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Dream opened his eyes to stare at the most beautiful boy he had ever seen. George was still asleep, his eyes closed, his eyelashes practically touching the tops of his cheekbones. His skin was rich with pink color and small freckles. Dream’s vision trailed down to George’s lips, which were slightly parted, releasing shallow puffs of breath.
What had happened last night? George had come over, something about being out at a bar and not wanting to travel all the way home (which definitely did not make Dream jealous—that George was probably hitting on or getting hit on by strangers at a bar), so Dream had let him in, pretending to make a fuss over it even though he would never turn George away from his door. They had played board games because George wanted to (like they were teenagers again and George was only the well-mannered boy from down-the-street, not the single most frustrating and most good thing in Dream’s life), then took turns using the shower, and then Dream had let George sleep in his bed, and then….
Then what? Certainly not sex, never sex. George was still clothed, in one of Dream’s shirts, which definitely did not make Dream’s heart leap to his throat and his mind spiral with the fantasies that they were going out or boyfriends —the forbidden word—or anything more than best friends. As Dream watched George, foggy memories of his dreams returned to his consciousness, of George in his bed and George reaching out to him and George pulling at his shirt and… Oh god .
He had had a dream where George was…. Dream’s gaze ran over George’s face again, both trying to fight the thoughts that came to the surface and letting them materialize, thoughts about George knocking his crotch into Dream’s thigh, about the shy smile that would appear on George’s face, about how George would grab onto Dream’s shoulders to hold him in place and press him against the mattress while kissing him. Fuck, Dream was hard.
He felt ashamed. There George was, asleep and looking absolutely blissful in Dream’s bed, and all Dream could think about was sex. Dream turned more to rub his crotch against the mattress and that felt good but it also meant he was closer to George’s face which sent Dream into spirals of nervous panic. Up this close he could see even more of George’s freckles, tiny dots across his nose and cheeks. Dream felt overwhelmed with urge: to grab George’s chin and lick up the sides of George’s face and whisper sweet things against his skin. He turned over onto his back.
He closed his eyes, evaluating the situation. He could get up and leave to relieve himself in the shower but there was always a chance he would wake George or that George would wake up alone in Dream’s bed, and neither of those outcomes sounded appealing. He could try to will his erection down but George was right there , gorgeous and wearing Dream’s shirt, so there was certainly no way Dream could do that. That left one option.
Dream slowly dipped his hand to the front of his cotton shorts and even the lightest graze of his fingertips against his crotch made him shudder. Okay. He could do this quickly, he could finish in his shorts and clean up later. He had practice from when George had joined the soccer team in high school, when he would drop by Dream’s house after practice all sweaty and tired and perfect and Dream would have to excuse himself to the bathroom to have some short, muffled relief. Dream palmed his fingers more firmly against his crotch.
It was good. It wasn’t enough. Dream glanced at George, who was still asleep. Still watching George, he moved his hand so it traced his waistband then slipped under. He could not stop the thought: of what if instead of his hand holding his cock, it was George’s smooth, long fingers and wasn’t that a thought . Dream would let George do whatever he wanted with him—if George wanted to tease him, to explore the length of his cock with his fingers without providing any actual release, he would let him. Or if he wanted to use his mouth , to try dragging his mouth up Dream’s length, to lick along the sides of him, Dream would let him. Obviously. Dream moved his hand up and down the length of his cock faster, his eyes squeezing shut. It was in the middle of an up-stroke when he caught a noise from beside him: George was moving.
He should have done something. He should have dragged his hand out from under his waistband and pretended he was asleep. But for some odd reason Dream could not move—his hand lay useless wrapped around his cock. He stared as George stretched out his legs, the length of his body elongating.
Then, “Dream?“
Fuck.
Dream flattened his hand against his abdomen. He watched as George’s eyes slowly opened. George looked confused and Dream opened his mouth to explain what had happened last night, that George had showed up at his doorstep late from a bar and that George had asked to sleep in his bed when George was suddenly pulling up the sheets.
Oh god. Dream followed George’s gaze but it wasn’t hard to guess what he was looking at. George was staring at Dream’s crotch, Dream’s hand still underneath his waistband, his cock visibly straining against his shorts. The sheet dropped out of George’s hand with a thud.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, George, I woke up like this, I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to do anything weird, I can go take a shower now.” Dream said, cheeks hot. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He was about to slip out of his own bed and never return when George said in the quietest pitch, “Don’t leave.”
His eyes shot back up to George’s face. George had closed his eyes again and he was turned onto his back. “I know,” George said without opening his eyes. “It’s okay. You don’t have to leave. You can finish here if you want.”
I know ? What on earth could that mean? But also, you can finish here if you want , which could only mean one thing and which made Dream throb against his shorts, something about the way George said it, the gentleness in his voice, the permission .
George’s eyes were still closed. He was not looking at Dream but he could certainly feel any shift in the mattress or hear any stuttered breath Dream made. Dream inched his hand lower until it was covering his cock again and the feeling spread through his entire body. He let out a huff of relief–like he was stranded in the ocean and had finally anchored himself in the touch between his cock and his palm and in the warm weight of George beside him. Dream searched George’s face again, looking for some sign of disgust or reprehension. He found none; in fact there might have been a small smile on George’s lips, which Dream did not possess the brain power to even begin to unpack the meaning of.
Dream began stroking his cock again. He was close, he knew it, and George was right there and awake, and had said that it was okay(!) Dream’s hand felt like not enough (it could not possibly be enough) and so he felt himself start to lean into it, his hips rising to meet his down-strokes.
It was hot. In feeling and temperature. It was so hot that he wanted to rip the sheets off of him and George and finish into the cold air but that would be even more embarrassing.
Dream turned his head to the side and the sight made him jerk up into his palm. George’s eyes were closed but he was still awake, Dream could tell by his breathing, and he looked almost peaceful, his eyebrows relaxed, his lips barely parted. He was warm and alive and everything Dream wanted.
Dream did not want to make any noise, so the only sound that left his mouth were little pants of air until he was spilling into his hand, onto the inside of his shorts, his best friend and the person of all his desires lying next to him. It was awful. It was incredible.
He very well could not leave now, nor did he want to, so Dream lay there in that feeling and in post-coital fuzziness, which washed over him like waves, until he heard George’s breath become even and he knew George was asleep. He fell asleep shortly after, thinking only about the beautiful boy beside him, not about what he had just done or what he would do when he woke up.