Lightning in a Bottle (DNF)

Chapter 1: George likes Dream's hands. So what?

George likes Dream's hands.

He likes the sun kissed colour.

Likes the arches of his knuckles, the veins that run criss-cross over the backs of his hands, the thick shape of his fingers.

He often wonders what the contrast would be like if they were side by side, George's milky skin flush against Dream's own tan, hands pressed palm to palm. He wonders how much bigger Dream's hand would be compared to his own, with his long delicate, fingers and his thin wrists.

Sometimes, in his more shameful moments, in between the sounds of cotton bedsheets sliding against skin, and his own heavy breathing, a lonely thought flickers across his mind, a quiet wonder, of just how much of his wrists Dream could cover. How much pressure they could give.

Just a brief whisper of a thought. Nothing more. Never anything more. George doesn't allow it, refuses to dwell on it. Like a passing cloud, it never stays for long.

Anyway - George likes his friend's hands. So what?

It's the only part of Dream that George ever gets to see, of course he likes them. He argues this as the faceless man teases him during a late-night stream, for his endless screenshots of "useless images".

George argues back that he doesn't screenshot anything useless, and that's because he gets to use them as his own reaction images.

Dream flipping off the camera in response to something stupid George has tried to rile him up with.

Dream giving a thumbs up when George asks him to come online.

Dream's fingers curved into devil horns, paired with a witty caption.

"What-" Dream's laugh echoes through George's headset, cutting himself off briefly before continuing, "What are you even talking about man? How could you ever use them as-"

He sends Dream the picture of himself flipping off the camera. There's a buzz on the other side of his headphones, cutting Dream's question off, and a beat of silence before Dream is wheezing sharply, the sound of his hand smacking against a desk as a sharp bark of laughter tears out of him.

George can't help the smile that splits across his own face.

The stream chat is dying to know what he sent, dying to know what's caused the smile and the flush of heat in George's cheeks, dying to know what on earth is so funny.

"It wasn't even that funny, chat," George says with a roll of his eyes, "Dream's just dramatic. I just gave him a taste of his own medicine."

"I don't know if that's really the correct term, but yeah sure," Dream laughs again, "We'll go with that."

"How is that not the right term?"

"I mean, it's not like, completely wrong," Dream hums absentmindedly, his character placing blocks on screen, "It would just be more accurate if you'd sent me a picture of your hands, not of my own."

George's nose wrinkles at that, glances down at his hands, considering his own slender fingers in comparison to those of his friend.

"What are you pulling faces for, huh?"

George startles slightly at that, he's forgotten Dream likely has the stream open as well, and his eyebrows dart up briefly in shock before he composes himself, glancing up to the ceiling in exasperation.

"I'm not sending you pictures of my hands, no way."

"Aww, Georgie, why?" Dream whines, a hint of a laugh lilting his tone, causing George's face to pinch once more.