She got that I was trying to help you, but—” He shook his head. “She just didn’t know how we could have known you for so long and not known.”

The day George’s parents had found out that Dream had been living on his own for two months, they offered to help him move to his foster home. George and Dream hadn’t been able to talk them out of it, even though, really, Dream didn’t have any more moving out than he had moving in. Emery and Jed had taken one step into the apartment. That’s all it had taken.

They had looked around at the couch with the battered blanket and pillow, the empty bags of their bread on the counter, with their peanut butter and jelly and plastic knives, and the garbage bags with Dream’s clothes stacked neatly inside, and Emery had burst into tears and run out the door. Jed had followed her.

Wordlessly, George had cleaned up the leftovers of the food, and Dream had grabbed his blanket, pillow, and garbage bag full of possessions, and they had left, figuring the couch would end up on the curb again, just like they had found it.

It was the last time George’s parents had spoken to him. 

George grabbed his hands and yanked on them, pulling Dream right up flush against him, and taking them to his mouth again. This time he didn’t blow on them; he kissed them, tenderly.

Dream’s breath caught. They really were doing this. This was who they would be. He was so relieved. That one morning, he’d had the taste of George on his tongue, and he’d dreamed of it ever since.

Dream’s breath caught. They really were doing this. This was who they would be. He was so relieved. That one morning, he’d had the taste of George on his tongue, and he’d dreamed of it ever since.

 George must have heard that little catch in his throat, because he looked up. Dream had no idea what was in his face—all he knew was that he yearned.

George swallowed and moved closer. “Your eyes are the most intense colour,” he whispered. “They’re like… gold, rimmed in black. You look like an anime character, you know?”

Dream couldn’t talk. George’s eyes were still that dark well of brown. The rest of him was still silver and black—black hair, silver skin, the occasional freckle. That full, soft mouth.

He lowered his head to taste that mouth, and George darted his tongue across his lips. It seemed to demand that Dream say something before they kissed, and all he had was, “Yeah, they’re green.”

“Green,” George breathed against him, and they were too close to touching lips for Dream to argue.

It was better this time, more sure. Dream slipped his tongue inside George’s mouth this time, and George opened for him. Dream wrapped his arms around George’s shoulders and George groaned and leaned in, and their bodies were warm and soft and hard against each other.

George groaned and shuddered and pulled away, looking reluctant. “There’s people from school on this street,” he said quietly. “I’d… I’d say fuck ‘em, but—”

“Ball.” George intercepted.

“Yeah, ball.” George and basketball. He needed them both. The coach kept talking scholarship like it was a given, and suddenly Dream was seeing a life he’d only dreamed of.

All those people living in houses, with lawns, and jobs. College could get him that. Basketball could get him that. It was a bright and shining idea, almost too fantastic to believe. Walking down the street, holding George’s hand, could kill it dead.

George knew that. They’d spent a year speculating on college, talking about going together and working on Dream’s grades. George knew how much it meant to him.

Dream backed up and reached out and ran his thumb across George’s lower lip. “We"re the only ones who need to know, anyway,” he said, meaning it. George was his best, most personal, most amazing secret. It was almost like if Dream exposed the two of them to the harsh lights, he would dissipate into smoke and disappear on the screams of the crowd.

George grinned then, whole and undisturbed. “C’mon, Dream, my Mum’s making breakfast this morning. I know she wants to see you.” He turned and trotted into the house, and Dream followed, bemused.

They came inside and, sure enough, Dream could smell pancakes. Emery looked up from the stove and beamed at him. “Dream! God, honey! I’m so glad to see you. I mean—” She shook her head and her eyes got too bright. “Jesus, honey. I’m sorry I took off on you last time. C’mere.” She held out her arms, and Dream felt compelled to walk into them. Then he was embraced, enfolded, even though George’s Mum was only around five foot five inches tall.

“Dream!” Suddenly Jed was there, too, and Dream was embraced like family. He smiled at them a little, and blushed—hard. His body felt… hungry. Starving. Almost as faint for touch as it had been for food the day he and George had been forced to give up everything to Coach.

“’S good to see you,” he muttered, uncomfortable and yet savouring every moment. This was family, he thought in wonder. This was kindness. He would have to remember this, so that when he was a grown-up, he could create a home with this in it.

He had a sudden vision of himself and George making pancakes and serving breakfast to George’s parents. God, he wanted to have a home with this in it.

He stepped back, feeling awkward, and looked around for Penny. He’d enjoyed George’s little sister over the last year. She was self-involved; because she was twelve, and that came with the animal, like an obsession over makeup and the constant feeling of superiority.

But she was also funny, and he’d seen her tutor George in math, and she was patient and tried very hard not to make him feel stupid, even though she was three years younger and totally got what he didn’t.

“Penny!” Jed called. “Dream"s here!”

“I know, Dad!” came a muffled voice from the bathroom. “I’m doing my makeup!”

“Geez,” Jed complained good-naturedly. “I thought she’d already done that. Any more mascara and she’ll look like a raccoon!”

Dream smiled appreciatively, although he didn’t really notice girls—had, in fact, really only noticed George—and Emery sat them down and started asking questions about his foster home.

Dream answered honestly. He told them about the bed that was too small, and the three other roommates. He left off that two of the roommates had noisy sex in the bathrooms, but did tell them that his belongings were still, as always, all in a plastic garbage bag.

Emery and Jed met eyes, and Emery nodded her head. Jed sighed, and agreed. “Look, Dream, when do you turn sixteen?”

Dream had to think about that. When he was a kid he remembered birthday parties, before his Mum and the drugs had become inseparable.

Then he remembered the paperwork that had been filled out for him as he’d entered the home. “August twelfth,” he said, hoping that was right.

“Do you think you’d like to move in with us then? You can be an emancipated minor—we checked with your coach. Do you think maybe that would be okay?”

Dream almost jumped on the chance. He did. He looked at George, whose face was shining with hope, and then he licked his lips. George’s taste was still there.

Oh God. He couldn’t… they couldn’t… it would be wrong. It just would. His face fell, and George looked at him in confusion, and he said softly, “I’ll have to think about it. But it means the world that you’d ask.”

At that moment, Penny came out of the bathroom. Her voice was rough but loud and over-bright when she said “What"s up?”

“We"re trying to talk Dream into moving in with us!” Emery said, apparently not bothered by the suddenly awkward silence.

Penny’s look could only be described as ‘stricken.’ “Moving in?” she asked in a weak voice, and Dream shook his head, looking surreptitiously at George.

“We’ll see,” he said cautiously. “I… I don’t want to impose. I’m… I’m not used to family. I may not be good at it.”

Penny closed her eyes and swallowed, then looked up brightly. “We’re a good family, Dream. I think you’d be okay here.”

Years later he would remember her face. Her eyes had been a little swollen and very bright, but they had been clear and accepting, and she’d been looking at him with sympathy and kindness. It wasn’t until he was a grown man that he realised, she’d been crying.

“You don’t want to live with my family?” George asked, his voice choked and surly.

They were walking to school, after Dream ate a stack of pancakes that might stay with him all day. He was hoping so—the warmth of his reception in George’s parents’ home would stay with him a lot longer.

“Your family"s great,” Dream murmured. Absurdly, he wished he could take George’s hand as they walked down the residential road, but there were too many kids on their own wanders to school.

“So why hesitate?” George backed up and looked at him, all of his unhappiness written clear as day across his face. That was George, open and transparent as a bay window over the ocean.

Dream looked away, then back into that open face. He knew his own expression was closed and guarded, but he couldn’t help it. These were difficult, complex thoughts, and he had a simple mouth. “I want to kiss you,” he whispered, and George’s eyes widened.

“Here?”

Dream shook his head, frustrated with himself. When he's an adult, he’d be better at this. He knew he would be. “In general, genius! I just—” He grimaced. “It would be… like taking advantage of them. Your folks. They’re the nicest people, you know? I don’t want to… you know. Betray their trust or anything. That would be—” He pulled in a big gust of air.

“Wrong,” George conceded, and Dream smiled at him with such terrible relief.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe,” George said, looking fitfully at the concrete at his feet. “Maybe you could still live with us. The kissing—we could do that not at home. We wouldn’t have a lot of time to do it, right? But, well, we’d be together. My folks would get you a dresser.”

His voice sank to a whisper, and he looked down at his shoes as he turned back to be shoulder to shoulder with Dream. “You wouldn’t have to live out of a garbage bag.”

Dream sighed. “Garbage bags aren’t a big deal,” he said, meaning it.

George looked around surreptitiously, and then he grabbed Dream’s hand. “They are when that’s your world,” he said, sounding wise.

“Maybe you and me, we’ll be slow, and in nooks and crannies and places. Because—” They heard chatter coming up the walk from a side street, and George dropped his hand. “Because I’d rather you be safe, and have a home, Dream. If that means we gotta wait until college, then that’s what it means, okay?”

It was a little sound, almost a whimper, but George looked at him sideways, practically in triumph, and that was when Dream knew he’d lost. “Someday,” he said gruffly. “Someday, we’re gonna have a big house, and it’ll be you and me. No one has to know what we do there, but we’ll be a family, right? You and me?”

George met his eyes, and Dream fell into them. “That’s a deal, Dream. You and me.”

Chapter Text

When Dream remembered high school as an adult, he would invariably remember two things: his time on the court, with the entire community screaming for the both of them as they worked, bloodied, and pounded their way into magic by sweat, and tiny corners of time with him and George, alone and protected and insulated from the world.

Dream did move into George’s parents’ house when he turned sixteen, and he took up residence on their couch. He and George would sit next to each other and watch television, or eat breakfast or brush their teeth, terribly conscious of the one moral imperative that they had set themselves: They. Must. Not. Touch.

They would walk to or from school, chatting about teachers and Coach, or the injustice (or their own supremacy) of the last game, and sometimes Dream wondered how the world couldn’t know that they should be holding hands, because their muscles, skin, and bone were practically screaming the truth: They. Must. Not. Touch.

On the court, it was different. On the court they could high five, low five, pat each other’s bottoms, bump each other’s hips, and that was okay. One giddy night when they were juniors, as their team took State, and the crowd surged onto the floor, Dream reached over George’s shoulders and engulfed him in a terrific bear hug.

Only Dream and George knew that Dream had nuzzled through that thick black hair and kissed the shell of George’s ear through the sweat of the game. And that was okay, no one noticed that.

That same night, the rest of the team managed to start their showers first. By the time the crowd let Dream and George into the locker room, everyone else was on their way out, and Coach, needed at a press conference (which they could tell pleased him no to end) locked the doors, telling them just to make sure everything was shut before they left.

They nodded and stripped off, both of them stepping into the spray gratefully, because they had both soaked through their jerseys during the game.

Dream wasn’t exactly sure when it occurred to him that he and George were alone and naked and clean. He’d just finished soaping his hair for the second time, and then rinsing, and he wiped off his eyes and saw George, staring at him.

The two of them had avoided looking at each other personally. Hell, they had avoided looking at everyone personally. They might be gay, but that didn’t mean they spent their time gawking at the other boys on the team. That felt like an abuse of trust, somehow, and they couldn’t do it.

But here they were, giddy from victory, happy, thank-the-gods clean, and, well, naked. They simply stared for a few moments, completely taken aback.

Dream began to focus on details then—George’s taut stomach, his tight, wiry frame. George was five foot eight by now, and looking like he might possibly grow another inch, but Dream was six foot and definitely not finished growing. George was all tight, small muscles, a rippled stomach, pale skin. Dream couldn’t stop looking at him. George was… pretty. Beautiful.

Dream didn’t want to think about what his own body looked like. Freakishly tall, deathly white— not beautiful. Not George. But George was looking at him like he was something special, and he managed a shy smile. He looked down George’s body and raised his eyebrows at George’s private area.

George’s grin turned cocky then, and he gave a little shrug and a swaggering thrust with his hips that could only be called ‘adorable.’

Dream laughed then, and George, again without talking, reached down bravely, seized his cock in his fist and stroked once, twice, three times. His head tilted back, and his eyes closed, and Dream watched, openmouthed, as that thing grew, doubled in size, became plump and thick and long and huge.

He wanted to touch it, but… but they were exposed, in the middle of the locker room, and discovery—by anybody—would be disastrous. He kept an eye out, his ears open, but he moved in behind George, pulled him back, supported George against his naked body. George would be safe in his arms. George had been loved all his life, protected all his life.

He relaxed easily into Dream’s embrace, and started making breathy little moans as he pleasured himself. Dream studied his profile, liking the way his mouth tightened, the way he worried his lower lip with his teeth. He wanted to close his eyes and bury his face in the hollow of George’s neck, but he didn’t dare. It was his job to watch out for them. It was his job to keep them safe.

It was almost over anyway. George had been quiet so far, keeping his noises to himself, but suddenly the sound of his fist smacking in the wet of the soap and water got loud, and he shuddered in Dream’s arms. He groaned harshly, and Dream watched, transfixed, as his come shot out, mixing with the water pounding on them and running down the drain.

They stood there, panting for a moment, and then a sound, probably nothing, from outside made Dream stiffen. They separated quickly, their naked skin peeling apart with reluctance, and both of them turned toward the wall and started rinsing their hair as some sort of cover.

In a minute, when it looked like nobody was coming, they breathed out a sigh of relief. Dream tilted his head and threw the water out of his eyes, and George grinned at him, that same cocky grin, but this time sleepy and sated and proud. “Next time, it's your turn,” he said, giving Dream a meaningful look at his privates.

Dream blushed and nodded, and wondered at the feeling of reluctance that trammelled up his words. That would be the natural progression of things, wouldn’t it? And it wasn’t as though he didn’t want to.

George had felt wonderful in his arms, skin to skin. But he’d also been helpless, defenceless against the world in the height of his passion, and Dream...

Dream didn’t have a lot of good experiences being helpless, did he? He'd been helpless against hunger, helpless against beatings, helpless against neglect. He… oh God. He loved George. He didn’t want to be helpless with him.

But George was looking a little worried now, and Dream wondered if maybe it wouldn’t be better to be helpless in George’s arms than strong out of them, so he smiled shyly and said, “Yeah. Like we’ll ever get a chance like this again, right?”

George laughed, the sound resigned, and rolled his eyes as he shut off his shower. “Graduation’s not that far off,” he said philosophically. “You know, pretty soon we’ll be dorm mates, and every college movie I’ve ever seen says that we get to hump like bunnies!”

That made Dream grin for real, because he and George had stayed up late all summer, watching every movie about college they could get their hands on, looking at each other from the corner of their eyes and hoping with everything they had that it might be true.

“Do bunnies hump a lot?” Dream asked now, knowing that maybe the one person in the world he could joke with was George.

The two of them moved to their lockers, grabbing towels from the barrier and wrapping them around their waists. Dream’s erection, rampant and painful when George had been in his arms, had since withered. Dream was relieved. He had a place in his brain that would do that, and it was easier that way, because he already felt like a walking hard-on for the guy.

“I plan on finding out,” George said, with a waggle of his eyebrows and Dream laughed in agreement.

A year and a half. They had a year and a half until graduation, and they would probably have maybe half a dozen opportunities like this one. Maybe, by the time they could actually sleep together, like grown-ups, he would have learned to trust, and George might never have to know how very scared it made him to think about laying back in his George’s arms and giving himself over to love.

Dream was trusted on the court—that was for damned sure. Running the boards, he knew George would be there for the bounce pass, with the defense, to catch the rebound or return the lost alley-oop. Dream Clayton was the superstar, and he hated it, but even the papers and the colleges acknowledged that he wouldn't have been who he was without George Davidson.

He loved that.

It didn’t take much nudging for the two of them to get offers from the same school.

It was out of state, which was exciting for George and not a problem for Dream. Neither of them had ever been to North Carolina, and their odds of being recruited by a pro team doubled when they went there, as opposed to someplace local. By the time their junior year ended, UNC had them both in its sights: Dream would get a free ride, and George would get tuition and books.

His parents had enough saved to set him up in the dorms for a year or two, and in the summer before his senior year, George went to work right next to Dream, to ensure that as long as they could play the game, the two of them could stay side by side, the way God intended.

Working together was almost like playing ball. George would do window in the late nights, and chat up all the customers. Dream would work assiduously in the back, making sure they could leave on time, or even early, as soon as they closed, so that he and George could take ten minutes, even fifteen, downstairs in the changing room to kiss, to hold hands. To lean into each other, and talk tenderly of the things they'd seen.

Dream didn't have much to model this behaviour after, but George did, and Dream had seen it. George's parents sat together on the couch, Emery between Jed's legs and leaning on his chest, and watched movies, spoke quietly about their day, told stories about the kids, Dream included.

Later, when George and Penny had gone upstairs and Dream was stretched out on the hide-a-bed, since his feet fell over the edge, Dream could hear their voices, still talking. He'd heard tense conversations, sure, but never screaming. Never yelling. Never unkind words. Not once, in his entire two-and-a-half years in their care, did he hear one of them call the other a “useless cocksucker” or a “fucking twat.”

To Dream, all of that other kindness, the whispered giggles, the furtive and mortifying sounds of lovemaking that came from their closed doors, came from those stolen moments on the couch, when they got to touch.

He and George did their best to capture that. Without talking about it, they used the Davidson's as a relationship manual, and did their homework as often as time allowed.

The feeling of George, snugged up against his chest, talking about their calculus teacher, was all that Dream asked of heaven—and that would hold true even if George didn't make him crack up with every story:

Apparently the poor lady was an unintentional laugh riot. George swore he'd never seen a woman trip over quite so many things in a ten-minute lecture. “And it's not like any of that shit moves, Dream. She just gets so excited about math, math of all things, that she forgets it's there all over again.”

But Dream's body was getting ‘itchy. In their junior year, he could watch George undress and think of him platonically, or even not at all.

By the end of their senior year, Dream was putting off showering with George when they were in a crowd. “Dude,” he muttered unhappily, “it's like you're a walking boner pill. I see you naked and my whole body goes on virgin alert!”

“Which one of us is that pinging for?” George asked coyly, kissing the corner of his jaw as they sat at the employee picnic table at work. “Because, you know, mine is going full time too!”

“Double the virgin, double the ping,” Dream said, smirking, and then George kissed him until the smirk went away and only the 'pinging' survived. Then Dream's actual timer went off, and the two of them sighed. Time to go upstairs and wait for Jed or Emery.

The boys had gone back and forth over the wisdom of buying their own car, but at the moment, they figured they'd use public transportation in NC and deal with what they had in Cali. Dream appreciated Mr. and Mrs. Davidson looking out for them, he really did, but he'd already established one more requirement in his list of 'grown-up shit' that he wanted for himself and George. He had it firmly locked down in his head:

College degree: check

Well-paying job: check

House that no one could take away from him ever: check

Car: check

Safety, and no chance that anyone would scream at him or beat him or terrify him with their neglect: check

George, his and in his arms forever: Absolutely.

The first and last thing on his checklist. The absolute only thing he could never live without.
Basketball: A requirement as well.

He figured that, since George and basketball went hand in hand, that was one thing he didn't have to worry about, right?

George's parents took Penny to visit George's grandparents. George had been planning to go with them, but then Emery's parents had showed up for graduation, and given him a car as a combination graduation/eighteenth-birthday present, and then told George to enjoy. George had taken them at their word and had, with Dream's help, written the mother of all thank-you letters, because he was a good boy and that was only good manners to beg off the trip.

Jed and Emery had told them no parties, but they had done it laughingly. Emery had kissed her son's forehead as they left and said, “You two are so good it's almost frightening. Don't let any of that change, okay?”

Penny had eyed the two of them almost sadly as they left. “So, guys, any plans?” she asked, swinging her blonde braid behind her with a little bit of attitude. She was a very female version of George—small face, dark round eyes, curling blonde hair.

She'd been the perfect little sister in the past two years—snotty, teasing, and not ever, once, showing any affection unless it was forced out of her. The last time Dream could remember her giving either of them a soft word was when Dream had played ball with a fever of 104. She'd stayed up by the couch that night, taking shifts with George and her parents, making sure he was going to be okay.

He remembered the delirium, her small hand on his forehead, and her voice, sounding sad, saying, “It's okay, Dream. George is here. He just needed to sleep for a bit, okay?” That same sound was in her voice this time, and before her parents knew what she was doing, she suddenly turned around from the door where she was standing and ran into Dream's arms.

He was looking at her, bemusedly, when she planted a soft, mushy, inexpert kiss on his lips, and he was still stunned as she backed away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Guess not,” she murmured. “Have a good weekend, Dream. Think of me.”

And then they were gone, probably so Jed and Emery could scold her in peace. They waited until the rumble of the car had cleared their residential block, and then Dream turned to George and said, “What was that all abou—”

Then George was all over him. Mouth to mouth, body to body, Dream went backward over the arm of the flowered couch and George was right there, on top of him, kissing him until he couldn't breathe and couldn't see and couldn't think. He groaned, and hunger—all of that carefully hidden hunger, all of that repressed need—roared through him, and he went from good boy to horny man in one thrust of George's tongue into his mouth.

His cock was aching and full, and even though he was wearing cargo shorts, it was about to burst out of them, and George was thrusting his groin against his and oh God… it was like his body had a license to feel, to react, to crave and without warning, his entire body went cold, then swept hot, and pressure built up in him, everywhere from his balls to the back of his eyes.

He wrapped his legs around the back of George's thighs, wrapped his arms around George's shoulders, buried his face in between that soft, male-scented hollow and George's unruly curls and howled, spilling in his pants after five minutes of necking on the couch. In his arms, George shuddered and keened, and his groin thrust one more time against Dream's and the rapidly cooling spend inside Dream's shorts was heated up again when George came against him.

Dream kept his arms and legs wrapped around George for as long as possible after that. They had to move, though. The couch wasn't comfortable, and they'd just come inside their shorts, and there was still that horrible paranoia about George's parents forgetting something and coming back.

Because earlier the boys had circled the house six times in an effort to help them pack, out of sheer habit. Emery was incredibly organised, but Jed had almost forgotten his fishing tackle, his swimming trunks, and his cell phone with GPS. As Dream had handed that last one to him, he'd laughed and said that there were lots of reasons that kids were a blessing, as he put the thing in his pocket.

George shifted first, rolling off of Dream and onto his knees, landing with a thump. He buried his face into Dream's neck again, and Dream stroked that wildly tangling hair.

“Wow, big guy,” George laughed, still breathless. “I never would have guessed you had that in you.”

Dream blushed and struggled to sit up. “It's been waiting a long time. But I can't believe we just did that in your parents’ living room! Jesus… I swore that wouldn't happen.”

George offered him a hand and Dream took it, finding himself hauled into George's arms. He looked down at his friend, his brother, and now, maybe, his lover, and was reassured when those well-dark eyes sparkled up at him. “Maybe it's "cause I'm legal now, right?”

Dream rolled his eyes. “So am I!”

George nodded seriously. “So, like, we're grown-ups. And this is real. And it's not taking advantage of my parents’ hospitality, it's having a relationship with someone in a home.”

Suddenly he couldn't meet George's eyes anymore. A relationship. They'd been practicing a relationship, but now they were really going to have one. The romantic kind. The kind you couldn't take back. “Lovers? Go away,” he said, rawly.

Maybe it was because they'd just come in each other's arms, and maybe it was because George was expecting them to take it even further. Maybe it was because he'd seen his mother with man after man, and none of them kind, or the fact that every tabloid in the grocery store was full of people bouncing off each other like rubber dodge balls, but the thought that once George became a lover, he could go away?

Terrifying. Simply terrifying.

George's hand came up, cupped his jaw, pulled his face around. “Look at me, Dream. Please?”

Their eyes collided and caught, and George nodded, as though to make sure he had Dream's complete attention.

You have had my complete attention since we met, George. You will always have my complete attention.

“I'm not going anywhere, okay, Dream? You and me. We're it. We're forever, okay? Like my folks. They met in high school and put each other through college and finish each other's sentences. It happens sometimes. It's real. Just believe it, okay? Believe in it, and it will be real.” Dream nodded, and then hugged George compulsively to him again.

They separated reluctantly—they had to work that night, and they had to shower, and it was just time, but George gave him a quick brush of the lips before turning and trotting upstairs to wash. Dream used the downstairs shower, and because they were both running at the same time, the water was lukewarm at best. Dream decided to add a really big hot water heater and a shower for two to his list for being a grown-up. Hell, some of the other stuff looked like it might come true, even if George was the one with the car at this point.

Work seemed to crawl by, and that was unusual and frustrating. Dream liked being functional, liked scraping grills and producing something and measuring his progress by the ding of the bun-timer and the number of hamburgers put in a box.

The people around him usually played at their work, too, and he enjoyed being immersed in conversations that had nothing to do with him, but that he could follow, anyway. And of course, watching George at the counter was always a treat.

“Here ya go, Ms. Oscar!” George always bounced on his toes, and since Ms. Oscar was their next-door neighbour, he was extra enthusiastic. “Now, you know, we could always deliver this to you, right? Dream and I usually get off at ten on Saturday nights!”

Ms. Oscar smiled gently and waved to Dream in the back. “Hullo, Dream!” Dream waved at her, a nice woman with a pretty smile somewhere in middle age where eighteen-year-old boys stopped wondering about age at all. “I couldn't let you do that, honey. You two are supposed to be out partying this summer. Aren't you supposed to be leaving soon?”

“Six weeks,” George confirmed. “It was going to be eight, but I got a car for graduation, and Dream and I are gonna road trip back east.”

Ms. Oscar took a deep breath in what was clearly enchantment. “Oh, that's wonderful, George. You two will have so much fun!”
George grinned at her and said goodnight, and then turned to Dream and waggled his eyebrows. Dream laughed, and the girl next to him let out a disgusted puff of air.

“Could the two of you be more gay?”

She'd been hitting on George ever since she'd started, and Dream had a feeling that she could get ugly if she found out the truth. “I can think of one way,” he said mildly, and it was the complete truth.

Not only could he think of one way to be more gay, but he had been thinking of it, pretty much nonstop, for the past six hours.

Gabby rolled her eyes. “Seriously! The least you could do is help me out here! I've been hitting on that guy for two months, and I'm getting nowhere. Could you at least tell me what he likes?”

Me!

He likes me! He loves me, and he wants nothing to do with you!

“He likes to laugh,” Dream said instead. “He likes it when someone can share a joke with him, or watches a funny movie.” Dream could do that—but only with George.

With George, he could watch a funny movie and laugh until he spit soda up his nose. By himself, or with George's parents, he let out a courtesy chuckle, because while inside it might seem hilarious, on the outside, it wasn't worth laughing without George.

Gabby stopped examining her fingernails through her clear protective gloves. She looked at Dream and smiled brightly. “Thanks, Dream! I guess you're not completely stupid after all!” And with that, she wandered up front and struck up a conversation with George about who know’s what and that lasted for the rest of her shift.

Eventually, though, she left, and half an hour later, Dream and George were ready to go. They climbed into George's ‘new’ car—a five-year-old Toyota with not quite enough leg room for Dream—and George grabbed Dream's hand after he'd started the car toward home.

“God, I thought she’d never shut up!” he muttered. “All I wanted to do was tell her I wasn't interested, but Jesus, it never ended, you know? Whatever I wanted to say would be halfway around the state before it even got out!”

Dream clenched his hand, only partly aware of what George was talking about. He wasn't threatened by a girl, certainly not that girl, who wasn't particularly nice unless she wanted something and who said nasty, mean things to people who didn't have anything she wanted.

Even if George ever fell in love with a girl, or another boy, it would be with someone better than Dream. Someone infinitely more worthy.

No. He wasn't threatened by a girl, but he had thought of something as she'd played with her frosted black hair and batted her pretty, almond-shaped eyes.

“Are we going to have to pretend?” he asked, and George, who had been whining some more about how totally boring that chick really was, stopped talking abruptly.

“Pretend?” He asked the question so carefully that Dream knew he had already thought of it too.

Suddenly, the air conditioner was stifling, even though the Sacramento valley floor still hadn't cooled off entirely. Dream pressed the window button and let the humid air blow over his heated skin.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about,” Dream said, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the wind, and George sighed—but he didn't relinquish Dream's hand.

“Yeah, I do. And the answer is probably. But I don't want to think about it.” George's voice became pleading, and Dream couldn't resist him, even a little. “Please, Dream? Please, tonight… tonight of all nights, can we not think about it?”

Dream nodded and kissed the back of George's knuckles. Then he let go and cranked up the radio.

They got into the house and each went to shower again—alone. It was ritual. Something about the patina of fast food and sweat was just so unpleasant on the skin. It was just like after a game—both of them were desperate to get the reek of themselves off of their own skin.

When Dream emerged, wearing a pair of sleep shorts and a T-shirt, and freshly shaved, George stuck his head down the hall. “C'mon up here tonight, 'kay?”

Dream padded up the carpeted stairs, one hand on the rail, marking the way the rest of the house was still in starlight. It was odd—the house was never still. There was always the comforting murmur of Emery and Jed, talking after hours.

There was always the patter of Penny on the keyboard as she worked late into the night, struggling into all of the excelled classes that so badly eluded George.

There was always the sound of George's phone, playing just sub-audio, but Dream knew what was on it. He knew every song on it, even when George got new ones. He knew what George played when he was in a bad mood, and what he played when they'd won a game.

Tonight he had the phone plugged into the jack, and what was coming out was ‘All About You’ by The Knocks and Foster The People. Of course it was.

When he walked into George's room and looked around, he realised what a kids’ room it still was. Their pennants were on the walls from taking State two years running, and George had three years of best sportsmanship trophies on his mantel as well. He also had, all of Dream's MVP trophies, as well as the plaque he'd gotten when he'd gotten his scholarship and athlete scholar of the year.

There were posters of individual Kings players and one poster of the whole team.—
“Do you have a favourite,” George said now into the silence.

Dream grimaced. “A favourite player? Not really.”

George laughed and leaned back on his elbows. He flexed his stomach, and Dream realised he was preening.

George shook his head, then lay down on his queen-sized bed, tugging on Dream's hand to do the same. Their feet hung off the edge, when they weren't sleeping diagonally like George usually did, but they ignored it.

He rolled over to his side and leaned in, kissing Dream's bicep. “I don’t believe you,” George said softly.

Dream turned his head and looked at George, those dark eyes deep and eternal in the starlight. “Can I say you?” he said softly. “I will love you on the court if this is as close as we ever get.”

“Why wouldn't you want to get closer to me, Dream? This is us. It's been us for four years. Why wouldn't we want to finish this?”

Dream swallowed. “Because it's you and basketball, George. Only one of you can break my heart.”

George nodded, and propped himself up on his elbow, the moonlight haloing that dark hair behind him. “I don't love basketball nearly as much as I like you,” he said softly, and lowered his head for a kiss.

That would have to be enough. It was enough as his lips touched Dream's. George's lips were so soft, and he always tasted… sweet. Like sunshine and cookies. Maybe it was his nature, or the fact that he trusted everyone, just trusted that it would be okay, but George always tasted like sunshine and cookies.

Dream's soul fed on that taste. He devoured it, pulled it inside. In a moment, less, he'd rolled George over and had taken control, pinning George to the bed with his mouth and the widening breadth of his shoulders and chest.

George moaned under him, and this time it was George who wrapped gangly arms and long legs around Dream's shoulders and hips, and Dream who thrust against him. He was almost lost, almost out of control when George pulled back. “Naked, Dream. I want us naked.”

Their breathlessness cooled as they both rolled on their backs and kicked off their sleep shorts. When Dream's boxers were off, George helped him to pull his shirt off, and their heads hit the pillows side by side as they lay naked next to each other.

George turned and grinned, and then passing up all of the preliminaries, reached for Dream's groin, where his cock was still hard and stretched out.

Without a hello or how-are-you, George wrapped his hand around Dream's hard flesh and squeezed. Dream's head thumped back against the pillows, and he saw stars. “Waaahhh… God!”

“Good, huh?”

George could pick up a basketball using just the hard pressure of his fingertips, and his hands were not that big.

He squeezed firmly, and stroked from the base of Dream's cock to the tip, then rubbed softly over the end. Dream groaned again, and George was shifting, moving, and suddenly, oh God… his head was there, over Dream's groin, and the head of Dream's prick was in his mouth.

Dream shoved the palm of his hand in his own mouth to keep from making too much noise. His other hand knotted in George's hair, not to control, but just to ground them, to keep himself on planet Earth, with George, before he rocketed himself off into the stratosphere. George was shameless. He squeezed with his hand and sucked with his mouth, swirled with his tongue and hummed in his throat, and Dream was all the things he ever feared: helpless before him.

It didn't matter. He couldn't have run away if George suddenly let go of him and ran off to take a leak. George didn't, though. His ass was pumping against the bed as he sucked Dream off, and Dream reached out to him.

It was hard, it took concentration, but Dream could persevere when he needed to. With a little bit of focus he thought he might not shoot off into George's mouth embarrassingly soon, and he managed to wiggle his hand under George's hips and wrap his hand around George's erection, because turnabout was fair play, and, dammit, he needed some control in this situation.

George groaned around him and thrust into his palm shamelessly, and that gave Dream the safety he needed. George seemed to crave his touch just like Dream craved George's, and oh, God…, Dream's hips started flexing without his permission, and he tried to press his ass hard into the bed so he didn't do that, but George just kept sucking, and pulling, his hand becoming slick with the spit George let slide and with Dream's pre-come which leaked down around the head.

Dream tightened his grip on George's prick, which was so thick that Dream's long-fingered hand could wrap around it, but probably nobody else's. He released quickly, afraid he'd hurt with his long-fingered touch, but George groaned and thrust his cock into Dream's grip. Dream forgot about being worried and started concentrating on what to do to make him move harder, go faster.

George wanted him, wanted his touch, wanted to come in his hand. George was cupping his balls now, with his free hand, and the feeling was… was…. “George!” He wasn't even shouting a warning, he was just begging, pleading, thanking Christ! As he spilled, spilled into George's gulping mouth, and as soon as the first burst hit George's mouth, the thing in his hand gave a big throb and spilled hot come all over his fist.

Neither of them could stop coming. They twitched, they shuddered, they came and came until finally George shoved reluctantly at Dream's hand at the same time Dream reached down to George's shoulder to make him stop.

Sensitive, tender, and Dream stopped immediately and so did George, and in a moment, George's head was up, resting on Dream's sweaty shoulder.

George grunted then, and opened his window, because the upstairs was stuffy, even with the A/C, and some more of that warm valley air rushed in over them, tainted, thank heavens, with the coolness of dawn.

“Come back,” Dream complained, feeling piteous, because they were both used to sweating, and he didn't care how hot it was. He wanted George's touch on his body as he lay there, replete and amazed.

George did, laying his head on Dream's shoulder and rolling into him, touching lips in an openmouthed, languidly passionate kiss.

Dream fell into it without protest. George tasted like George—like sunshine and cookies—but now he also tasted dark and bitter, like Dream, and the result was powerful and good.

Dream tried to surreptitiously wipe his hand on George's sheet as George deepened the kiss, though, and George backed up with a grin. “You think? Really?” he chided, as he pulled Dream's hand up around his shoulders and started suckling on Dream's fingers, one at a time, and at the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, at the sticky palm, and Dream groaned because, dammit, he was getting hard all over again.

“Oh God, George!” he complained, and George popped his index finger from a pouty, swollen, come-glazed mouth and looked at him with pure sin in his well-dark eyes.

“You ready to go again?” he asked breathlessly, and Dream chuckled, helpless, as always, before that boundless enthusiasm.

“Thinking so!” Dream muttered, and George grinned and turned in his arms, kissing his shoulder, and then his neck, and then his chest. His mouth closed on one of Dream's dark pink nipples, and Dream's cock woke up and screamed like sex had just been invented and he was pissed at being left out.

George chuckled then, and kept suckling until Dream—still wet and sticking from just spending in George's mouth—writhed and groaned on the bed.

“You want to come again?” George asked wickedly, and Dream whimpered. Honest to God whimpered. “You do? C'mon, Dream. We've been waiting to do this for actual years. Let me hear it!”

“I want to come again!” Dream confessed, as George drew a wicked fingertip from his belly button to his erection.

“Good,” George said, chuckling. “Because I've been studying up, and I've got a whole different way to make you scream.”

Chapter Text

By the time George's parents returned that week, Dream and George had washed all his sheets and his comforter and his pillowcases.

Twice.

And Dream's too. By strict 'penetrative' standards, both of them were still virgins then, but by the standard that mattered—that they were both willing to put their bodies into the other's hand and expect tenderness, passion, and pleasure—they had a lifetime's foundation of experience, and they used it as often that summer as they possibly could. They started driving to the foothills in the dark hours after work, to find a corner of the world where they could make out and not be recognized if they got caught. George joked that summer that he was spending half his check on car fresheners, a crack that never failed to make Dream blush until George had to kiss him senseless.

Finally, in August, they packed up the Toyota with bedding and clothes, and Dream's graduation gift from Emery and Jed, a complete set of luggage.

“We know you'll be leaving, sweetie,” Emery had said then, tearing up because that's what she did, “but you need to know that you'll always have a home with us. You never have to live out of a garbage bag again, okay?”

Dream had nodded, speechless, and hugged her, and he hugged her the same way as they were leaving. He had seen his mother, on occasion, as she wandered through the neighborhood, high, or drunk, often with a different man shouting at her to hurry. He could barely remember a time when he had felt anything for her but fear and disgust.

One night, not long after he'd come to live with George's family, Emery had heard him crying, and when she'd sat by the head of the couch and stroked back his hair, she asked him why.

I'm a terrible person. I don't deserve to be here.

You're a sweet boy. Tell me what you think you've done wrong.

Shouldn't I at least miss her? She was a good Mum, once. She used to feed me and stuff.

Emery's hands had stilled on his hair. She deserted you, Dream. The part that you should miss, she died, and you've mourned her and lived without her. The part that's left, that part doesn't know you, and you have the right to walk away.

The luggage had the Davidson's family address printed on it. The

message was clear. He and George might have been going away, but he wasn't walking away. He had a home. He had a family. And Emery was right. He wasn't going to live out of a garbage bag ever again. Both of them had been hugged fiercely by Emery, and Jed, and even by Penny.

Penny, who had grown to five ten in her sophomore year in high school, stood on her tiptoes and kissed Dream, on the cheek this time. “I love you like a brother,” she whispered, and Dream wondered why she'd had to say that. What other way would she love him?

They drove over four hundred and fifty miles down the California coast that day, and they had just made it to the beach at Carlsbad and checked into a hotel there, when George had produced lubricant and a porn video on his laptop that gave step-by-step instructions.

Dream topped first.

George squatted patiently on his hands and knees, holding the thick sheets of the hotel bed in his fists, while Dream kissed down the smooth bumps of his spine, the vulnerable curve of his shoulders, the slight indentation of his long waist.

George started trembling when Dream got to the muscular plane of his backside, and Dream gave a playful nibble at where George's ass met his inner thigh and disappeared into the secret hollow where all good things were possible. He made a hissing sound and groaned into the pillow. “You, uh, gonna touch my asshole anytime, Dream? Kinda dying here.”

Dream laughed helplessly—George could do that to him. He reached under George's body and gripped him, stroking slow and strong, which was how George liked it. George moaned and grunted and thrust his hips in rhythm, and Dream fumbled with the lube tube with his other hand. He managed to spill some down the crack of George's ass, down George's balls, and on his fingers all at one go.

George made a whimper, and a giggle, and then Dream snicked the lid closed before he dumped any more of the stuff, and played carefully with the puckered entrance that all that lube was designed for.

George's whole body shuddered, and he went limp, practically boneless, the only part of that sturdy, powerful body that was active was his thigh muscles, bearing his ass up for Dream's leisure. Dream took his time.

First he simply rubbed it, again and again, until George purred and thrust back against the blunt tip of Dream's finger as it rubbed over. Dream watched in fascination as his finger disappeared, and George made that crooning noise in the back of his throat. “Mmmm… mmm….”

Dream was forced to chuckle. “Good?”

“Mmmm… better… more.”

Dream stretched, carefully, more, and then George started giving instructions.

“Another finger, yeah? Mmmm… yeah. Good. Okay… deeper… deeper. God!”

“Does it hur—”

“You felt that?”

“Yeah… does it hurt?”

“NO… push on it AGAIN!”

Dream did, and George begged, so he added another finger and spread them, and George whimpered. “God, Dream… I'm such a cock-whore, I know it, but could you… do you think you might want to… please, Dream, please?” He practically sobbed into the pillow, and Dream?

Well, Dream's entire body had been flushing hot and cold for the past fifteen minutes. His balls were throbbing between his legs, and his cock? It was painfully full, even more so because he'd been dripping a steady stream of pre-come almost from George's first pleasure sound. If all George had wanted was for Dream to finger-bang him and stroke his cock, at this point, Dream probably would have come all by himself, without a touch anywhere.

But George wanted Dream to fuck him, and that? Oh God. It was awe-inspiring. He positioned himself carefully, and at the first touch of his head to George's stretched, slick opening, George whined. “Jesus, Dream, what have I ever done to you?”

“Loved me,” Dream replied gruffly, and then he thrust quietly in.

George stretched easily, stretched, stretched, “Gaaahhh… that's good." stretched until, pop! Dream was inside.

George buried his face in his sheets and pounded the pillow with his fist, chanting hoarsely, “More, more, more, deeper, deeper, deeper… oh, God, Dream, would you fucking move?”

Dream snapped his hips back and forward, because he had to, because George was begging him, because his cock ached, and he hungered to bury himself in his lover's body, and he had no choice.

“Yes!” George howled. “Yes! Again! Harder!”

And Dream complied, harder, and harder, and again, and his eyes rolled back and his hips just started to piston, and George begged him, loudly, hoarsely, without shame. Dream was aware that George had moved his hand up and was stroking himself off, even as he begged Dream to thrust some more. The thought made the tingle start, up under Dream's balls, and he managed a “You coming anytime soon?”

“Been coming…”

“All I can do is harder—”

“Make sure you hit that spot!”

Dream did. He angled his hips and made sure he nailed that spot, and nailed it hard, and again, and again, until George screamed, honest to God screamed, his voice hoarse and muffled by his pillow, and Dream's entire body went cold, and his vision went black, and everything in his universe centered around his balls, and his cock, and dumping come into George's ass.

He came so hard he almost passed out. When he was done, he collapsed sideways, and watched detachedly as the dark spots did the Macarena in front of his eyes. He was brought to earth slowly by George's hand on his face, and although he moved slowly, he did manage to trap that hand against an already stubbled jaw. “Going to live, big guy?”

Dream blinked sleepily at him and smiled. He wasn't sure what was in his smile, but George's bemused smile suddenly became darker, intense, and George claimed his mouth hard, and a little bit desperately.

They were both sweating and sticky, and covered in lube and come, but George opened his mouth and mashed that clean, hairless, muscled chest against Dream's, and Dream engulfed him in a deep, shivering kiss.

They didn't necessarily pull away so much as fall apart, lulled by soft pillows and the threat of sleep. “That felt amazing, Dream. Do you trust me enough to do that to you?”

Dream was too sleepy, too replete to freak out about trust. All he knew was that George had trusted him, and what they'd just done… it had been amazing. Glorious. Beautiful. He owed George. “Yeah,” he said, without thinking about it. “Tomorrow. After we go surfing.”

Because the hotel was right across from the beach, and surfboard rentals. They'd planned to be there for three days, just to go surfing, because the sea was crystal blue and the sky was, too, and the idea of being free inside that world of blue had made them howl and laugh and roll down the windows for most of the trip down Highway 1.

George laughed softly, and pressed his hand next to Dream's jaw again. Dream seized it and kissed it as he closed his eyes. “I didn't need a date and a time, Dream—just an affirmation.”

Dream fluttered his eyes open, and saw a brief breath of something like worry or anxiousness pass over George's face. He didn't understand it then. As they grew, as their education progressed, and the full weight of their careers landed on their shoulders like a clanging anvil, he would understand it, but now, he assuaged it with all he had. Years later, it was still the only bandage he had. “Love you, George. You know that, right?”

That anxiousness eased, and Dream felt the top sheet and comforter pulled up around his waist, and then George settled into his arms. “I love you back, Dream. Don't forget it, ever, okay?”

“Mmm… 'kay.”

They surfed the next day. They surfed until their bones turned to overcooked macaroni and their muscles turned to melted cheese, and all they could do when they trudged back to their hotel under a sky of velveteen black was shove some salami in pieces of French bread and eat, and then pass the carton of milk back and forth until it was gone.

They managed a shower and then fell asleep limply on top of each other, like jungle cats in the heat, and woke up with the sun pouring down on them from the skylight. They were both wearing underwear, and that was it, but Dream's stomach was nearly howling with hunger, so they kissed briefly then dressed and went out for breakfast.

When they got back, they looked at each other in confusion. “Sex or surfing?” George asked, putting his thumb on it exactly, and Dream gave a crooked grin. “Sex in the morning, surfing in the afternoon?”

George shook his head and grinned back. “Surfing in the morning, because once we hit the sheets, I don't think we're going to stop.”

And so it was. George didn't push to top that night, nor the next, nor even for the rest of the road trip. He just… explored. Used the lubricant and tested the boundaries, stretched, stroked, made Dream come.

It took Dream a week to figure out that he'd taken George, possessed him, pinned him to the mattress with a hand spanning between his shoulder blades, or one giddy time, with George's thighs over his shoulders, and one of his inhumanly large, attenuated hands pressed at the base of George's throat, in the center of his chest, and George hadn't taken him like that yet, not completely, not at all.

It was after that moment face to face, where the air conditioner had broken down completely, and they were left sopping and flopping in the inhuman humidity, that Dream said something about it.

“You don't trust people easily, Dream. I know it. I could be the one person in the world to ever see your face when you don't know what's on it. I could be the one person in the world you ever touch skin to skin like this. Do you think I want to fuck this up?”

Dream was forced to, in the span of a heartbeat, reassess everything he'd ever assumed about the nature of love. He was hurting George by his lack of trust, and he thought George had been hurting him by his lack of commitment.

All the love, the hand-holding, the sweet touches of lips to skin—all of it meant nothing in the face of their insecurities. Dream blinked once, looking at the face of his best friend, the man he would love for his entire life, and he was a frightened kid, fucking around at fucking around. He blinked again, and he was what George needed him to be: a man in love. “You could never fuck up loving me,” he said throatily. “You never could. It's not in you. You grew up knowing how to do this, you see? I took the high school crash course, and I'm learning the rest by feel. You… if I like it, keep doing it. If I'm all soft and boneless, ask me, and I'll tell you—”

“Yeah, but Dream, I beg you!”

Dream flushed. “Then I'll beg you,” he promised, hoping he could keep that one. “I'll beg you. I swear, next time we do this, I'll beg for your cock in my ass, right?” If those were the words George needed to hear, well, those were the words Dream would say. Anything to make George know that he wasn't alone in this. Dream needed his touch, craved his touch, just as much as George needed Dream's.

It was only fair, right?

Two nights later, Dream told him to stop at a hotel, because, he lied, he didn't want to have to deal with dorm people or moving in when it was all dark.

The truth was, he wanted George all to himself just one last time, dammit. One last time before they were the freshman dream team for UNC, one last time before they had to hide every touch of the hand or brush of lips on skin from the rest of the world.

The day before, they'd gotten lost in what felt like an endless horizon of thick trees. George had been driving, and he'd gone into a turnout to turn the car around, and they'd gotten out a map to check and see where they were.

George would never be without the latest smart phone, just to make sure he never got them that ass-fucking-lost again. George had been a little panicked, and Dream, for once the lighthearted one, had tried to jolly him out of it. “C'mon, George. We're going to be okay. We've got three-quarters of a tank of gas, even if we turn back around to go to the next gas station.”

“Yeah, but we didn't plan this trip so we could spend it fucking lost!”

“Well, duh! But we're not lost!”

George had glared at him, annoyed. His hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, and some of it had curled out of the queue to pester his face in the humidity. “Yeah? Well, where in the hell are we?”

Dream smiled. “Together.”

George made a show of redoing his queue before he let his smile escape. “Together?”

“Yup.” Dream had to smirk—he knew he had the guy by the balls.

“You asshole, you really think that's going to work with me?” It was a full-fledged grin now, and he was looking at Dream sideways from those vast, dark eyes.

“It already has.” Dream had taken charge then, cupping the back of

George's skull and hauling him forward for a kiss that left him, literally, weak-kneed. He'd snuck his hand under George's T-shirt, unsnapped his shorts, and pulled the lever to lean the seat back before he even broke off the kiss. He found himself flat on his back, with his cock in Dream's hand before he could protest, and Dream gave him a quick and dirty one-off, right there in the turnout, without another car in sight.

Dream was too tall to go for the blow job. He knew; they'd already tried somewhere before, when George said it was either car sex or insanity. That was when they discovered that unless they were careful, the two things were truly synonymous.

George spilled quickly, the throb of his prick giving Dream a rush of power and adrenaline that was like nothing he'd ever felt on the court, but that he couldn't help but compare to winning a game—or a string of them—effortlessly and cleanly, when the crowd was on his side.

After George gave his final gasp and simply lay back in the seat, replete and twitching a little, Dream leaned over him and kissed him one final time before grabbing a towel from the crowded backseat and drying him off.

“Oh, Jesus,” George panted. “That was glorious. I don't know how it's going to help us figure out where we are, but it was good.”

“I'll tell you how it's going to help,” Dream said confidently. “It's going to get you to get in the passenger side so you can cop a nap, and I'm going to drive the rest of the way, because I know which turnoff we missed, but I can't think of the words to describe it, and I'll just get all confused when you're talking to me, okay?”

George had been skeptical at first, but after a few moments of fumbling as they got out of the car and stretched in the August heat before changing seats, he had been ready for his nap. When he was asleep, unconsciously trusting Dream to do the right thing, Dream found the turnoff and had them to town (and someplace to eat; they were starving) within half an hour.

As they were waiting in the drive-through, George had blinked at him sleepily, trying not to be hurt. “Wow, Dream, way to show a guy he's not needed.”

Dream had shaken his head adamantly. “No, you don't get it. I couldn't have gotten it done unless you needed me.”

George had smiled then, quietly, and eaten his cheeseburger, but that night they'd been too tired to do more than collapse on their beds and go to sleep.

Two nights later, after taking some detours and going up the Atlantic coast a little, they were checking into a nice hotel and Dream was trying the same approach to go through with his promise as he'd tried for getting unlost.

He claimed the shower first, and since usually he let George shower first, George said he figured that was about fair. After he got out and George jumped in, he listened. As soon as the water started, Dream called room service and ordered everything they could afford. (It wasn't much—their travel budget was thin at best.

While he was waiting for the cart to arrive, he dug into George's luggage and pulled out the tube of lubricant (their third on the trip— Dream was really starting to appreciate this stuff) and the sex toy that George had laughingly purchased when they got lost in an old military neighborhood. It was larger than three of Dream's fingers, and smaller than George's cock. Dream figured it would do just fine.

When George got out of the shower, Dream had set up their little dinner and was sitting down gingerly, wearing his sleep shorts on the outside and the hot-pink rubber thing on the inside. It made him squirmy, and put his dick on high alert, and he wasn't sure if he could just sit there and eat, but he had to try. It wasn't a good surprise if you just threw yourself on the bed and begged shamelessly in the middle of dinner. Dream wasn't sure about a lot of romantic shit, but he was pretty sure that was true.

George was appreciative of the chow, and Dream always got hungry when he was nervous, so dinner was finished off pretty quickly. Then George turned to him, as he stood, practically dancing on his toes, and said, “What?”

Dream couldn't quite answer. George was in his sleep shorts, too, so there was nothing but lovely tanned skin as Dream came and kissed his neck and nibbled on George's jaw and chin, his own body still absolutely shivering from the pressure and the arousal and the absolute furious need.

“Jesus, Dream, you're shaking like a poodle here. Could you give me a clue or something?”

Dream groaned and grabbed his hand, shoving it under the leg of his shorts and begging, shamelessly pleading, said, “God, George, please?”

George felt the handle of the plug and his eyes widened, and he gave the thing an experimental yank. It pulled out, sliding down Dream's thigh under the shorts, and Dream managed to control his flop onto the bed, where he lay, facedown, while George stripped off both their shorts, wrapped a strong arm around his middle and hauled his dilated ass up and ready for plundering.

George's cock followed in short order, and Dream gibbered into the hotel comforter in gratitude. Oh God, it was everything he'd promised, every frisson of his skin was singing the praises of being mercilessly, gloriously, amazingly ass-fucked by the person he trusted the most.

They reached, they reached, they reached feverishly for the precipice of orgasm, hurled each other over it and howled release, Dream into the pillows wadded up in his mouth, and George into Dream's shoulder as he bit down, hard, and spilled.

The whole world quaked under their knees as they recovered, George's arms wrapped around Dream's middle so tightly Dream thought he might be absorbed into his lover's skin.

He welcomed the feeling.

It didn't happen, of course. Sex always has a slide into afterglow, and some slides are quicker and more frightening than others. This one made them thud into the pillows, breathing heavily. Dream was smiling tentatively, and George was frowning, as though trying to put things into place.

“Give you time,” he said with a little laugh. “Man, Dream, I gotta remember that. Sometimes, you just need time, right?”

“It was okay?” Dream asked anxiously.

“It was great, baby. You know. Just… just awesome. Thank you for trusting me like that.”

Dream flushed, pleased. “Well, you were right, you know. Only you.”

ೋღ 🌺 ღೋ

They fell asleep soon after, and the next day they got to the dorms. Within an hour of their check-in they were moved into the plain room with two extra long twin beds. They'd ordered them and had them delivered the week before. They were freshmen, so they had to share a room, but they knew that if they stayed on the team, eventually they'd be put in one of the houses, the kind with a small kitchen and where everyone had their own room.

The thought almost frightened Dream. He had finally gotten to room with George; he didn't want to let that go. When they had put their stuff in the hampers and drawers and put the sheets on the bed and tacked the posters on the walls, they looked at the beds in despair.

“You think we can push them together?” George asked unhappily, and Dream shrugged.

“You think the whole world isn't going to see that?” he asked, and their eyes met and locked. They figured out that they could push the beds together, and they did, every so often, when nobody was there.

Otherwise, they had to settle for furtively making love in one of the beds (or often, over one of the beds,) sharing a quick kiss, and then cleaning up and climbing into bed before anyone came and knocked on the door.

And it wasn't like the time was a given.

North Carolina took its basketball seriously. Running in the morning, weight training in the afternoon, and that was even before the season began and they started practicing in earnest. The boys had signed up for the same classes, but Dream's entrance scores had been higher than George's, and they had ended up in different sections.

They had time for a quiet moment in the evening, most evenings, the kind they'd shared when working fast food while in high school, where George would sit back between Dream's legs, and Dream would nuzzle his neck while George talked. Sometimes, when his body hurt and his brain buzzed, and too many people seemed to want his attention and think he was important to talk to, Dream lived for those moments when he wrapped his arms around George's shoulders, and they could just be.

One Sunday morning in mid-November, they had the entire morning to themselves. The next day was Veteran's Day, and the entire campus was closed down. Most of the freshman within driving distance had gone home to their parents" houses, and those left were hungover. (There had been one hell of a party in the main team dorm the night before. Dream and George had made an appearance before disappearing at separate intervals to sneak into their own dorm room and push the beds together. Everyone had their own idea of a weekend off.)

It was Dream's turn to explore George. They didn't really keep score, but Dream had one of his rare moments of insistence. Since George, he said, carried the bulk of the conversation that made Dream so happy, Dream owed him something entirely new and interesting in bed.

George, who was eyeballs-deep in calculus tutoring and choosing a major, had given him a tired and appreciative smile. Sometimes, when you were laying your burdens down, even the burden of sex was too heavy, and that's what Dream was doing now. Taking over for George, so he didn't even have to think, didn't have to do, just had to lie back and feel.

So George was lying back, his thighs spread, his heavy cock in his hand, stroking it slowly, and squeezing it so hard the head was painfully purple. Dream had his hands under George's ass, raising it to his mouth, so he could tongue George's (freshly washed) body until it was loose and sloppy and waiting.

George raised his free hand to his mouth and bit down on it, loosing a long, drawn-out groan, as Dream replaced his tongue with his fingers, and then George pulled Dream's hand away and ordered,“Now, Dream, now!” In his fiercest whisper.

Dream was up and inside of him so quickly the bed didn't even have time to squeak. One of his feet was down on the floor, and his other knee was drawn up underneath him, and George's thighs were slung over his shoulders as he thrust hard and thrust quickly, watching in wonder as George's eyes rolled back and his body shuddered, and an arc of come shot over his belly. His hair was cut short, and had been since they'd arrived, and his shoulders had widened, his chest had become bulkier, and his muscles were the kind of thing you'd see in body-building magazines. But his chin was still narrow, and his eyes, even half-hooded in passion, were still depthless and limpid.

He looked beautiful.

As George shuddered around him, Dream came, too, slowly and with intensity, before he collapsed forward, panting into George's shoulder.

They were so much better at this than they had been at the beginning of the summer. Five months of it—even furtively—gave them some comfort, some ease, and Dream kissed George's ear and found his mouth for a long, lazy kiss of afterglow.

George fell away from him and mouthed, “Thank you,” at him, with gratitude, when there was a sudden knock at the door.

What followed next was the world's quietest Abbott and Costello video, except with two naked college students, trying hard to put their clothes on and separate their beds, while George, who could think better on his feet, shouted through the door. “Who is it?”

“It's Cliff, guys, let me in!”

“Hell noes!” George said playfully, setting his bed down quietly and throwing the cover over with a whoosh. Dream was doing the same to his, and struggling into his UNC sleep shorts and dorm shirt, all at the same time. “Dream sleeps naked, and I wouldn't want to scare the shit out of you.”

Dream looked at him indignantly, and George slid into his own UNC sleep shorts and grimaced. It was obviously the first thing that came to his mind.

“Ohmigod, if he says it's that big, he's lying!” Cliff called back in exasperation. George looked at Dream and shook his head negatively, even as Dream reached for the Febreze and started to hit their beds and hit them hard. He threw the Febreze under the bed, grabbed his copy of his English anthology and threw himself on the bed, pretending to study.

George unlocked the door and retreated to his bed saying, “Come in, come in—Jesus, two guys try to sleep in or study, dammit, and the whole world wants in!”

Cliff came hustling in. He was second-string center for the JV team, and Dream was the starter, with George as his forward. Together, George and Dream had been cutting a swath through their games with gusto, and although they hadn't yet had a chance to play an away game, they were both looking forward to getting on the bus or the plane and going off on an adventure.

“Guys, you'll never guess what happened!”

“The president declared calculus illegal?” George asked hopefully, and Dream threw a pillow at him. George fielded the pillow and added it to the one under his head, and neither of them mentioned that it had been his pillow in the first place.

“No. You two were both granted a stay of execution, because I was gonna kill you myself!”

“Yeah? What'd we do?”

“Stole my chance at first string!” Cliff Washington was six foot seven, and he'd been looking forward to being the JV phenom this year.

He had a narrow, dark face and a soft Southern accent, and seemed to be thrilled that the two boys from the most diverse section of Nor Cal didn't care if he was black or purple. More often than not, when someone came pounding on their door, it was going to be Cliff.

“Well, I don't see how you're going to get that back!” George said, a little bit of incredulity in his voice. Dream flat-out drilled the guy into the ground, even Cliff knew it.

“Well, I will when you guys get moved up to Varsity!”

Dream and George looked at each other, mouths moving soundlessly. Dream was the first one to speak. “Really?” Oh God. They were good. They were really, really, get-drafted-by-the-NBA good.

“Yeah, really!” Cliff was practically dancing where he stood. “Now c'mon, you two! What? You can pat each other's asses on the court, but you can't even give a guy a hug and a high five in your own dorms?”

They ignored him, because they were both still in shock. “Are we going to have to move into the Varsity dorms?” George asked, voicing what was on both their minds. “Because we just got settled here!”

“Who the fuck cares!” Cliff jumped up and down on his toes. “If one of you two doesn't get up and scream and take me out to some fucking breakfast, I'm gonna have Coach test you both for ludes. Man, you're freshmen, and you're playing Varsity. Do you have any idea how often that does not happen in college ball?”

Dream stood up and made a try of it. “Way to go, George,” he said, using the part of himself that was sincere to say it. “I am fair to partly impressed with us.”

George stood up, too, and met him in the middle of the room for a high five and an 'attaboy' pat on the back. “Me too, now let's put on some real clothes and go get some breakfast!”

“You boys got the car—anywhere we can afford!”

George and Dream looked at each other and said “Breadmen's!” in unison, and Cliff laughed, because the local eatery was about all he could afford too. (Besides, they could walk to Breadmen's, and that way, they didn't have to lose their coveted parking space. The car had been a nice idea, and it was fun to use on breaks, but actually finding a place to put it had proved to be an enormous hassle.)

They grabbed jeans and some sweatshirts and dressed like they hadn't just been making explosive, tender love to each other before Cliff walked in, and Cliff stood there the entire time, making cracks about how maybe they could try not to funkify their next room, because this one smelled like sweat socks.

George looked at Dream wryly and mouthed, “Sex socks” as they were bent over tying their shoes, and Dream tried not to smirk, but their smiles were a little forced, and a little sad. Whatever had been set in motion by their secrecy and their game, by their love of basketball and their love for each other, it was more than clear that it had already begun.