Heatwaves - dreamnotfound fanfic

Chapter 3 : Fairness

Notes from the writer :

DO NOT share this to the CC's in any tags, donos, or other sources. I will delete it.

"You know," George says, "you were once in a dream I had, too."

"Really?" Dream leans forward in his chair, a confident smile creeping onto his face. "What was it about?"

"I can hear your ego inflating right now."

"No you can't," Dream defends quickly. Perhaps midnight visits from platonic friends is a universal experience. Sapnap said he's dreamt about them too, anyway. He can't help letting himself feel it—relief, is it? Relieved that George was thinking of him? For a moment, a heat as strong as burning coals begins to smoke inside his skull: he has to know what George's dream was about.

Why hadn't he told him about it before?

He recoils from the ferocity of his own thoughts.

"Yes, I can. I think you owe me some kindness for how you treated me on my stream today," George says, voice touched by a playful twinge that Dream knows so well.

"I owe you something?" Dream gently, gently stokes the embers. "What exactly do you want with me?"

"For you to be nice, chill," George laughs, but sounds nervous. "Freak."

Dream's heart races. "You love me," he mutters, "c'mon now."

"Stop being weird," George says, "this is exactly why I never told you about it."

"Well, you dreamt about me first!"

"What? You're so hypocritical—oh my god. Nevermind, Dream."

"George, no," Dream says, trying to regain a serious tone despite being deeply amused by their turn of conversation. "I didn't mean to upset you, I promise."

George definitely doesn't buy it. "Y'know, I think I won't tell you. That's a much better punishment for you being mean to me."

"Oh, a punishment?" Dream repeats, unable to stop himself from laughing again.

George groans. "That's it, have a nice rest of your day. I can't deal with you anymore."

"Wait, no—" Dream is cut off by George disconnecting from their call.

He raises a hand over his mouth. He wants to fight it off—his grin, the flutters in his stomach, the need to hear George's voice again—but can't. His cheeks are warm and flushed red. He feels himself slipping deeper into the place that keeps calling his name. It feels something like desire. It feels something like a challenge. It feels so familiar.

Shame side-steps his rising happiness. He is bound to be taking advantage of George to a minor degree, withholding the truth from him and skating by with loose humor. His remarks used to come absently from his mouth, a way to make George complain or smile. Now, he's taunted by flurries of emotions and thoughts that come after—the line between a joke and a confession becoming obscurely blurred. It isn't fair, is it?

He checks the temperature on his phone: 102 degrees. He groans.

Clicking on Twitter, he begins typing slowly.

Never underestimate the power of a heat wave, he tweets.

He scrolls for a few minutes, liking and replying to followers. He catches a few of his tagged tweets that are about their chaotic chess games, many viewers questioning why George would have made such a simple mistake during an intense match. He responds to one with a "I've been wondering that too."