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George wakes slowly.
His eyes blink open, and he feels so comfortable he hardly wants to move. His limbs are tucked into the perfect position on the bed, there’s the barest sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains, and his body is sinking into the mattress.
But as he gains more consciousness, he hears it.
“-ly shit! Patches! Move!”
He doesn’t know how he couldn’t hear it.
Sighing, he peels the covers off himself and braces for the air-conditioning to chill his bones. Somewhere strewn in his blankets is a hoodie he stole from Dream.
(“Because they’re bigger and therefore warmer, it’s, like, subzero in this house, Dream,” George had argued.
“Right. Sure.” Dream had said before smiling fondly and surrendering the hoodie, as if he had ever denied his boyfriend of anything. As if he didn't have Dream’s chain on his throat.)
He fishes for it dazedly, bringing his other hand up to rub crust from his eyes. He can’t even remember the last time he got sleep that restful. His limbs feel saggy and his eyes feel weighted, but he isn’t exhausted or groggy. He just feels sluggish, slow-moving like syrup.
As he opens his bedroom door after pulling the hoodie on, the smell of the kitchen and the sounds of cooking and music playing hits him.
And George loves Sapnap, loves his music taste, but he knows that his music taste often does not include Taylor Swift. And he also knows that Sapnap certainly is not well-versed enough in Taylor Swift to deliberately listen to Taylor’s Version of 22.
A smile already beginning to form on his face, George quietly tiptoes down the steps. He hears Dream mumbling the lyrics beneath the sound of something crackling on the stove.
Once he makes it to the landing and is staring into the kitchen, George’s heart clenches and his lungs grow tight with fondness at what he sees.
Dream bebops around the stove, flipping instant hashbrowns and turning eggs, scrambled for himself and George, and sunnyside-up for Sapnap. There’s a bowl of powdered pancake mix waiting on the counter by the stove. A measuring cup dangles from his left hand as he busies himself with the rest of the food. Patches circles his feet, brushing his legs and waiting for scraps to drop.
He leans against the entryway and simply observes, not wanting to disturb this state he rarely sees Dream achieve. The grin that had only started to form on George’s face triples in size, his heart swelling as he watches the blonde do some sort of skip-spin dance move over to the sink in time with the beat of the song to fill the measuring cup with water.
While Dream is leaned up against the counter to get the measurement correct, his head hung to see the markings, Patches hops up beside the sink and mews softly for his attention. He glances at her and she nudges her nose against his face, and George swears his chest might just collapse as Dream laughs softly at her and lets her rub her face all over his. George has always loved the way Dream loves her, how he is unashamed in the way he baby-talks her and spoils her absolutely rotten, like she’s his daughter.
George feels like he could melt right into the tiles on the floor, become one with the marble there. There is warm morning sun pouring through the kitchen window, illuminating Dream and their cat in soft golden light. He’s sure if Dream turned around and saw him, he would have no time to mask the adoration he knows is written all over his face.
He examines Dream in this rare moment of complete calm; looks at the jut of his chin, the soft slope of his eyebrows, the curl of his messy, sleep-ruffled hair, and his rumpled clothes, and his chest aches with a desperate need to keep Dream like this forever.
Far too often does he see Dream stressed about an upcoming meeting, an unedited video, a recording session in the studio, anxious about not having streamed but too weighed down by all his other responsibilities to do anything about it. He knows the pressure that Dream faces, knows that there are people out there who only accept the best from him, and will ridicule him if he doesn’t deliver. Dream has thick skin, he has to, really; but George still wishes he could take him away from it all.
And he knows that Dream says he helps him, that his constant support and love keep his head on straight when he feels like he might get lost in the overflow of his job. But somehow, it’s special when Dream is able to get to this sort of tranquility by himself.
So, George watches as Dream prepares breakfast for his found family in the kitchen of their shared home, and he relishes in the peace.
Toast pops in the toaster a ways from Patches on the counter, startling her into jumping off. Dream bops his head to the music and hustles over to swap out the bread in the toaster before mixing the pancake batter. While he whisks, he does this little up-down shimmy dance with his hips that makes George’s heart catch and lodge itself in his throat.
He gets into the lyrics during the bridge, head-banging and tapping the whisk on the counter along with the beat, and George can’t even help the giggle that escapes him. Dream whips around so fast that batter from the whisk flies off and lands on his cheek, quickly turning red.
“George!” He blurts, “I was just, making breakfast.”
“I see that,” George muses, unable to stop grinning, “Need any help?”
Dream looks relieved that George is sparing him from any further embarrassment. “Um! Yeah, if you wanna help make the hashbrowns.” He gestures to the spatula on the counter, and George picks it up and begins pushing around the potatoes in the pan.
They sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two while Dream finishes mixing the batter and plates the eggs. Patches meows and rubs against his legs to greet him, and he looks down at her, smiles.
“Hi, Patchy baby.” He coos, watching as Dream grins softly to himself and turns around to lean back against the counter. He grabs George’s hand, fiddling with his fingers.
“She just wants your food.” His voice is so soft it’s nearly a whisper.
“Well, she can have all the potatoes she wants,” George picks up a hashbrown from the skillet and bends down to give it to Patches, “it won’t hurt her.”
“You’re spoiling her, George,” Dream complains, even as he bends down to scoop her from the floor, “I just put food in her bowl.”
“Oh, I’m the one spoiling her. You make sure she only eats one brand of cat food that’s, like, ludicrously expensive.”
Dream looks at him and pouts, cradling a disgruntled Patches to his chest. Dream is the only one she mildly tolerates holding her. “But she’s my baby.”
Baby.
Really, he doesn’t know why that word trips him up now. They both call Patches their baby frequently. But something about the domesticity of the entire morning does him in.
Now, they have talked about it, vaguely, the idea of settling down after they have rode their ride of fame to the end of its tracks. He thinks about mornings like this being frequent. He thinks about Sapnap eventually moving out in pursuit of his own dreams of settling down. He thinks of them downsizing to a smaller house, maybe getting another pet. He thinks of growing old with Dream, watching his hair go gray and beginning to see the evidence of his years of laughter in the form of wrinkles on his forehead and the corners of his mouth. His heart pounds as he thinks of them taking the next step, thinks of marriage, of children.
George is hit with it all at once, and before he can stop his brain he’s imagining it. The only thought playing on repeat in his head is just how amazing of a dad Dream would be, with his gentleness and sound advice and never-ending patience. In the places George thinks he would be weak, Dream would fill in the gaps seamlessly, like wooden planks on a broken bridge.
Whatever the reason may be, his brain can only conjure up a little girl, a daughter. He thinks about Dream cradling a baby girl just as he’s doing with Patches. Dream told him once that his sister used to make him do her hair, and George leans on that now, picturing him brushing through their daughter’s hair, smiling as she chats away to him about school. He stares at where Dream is stood, unable to not fill in the space to the right of him with a little girl standing on a stool, helping them put butter on the toast. The ache of this non-existent child’s absence feels bone deep, like he's unlocked some buried pain that he didn't even know existed in him. George stands at the stove in their kitchen, and he stares at Dream, and he wants.
“George?” Dream’s concerned voice pulls him out of his reverie. His brows are pulled together, putting a wrinkle in his forehead. “What’s wrong?”
He blinks, and realizes his eyes are very much full of tears. Jesus.
“Nothing.” His response comes out choked, and he quickly turns back to the stove despite knowing Dream noticed. “I think the toast might be done, you should grab it before it burns.”
“Hey, hey,” Dream places Patches back on the floor, “what happened? Talk to me, George.”
George pushes his potatoes around, sniffing and failing to stop his tears from falling into the pan. “It’s nothing. It’s- dumb.”
“It’s not, baby. I’m just-” he stops himself. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” He says in a rush, because the absolute last thing he wants is Dream blaming himself, because it is so far from the truth. “It’s the complete opposite.”
“Okay,” Dream hesitates, sounding a little bewildered, “opposite…how?”
George sighs, staring intently at the pan of potatoes, “You didn’t do anything wrong, and that’s, like,” he pauses, gathering his thoughts, “you’re just good, Dream.”
He looks at Dream to gauge his reaction, and he watches his cheeks color and his mouth open and close for a second before he settles on, “What made you think that?”
The potatoes crackle in the pan and he moves his eyes back over to them, absently moving them around with the spatula. Dream places a hand on his back as encouragement, rubbing his thumb back and forth against his shirt.
“When you were holding Patches, like, cradling her, and you called her your baby.” George bites his lip, feeling a fresh rush of tears flood his eyes. It takes all of his effort not to sob his next words, throat clenching. “And I just, I want it all, with you. Everything.”
“Wait, George,” he sees Dream’s hand reach to turn off the burner so he can get George’s full attention, even though he already had it. He brings it up to his cheek so he can turn his face, and Dream’s expression is pleading, hopeful, when he says, “tell me what you mean. Please.”
George burns and tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but finds that he’s unable to speak around it. He presses his face into Dream’s palm on his cheek as the tears spill, but he keeps looking at Dream, and can just see that Dream knows.
“George–” he whispers, eyes shining with unshed tears, “you- do you want kids?”
He sobs softly and nods, pulling himself close to Dream with arms wrapped around his torso. Dream huffs a breath against his ear, moving his hand to press against the back of George’s head. He can feel Dream’s chest shaking.
“God, George, you have no idea, I want that so bad,” his heart is in his throat. “Not, like soon, or anything, but eventually, you know?”
The relief of being understood washes over him in waves, and he pulls back from his shoulder to see his face. Dream has tears rolling down his face, just as affected as George as he cards his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. The love he has for him feels so palpable, so real, that he’s almost afraid of it, like it has the potential to cleave him in two.
“You’ll be so good, Dream, I don’t think any kid raised by you could ever turn out to be a bad person.” he says, and Dream’s face splits in a smile.
“You’ll be good, too. You’re so honest, and– and selfless, and just- you have so much love to give, George. I wish more people could see that, but you’ll be so good to our child.”
The smile on his face goes wobbly and he buries another sob that escapes his mouth into Dream’s neck. Dream’s responding laugh is watery and choked. His cheeks rests on the top of George’s head, and he feels his tears fall into his hair.
“Love you,” he whispers into his skin like he can brand it there, “m’sorry I don’t say it much-”
“Don’t have to, Georgie,” Dream interrupts him.
“I know, but I wanted to tell you. It’s just so much, it just- it has to be you, Dream. There’s no one else I would ever want to- to be this with. No one.”
He feels the breath Dream pulls in more than he hears it, feels the way his exhale flutters the hairs on top of his head.
“I love you,” he says, voice wavering. Another tear slides onto his scalp, “so much.”
Dream starts their gentle sway to the music still playing in the background, and they stand there like that for a while, completely forgetting about breakfast. When Dream guides his face to look at him again, George is helpless to do anything but kiss him.
Dream hums against his lips, “You have morning breath.” He smiles and connects their lips again all the same.
George lets out a hard exhale through his nose, grabs the hand Dream had rested on his back and moves it to hang at their side, threading their fingers together. “Y’gonna let me go brush my teeth, then?”
”Hmm,” he hums in mock consideration, “few more minutes.”
George smiles, laughing at the way he presses his lips straight to his teeth. He rubs over the knuckle of Dream’s ring finger, feeling how bare it seems compared to all the other rings he usually wears.
George supposes he’ll eventually need to do something to fix that issue.