Though he desperately refuses the conformities of modern novel tropes, George acknowledges he's just the same as every book character. A side character that is. Studying his way into writing a hit novel George has to master the ups and downs of his...
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"Of all the things I've loved, Darling the best, by far is, you" Roadtripsong Abby Cates
George
Pressing the ice gently to his cheek has even my own mouth wincing at the swollen skin around his eye. Eighteen and falling apart for the last few months, we sit in silence after a long drive to a hotel from the stadium. One of the last games of Dream's high-school career ended in a blood bath and a few extra bruises. He sits on the end of the hotel bed fresh out of the shower and lets me kneel over him, tending the wounds he hasn't acknowledged yet.
I'm containing the deep-rooted frustration I have for him as he soothes my sides with his thumbs absentmindedly. Both running back and forth over my waist to tell me to silently relax. I bend my knees and let myself rest gently on the top of his thighs.
"I miss you," is the first thing he says. Both palms stay grounded to my T-shirt while his thumbs trace over and over. Soft then softer, he exhales. "I'm glad you could come this weekend."
"You act like you never see me anymore," I press the ice pack to his eye again. Dream doesn't even flinch this time, he only furrows those pretty brows and grips me tighter. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Besides, I've just been busy with finals."
"I know."
"So, why are you so upset then?"
He pauses, then quietly Dream says, "Would you hate it if people thought we were together? Like... Boyfriends?"
That forces me to swallow the dryness in my throat, easing the ice from his face to get a better look at him, I stare. There's something there he's keeping to himself, something heavy, it's been weighing on him lately. Cold and tired in a way Dream has never been before. I brush a hand over his damp hair deep in thought before I answer.
"No. We've pretended before. Why?"
"Would you hate it if we were real boyfriends?"
Stunned, and a little hurt by hope, I flinch back, "You aren't gay, Dream."
"But if I was?"
"But you aren-"
"George," he interrupts gently. A calculated hand strays from my waist to hold over my frigid fingertips. "If I was. Would you hate it to be with me? Answer me honestly."
"Dream," I whisper back with a slack jaw, "where is this coming from?"
If the small shake of his damp curls isn't nearly heartbreaking enough, his voice comes out rough, "Just answer it."
"No. No, I wouldn't hate it."
He nods, a kiss placed over my fingertips, but he doesn't say anything more. And maybe I'm a fool too in love to understand what that meant. Too in love and crowded by things to understand that I shouldn't tilt his head up. I should know not to thumb over his bottom lip and hold my breath. I definitely should not press my own lips to his, because I already know the reaction I'm going to get.
