Arabesque

Entrechat

This one is super dialogue heavy but I think it's still alright! (@ my favourite simp homiesexual, I know I said you'd love this next chapter but actually that's NEXT chapter, which will come out soon anyway, sOooo).

Enjoy!

—

"Bad, he's gorgeous," George complained into the speaker of his Android, pressed between his shoulder and ear. "you wouldn't believe how he looked in the lockbox room."

"You've told me already, George." Came the tinny yet placating reply.

"Well I'll say it again! Listen, listen—"

"'M listening—"

"Okay, so like, I go to the lock room to pick up my duffel, yeah? And I'm being prompt and stuff, not taking too long, but I'm shoving my phone charger into my bag and there's this shadow, and I'm like, 'oh, shit, what the fuck is that'—"

"Language."

"— sure, and I turn around and I move to the side a bit, right? Didn't want to bump into whoever's shadow thay was. That's reasonable! So I'm standing there—"

"—barbecue sauce on—"

"— I am going to murder whoever introduced you to Vine. No, I was standing there, and Dream was going to scare me or something, I'm sure, but we ended up nose to nose, and he was just," George let out a strangled little sound that vented his frustration in what he thought was a perfect manner. "he looked so unfairly good, Bad. He has actual muscles."

"So do you? Everyone has muscles, silly."

"Not like his, dude! I'm losing my mind. It would be so much easier to talk about this in person, though." he diverted the subject as his eyes sought out the clock on his wall, unwilling to move his phone from its nook. "You almost here?

"Oh!" Bad giggled, ecstatic-sounding even over the poor connection on the phone. "Actually, about that! Skeppy found a second motorcycle helmet in his garage, that muffin, and invited me to ride on it with him to the studio! So anyway, I got Dream's number yesterday, and funny thing—"

"Bad." George shot up from where he'd been stretching, ignoring the pang of a tightly coiled muscle released too soon. "What did you do."

"Well! You still have a ride to the studio!" The ballet dancer watched, slack-jawed, as a slightly familiar yellow car pulled up to the curb by his house. "I'm going to hang up now. Bye, George!" The end of the call sounded, and if he hadn't been so absorbed in looking at the idling car by his home, he would've been surprised at the older boy hanging up first for once.

He was moving by autopilot as he grabbed his duffel bag and slipped on his sneakers, locking the door on his way out before he realized what he was doing. He considered digging out his keys and going back inside, before he caught a glimpse of a tanned hand waving from an opened window in the car. It flashed a peace sign before relaxing to drape against the outside of the car. No going back now, it seemed. With a sigh, he picked up his dragging feet, squinting against the shine of the car.

"George!" Dream exclaimed as he finally opened the door, plopping into his seat without much poise. He was once again met with a smile almost as blinding as the sunny color of the car, though the similarly colored eyes were hidden behind a pair of sun shades that sat a little crooked on the bridge of his nose. He looked so at home with the summer sun streaming through the open windows and illuminating bands of freckles that it made George's heart hurt. It reminded him too much of the previous evening, and he quickly looked away, squinting. Luckily for him, the American seemed to take his distractedness in a different way.