Dream Team Oneshots

Love-Shaped Clothes - Dream x George

LOVE-SHAPED CLOTHES - Dream x George
Clothes-sharing fluff

Dream looked at George like he had hung the stars. It was a little unfortunate that no one else could see that look on his face.

But he had. George was everything wrapped up into a perfect little parcel, dolled up in a package of pretty privilege. And though he had been the one to place the stars so delicately and intentionally into the sky—Dream would say he'd seen him do it—he still managed to be the very incarnation of the sun.

A glow of golden rays, the shine of something ethereal. Dream had never thought he'd see the day where he'd be blinded by someone's radiance, but then George came around and shined brighter than the sky. He was playful giggles, a too-wide smile, the gleam of ivory teeth behind pretty pink lips. He was a wrap of warming comfort, though Dream had never touched him for real. (Only in his dreams, ironic).

Maybe the warmest part of George was whatever it was that drew him to the softest clothes. Whatever it was that compelled him to live in nothing but hoodies, whatever made him prefer the ones that were just a little too big on him. A want to drown in soft fabric, a want to wear sleeves long enough to cover gentle hands, a want for a hood large enough to consume if he ever bothered to use it.

As if—in some strange, paradoxical truth—the sun needed to be warmed.

Perhaps Dream was a little biased, but he'd never felt more content than the time George bought that too-big merch hoodie and stood up on his bed to show it off. Let Dream see just how comically large that hoodie was on him, the way it spilled over his legs and covered his hands entirely. And his bias didn't come only from a love for all the golden parts of George, but it came from the stark white smile that was spread across his chest.

Dream's smile. Dream's hoodie. Dream's George.

He wanted to hold him when he was dressed all cute like that, wanted to wrap him up in the soft black fabric and make him feel loved. Dream knew it had long passed the line of platonic, knew that staring at pictures of your self-proclaimed best friend for far too long was a little strange and obsessive. Knew that calling them the most adorable photos may border on an uncharted territory, but Dream was nothing if not enamored. Nothing if not known for being wrapped around George's pretty little finger.

But Dream hadn't even been the one to make it his hoodie. Hadn't been the source of the playful nickname— Dream's hoodie. The one that was too big and worn often, Dream's. That was all George; his own little nickname for the sweatshirt, his own little piece of the friend he'd never met. Sprayed with a cologne that wasn't his or anyone else's, a scent that would feel unfamiliar to his nose at first only for the association to become strictly Dream.

Dream hoped he wasn't too obvious when he asked George what brand of cologne it was. Hoped it wasn't too weird when he bought the same kind and started using it. Even he had the sense in him to call out about crossing a line, but he was too busy drowning in mindless daydreams that spun around a meeting.

Of George sinking his face into Dream's shoulder—too short to reach his neck—of George recognizing the scent as the one he'd put on that sweatshirt and maybe, hopefully finding it more endearing than obsessive. Though Dream had always been a man of emotion-strung words, he still had a love for the non-verbal types of fondness. The recognition, the soft laughter, the hopes that George could feel how desperate he was in reaching out to his computer screen.

Every morning Dream was awake through the sunrise. And every morning he thought about him.

That truth had no plans to change the morning George was scheduled to land in Orlando. If anything, it became louder—a clamorous, but strangely welcome noise in the front of Dream's mind, in the way the golden light spilled through his windows and onto the floor. In the way he stood in front of the glass and let himself bathe in it, closed his eyes to see if he could picture it as the soft touch of hands, fingers, anything his mind could conjure.