get busy waiting

ch. 3

George had given Dream another peaceful, patient month.

He didn't try to push or rush or lead the other anywhere he didn't want to go. George had been extremely accommodating, and since it was him, since he was who he was, it was an even more significant, gracious gesture.

Though, even so, things didn't change.

It would almost be better if they didn't kiss at all. If they didn't do anything in the first place. Just sat in separate chairs on opposite sides of the room and had no idea what touching each other would feel like. But, unfortunately, George did know.

He knew the excitement that crested when Dream's hand drifted down low on his back. He knew of the pleasure that sprung up on the rare occasions Dream kissed softly over his neck. George had become all too familiar with what it felt like to be held and caressed and consumed by Dream.

If he didn't, he wouldn't want for more. He wouldn't think about the tragedy of stopping far too soon.

George wouldn't have known that he could even.. like someone this much.

And, by the amount he absolutely humiliated himself on a daily basis, by reacting in the most goddamn sensitive manner whenever Dream did anything, he knew the other could tell.

But not that it mattered anyway, because Dream was still holding out on him.

Which resulted in George getting increasingly frustrated. It seemed to build in his stomach, day after day, with no real outlet. Only pressure, only need, no release.

He was frustrated— not with Dream, but because of him.

Sexual frustration. A kind George had never experienced before. Not just one that nagged at him when he didn't get off for a while. Not just an itch that persisted until he had no choice but to scratch. Not anything he was used to.

It was like he was constantly being tormented, played with, teased, fucking edged.

George planted his reddened face down in his bed, embarrassed even thinking about it, even just admitting it to himself.

Edged.

They hadn't even done anything to warrant that. It wasn't as if Dream was touching him, jerking him off almost to the point of completion just to stop right before George did. He didn't have sex with him and never let him finish. Dream didn't do this in any way intentionally. In fact, George knew, for certain, the other meant to do the exact opposite.

Dream purposely didn't lead George on. He kept his hands in respectable places. He kept their clothes on. He was careful about letting them be in the same bed together.

And, really, that kind of caution should have worked. It should have made things easier. George should have a much better grip on himself than he did.

But, god, why did Dream have to kiss him like that?

Like he was so hungry, like he thought they would never get a chance to connect again, as if Dream had waited years and years for this moment, which, to be fair, he probably did.

George could feel it now as they embraced, could feel under his palms the line of tension that ran through the other's shoulders. How Dream's jaw moved, somewhat stiff and hesitant and somehow even more relentless, almost infuriated. Even in the way the other always clutched at him, as if letting him go for even a moment would be too much, like they just couldn't get close enough for Dream to be satisfied.

And George knew that whatever he felt himself, whatever frustration and longing, Dream felt it at least ten times worse.

His gaze would be aghast as he pulled them apart. His shoulders slumped as he placed more distance between them. Dream would hate the very fate he alone caused.