Texts • DreamNotFound

hoodies and chocolates

Takes place 12/9/20

There it was, sitting on his porch. George could see out his window.

He'd been staring at it all day, not daring to step a foot outside. It almost scared him... The thing inside that package seemed to be "too good to be true." It was almost unattainable in his head. So... how did he attain it?

He advanced down the stairs once again and peeked through the hole in the door, eyesight resting on the forbidden gift.

George had been avoiding it, doing everything in his power to distract himself or prolong his satisfaction when he could finally lay his hands on the beautiful brown box, patiently waiting to be received, outside his house.

He could have gotten it when he woke up, but he decided to edit instead. Then, he could have gotten it when he decided to make a late lunch, but again, he didn't. The sun was going down, and the package was still at his doorstep.

See, George wasn't avoiding it to torture himself; he wasn't trying to make the experience miserable at all. He just kept pushing it away. It was almost as if the longer he knew it sat there, and the longer he had to wait to get it, the more rewarding it would be. Every time he told himself he would go out to take it up in his hands, he found another thing to do; balancing along what seemed to be the edge of a very steep cliff of anticipation and reward.

George stepped away from the door. He stood up and down from the tips of his toes at a fast pace, his hands balled into fists at his sides. It was time to open the door. He sighed and reached a hand out but hovered over the handle.

He thought about what was in the box... of who it belonged to. He thought of Dream in that hoodie: stepping out of bed, standing up in front of his window in the golden sunlight, picking up the hoodie from lying draped over his chair; him pulling it over his head, beginning the start to his day... sitting on the couch, scrolling through Twitter or some other app, maybe looking at the scores to some sports game, but warm and cozy, still in the same sweatshirt... cooking something sweet, with the hoodie's sleeves rolled up and an apron tied around his waist, humming a tune he had probably got stuck in his head all day... sitting at his desk, listening to music with the volume turned up, head against his chair, and the sweatshirt's hood covering his head and hair... gripping the neckline of the fabric and pulling it upwards, the bottom of the hem flinging up past his stomach and over his bare chest once again...

Snap out of it.

George's soft palms gripped at the door nob. He turned it to the left; the door swung open.

There it was. Sitting, tranquil, calling to him.

George had retrieved it and had it upstairs and on his bed in what seemed like a matter of seconds. He sliced it open and held his breath. There, beneath him, was a hoodie. Navy blue, and looking soft as ever, it waited for George's touch.

The lights in his room were dim, and a purple glow emitted from somewhere on his desk, illuminating the hollow shadows that cascaded across his closet doors and onto his ceiling.

He pressed his hand to the intricately woven threads and slid it up, feeling every fiber of mesmerizing color.

Carefully, George lifted it out of the box. He held it up, his cheeks warm. It looked to be bigger than the sweatshirts he usually wore. George pulled the hoodie to his chest and bent his neck so that his nose was nuzzled against the fabric. He couldn't help it.

The sensation he got was far from placid. The sweet smell ignited a fire in him while making him feel dizzy and flushed at the same time. He felt soft, yet the flame within him was at the highest it had ever been. It smelled good.