An Influx of Dream Hoodies (DNF)

2; it breaks my heart (when you say im just a friend to you)

chapter written by donut

George had been in Florida for a grand total of 68 hours and 54 minutes, and in that time, he'd come across three major problems (other than the fact that the idiotic fantasies he'd had about their meet up never came to be).

Number one:

Dream was hot. Hot, pretty, handsome— you name it. He was attractive. His smile was bright, as if some dumbass higher being had taken the sun and made a human incarnate of it, just to make George suffer at the sight of what he couldn't have. He laughed and put his entire body into it— his chest heaved, and his shoulders shook, and of course, of course, his face scrunched up into what could be considered the epitome of what true happiness looked like (secretly, George had been making a mental tier list of all of Dream's facial expressions. S tier contained laughing Dream™— a common sight— and relaxed Dream™— a more rare sight, usually spotted when George glanced over at the blond to find a soft smile resting on his face when his mind wasn't running as always, but instead taking a leisurely stroll).

And all the while, George, with his stupid little crush on his stupid (read: infatuating) best friend who didn't like him back, watched. He watched, and it hurt like hell, but he watched— because when you see someone like Dream, there's no looking away from a sight that's meant to captivate you.

Number two:

Florida was hot. It was not humid (fuck you, Sapnap, fuck you, Dream, it's hot and not fucking humid), it was hot, and it was unbearable. George stepped out of the Florida airport and after less than a second, he regretted letting Dream fly him out to the hottest, sunniest, not-fucking-humid-est place in the entire world instead of making Dream fly himself and Sapnap over to England, where temperatures were actually normal.

Did he mention the sun? Because god, does he hate the sun.

It's bright, and it makes him need to squint every time he even dares look outside, and it makes his body sweat, and his clothes stick, and worst of all, it makes Dream look like some sort of a Greek god when he stands all perfectly unbothered under the blistering sun's rays.

And number three:

George sucked at real life interactions. Being behind computer screens was one thing— he could mute up to hide any shaky breaths or childish giggles, blame it on the camera quality if it seemed like he was blushing. In real life, there was no mute button to give him a second to compose himself. There was no camera to hide how his cheeks flushed pink so easily at stupid flirty comments that were jokes.

There was nothing— nothing— that could help prevent George from revealing the growing pit of feelings for his best friend that he had in his stomach.

That, and it had never truly sunk in that the people he had been befriending across the world were people who were real, as dumb as that sounds. While Dream and Sapnap had been his best friends for a long time, for so long they'd only been voices through a speaker and images on a screen. But here they were— real life human beings who were more than just his online best friends. They were his best friends in real life too, and George didn't know whether to feel exhilarated or afraid of the fact.

So, all in all, between these three problems, there was one big problem that George enjoyed ignoring (he'd gotten very good at that after realizing his feelings) at every chance he got.

He was pretty much fucked.

~~~

On a Saturday evening, day four of being in Florida, Sapnap pulled George into the laundry room, locked the door, and declared rather confidently while Dream was doing the dishes: