Stalker // DNF

24: Control

George notices the alteration in Dream's pace and adjusts until his feet match Dream's standstill position on the pavement. He scans the street they'd stopped at, a kilometer or two from the park. George couldn't recall one thing they'd conversed about the entire distance, yet the time had slipped through his fingers and been filled with chatter to bury the ignored tension.

Towering apartment buildings clutter the streets, small shops nestle opposite or underneath the homes. A handful of cars cram in any available spaces by the road, some tires resting on the pavement to squeeze into tight areas.

George turns to look at Dream, their clasped hands keeping him by his side.

'Why have we stopped?' he asks, the light from inside a shop opposite lighting up Dream's features in the night sky. He hears calm elevator music creep out onto the street with quiet gossip accompanying it.

Dream nods his head up to the flat's laying above the shop, 'This is me.'

George glances up at the brick building, black windows giving way to no information. Tufts of moss embed themselves between the clay, each floor of the apartments looking identical to one another.

'This is... your house?' he questions, surprised Dream had led him somewhere so private.

Dream nods, 'I didn't mean to lead us here, honestly. I'll walk you home and everything, just -'

'Oh, it's okay,' George interrupts with a gentle shake of his head. 'Look.' He nods his head down the road to a bus stop they had passed on the way. 'I'll get the bus home, it's too far to walk anyway.'

Dream follows his nod before his widened eyes return to George. His cheeks glow pink from the cold air pinching the skin, accompanying the apprehensive expression painted over his face. 

 'But... I didn't wanna say goodbye yet.'

George laughs and squeezes his palm, 'I'll see you again.'

'When?'

George pushes a gust of wind through his lips and pushes his hair away from his eyes with his free hand.

'I don't know.'

'Tomorrow?' Dream asks quickly.

'Tomorrow?'

Dream nods, stepping in front of George to prevent crunching his neck from looking sideways.

'Right... what are we going to do tomorrow, then?' George replies with a raised eyebrow.

'Anything,' Dream says immediately. 'Anything at all.' He pauses momentarily to look to the side in thought. 'I'll... I'll show you some of my old stuff - Paintings, I mean, if they can even be called that.'

'Old paintings?' George queries in amusement.

Dream looks down and shifts forward to grab George's other unoccupied hand. He lifts both palms up, engulfed by his own fists, to dangle in front of their chests.

'We don't have to - Anything, George. Please - let me see you... and don't make me wait too long.'

George bites down on his lip to hide his smile.

'Paintings tomorrow it is, then.'

Dream's thumb lifts a little to stroke the underside of George's finger as a satisfied grin spreads across one cheek to another.

'It's a bit of a dodgy street... so why don't I meet you at - like 6? - outside that church.' Dream leans over to point his chest in the direction of a small chapel hidden between bushes near the bus shelter. 'My first painting is near here.'

George cranks his neck to catch sight of the building, simultaneously catching a glimpse of an approaching bus, cruising up the road with bright headlights. At its sighting, George snaps his head back with an injection of panic.

'God - that's the bus... I need to run,' he rushes out, trying his best to block out Dream's expression falling. 'But, yeah. Sounds good.'

He looks back at the bus, closer than previously, and quickly turns to take a final look at Dream. All George knows is that if he doesn't run to the stop now, he won't be home until it'll be much later, darker and scarier.

In his fret, he gives Dream's hands a final squeeze and catches himself mindlessly lifting to his tip-toes. He navigates to the side of his face, driven by panic and Dream's puppy eyes. He places his warm lips on the painters icy cheek, his mouth pursing near the end of his cheekbone.

George then pulls away and sets his heels on the ground once again. He turns around instantly, not wanting to catch Dream's reaction. He bursts into a sprint down the street, navigating his way to the bus stop. The cold air hitting his face feels like freezing water has just been splashed over his pores, waking him up and reminding him in horror at what he had done that night.

George doesn't allow himself to think on the bus journey home. He doesn't allow himself to think when he stumbles inside his house and chucks his possessions messily onto the counter. He doesn't allow himself to think as he changes into his pajamas and ignores the messages that had popped up since he'd left the house earlier.

Only when he throws himself onto his bed and suffocates himself in blankets does he squeeze his eyes shut and let the night's events catch up to him.

Oh my fucking god.

Dream, Clay, Patches, hands, lips, kisses, home, stalker, stalker, stalker.

What have I done?

George props himself up, cradling his aching head with his hands, now warm in the protection of his home. His mind swims with his actions and the words he'd uttered, Dream pulling confessions out that he hadn't even allowed his brain to process first. Had he... had he meant any of it?

Don't be stupid, he thinks to himself. 

He remembers Dream touching him first, leaning in first, always initiating everything first.

I was just doing what he wanted... so he'll trust me, George convinces himself, erasing the image of him placing his mouth on Dream's cheek from his mind.

Besides, today had been a breakthrough. George now knows Dream's real name - and his address. There could be all sorts of evidence in his home... it was something. In some way, George's plan is finally beginning to work.

So what if I have to pretend to be more than friends to get more proof? I'll kiss him - I'll do whatever it takes for him to trust me. George nods, ignoring the cluster of butterflies gathering in his stomach when he recalls Dream's lips on his.

Yeah, he assures himself. I'm in control. I am in control.

A buzz on his side-table pulls his head up as he leans over to check the disturbance. He lifts his palm up to click on the twitter notification, swiping away his friends' messages.

The app loads along with a photo. An anonymous user has uploaded an image of a wall with only a dim light to illuminate the bricks. Through the phone screen George sees a rough outline of a persons side profile, indistinguishable from any other. Perched on the lower cheekbone, exactly where George's kiss had landed, lays a small smiley face, imprinted red on the pale cheek. Dreams signature is drawn messily in the corner, shiny and still wet.

Idiot.