Archive of Our Own

Dream’s forehead prickles with sweat as he drives down the interstate. He’s in The Middle of Nowhere, Florida, and the only thing that he can see out the windshield is just more road. The air conditioning’s on and blowing his too-long hair every-which-way, but his palms still stick to the steering wheel regardless.

It’s been like that—hot, humid, and unbearably sticky—for a while now. Dream wants to crack open a window to let some fresh air filter in, but he’s not sure whether that would make the heat better or worse. He’s only just driven past Jacksonville, and they’re still hours away from their next stop. He can hold out a little while longer.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a camera lens pointed right at him. Dream huffs out a laugh when he looks a little further: George, behind the camera, staring into the little screen on the other end with all the focus and intensity he can muster.

They lock eyes from over the lens, and George’s cheeks round into a smile as he says, “Say hi, Dream.”

Skin warming, Dream turns his attention back towards the road. There’s no one in front of them for miles. “I’m driving,” he protests, but he relents immediately. “Hi, vlog.”

George laughs and zooms the camera closer into Dream’s face. It feels oddly personal after being faceless for so long to be filmed from so close up. “Is that what we’re calling them now? Just ‘vlog’?” George asks.

“What else would we call them?”

“I don’t know. Guys? Viewers? Our amazing subscribers?” George offers.

Dream scrunches up his face as he tries to mask his grin. He thinks back to when this trip was little more than just a fantasy, when he and George first dreamed it up while stargazing in the Dream Team House backyard a few months ago. George had been in America for nearly eight months at that point, and they’d done everything there was to do in Florida.

That was when Dream had suggested it: a two, maybe three month long road trip to all forty-eight states in the contiguous United States. George would get to experience the entirety of America in all its sweltering, pavemented glory, and they’d vlog the whole thing along the way.

Only three hours in and Dream is already starting to go a little bit insane. He loves driving, but he thinks the July heat is getting to his head.

“Anyways,” George says, “Dream promised me that he’d give me the full American experience, and so here we are.” He films the road outside, then pans the camera back towards Dream. “Have you been to all the states yet?”

“Some, not all,” Dream says. He smiles before he can help it. “It’ll be fun. We’ll get to experience the states for the first time together, George.”

George opens his mouth. “You’re so—” he says, and then cuts himself off at the last moment. “You’re, like, stupid.”

“I’m stupid?”

“Yes,” George says. Dream sees George zoom his camera closer on him for good measure. “Either way, Dream’s having fun,” he says to the vlog, and then turns the camera back onto himself. “I’m having fun. Sapnap’s not here, because he’s an idiot—”

“Because he wanted to visit his family over the summer,” Dream cuts in.

“Yeah, like an idiot,” George continues, “and because Dream’s an idiot who bought a van with only two seats.”

The van is an old converted GMC Vandura, used and well-loved by the previous owner, but the engine still runs smooth like liquid butter. Dream bought it when George first agreed to the trip, and it came with the back seats torn out.

Now, there’s a mattress shoved into the back by the hind doors. Dream and George’s stuff for the trip is all crammed into backpacks and duffle bags stacked up behind their seats, and there are fairy lights strung up along the ceiling. The exterior is painted light green instead of the ugly brown the van came with. Dream figured at the time that if the van was going to be home for the next month, then he might as well make it look nice.

“Two seats is plenty,” Dream replies, yawning. “Besides, it’s just gonna be us for most of the trip.”

George makes a big show out of groaning in despair. “Oh no. Being stuck in a van alone with you. My worst nightmare.”

“Haha. Very funny,” Dream deadpans.

Being stuck in a van with George doesn’t sound all too bad to him. They’ve already spent so much time together ever since George arrived in Florida: streaming together while sitting at the same computer, George monopolizing Dream’s bedroom, and Dream making the same pancakes every morning for George’s breakfast. It’ll be the same thing now—just on the road.

George squints through the lazy afternoon sunlight and props up the camera on the little tripod they have on the dashboard. Savannah, Georgia is where they’ll stop for lunch, and after that comes South Carolina in the form of Charleston. It’ll only be late afternoon by then, and after that they’ll head off to North Carolina.

The radio’s broken and there’s no aux, so George sighs as he fumbles around for his phone and connects it to the little Bluetooth speaker they have sitting in the cupholder. “Alright, fine, I’ll play music,” he says in mock exasperation.

“When do I get to play my music?” Dream asks.

“The driver focuses on driving, and the person in the passenger seat is the navigator slash DJ slash nap-taker,” George tells him, scrolling through his playlist. “Those are, like, the unspoken rules of road tripping.”

Dream is skeptical. “Sounds like bullshit rules to me.”

“You can sit in the passenger’s seat if you want to play music so badly,” George tells him.

“You can’t even drive.”

“Exactly,” George says, eyes glittering, as he slumps back into his seat.

The little speaker blares to life. It goes unsaid, but the both of them know that George has won—he always has. Maybe it’s because he’s good at convincing other people to get his way, or maybe it’s because he’s good at convincing Dream to get his way. Dream doesn’t really mind. It’s just the way that things have always been.

Against his better judgement, Dream glances over to look at George for just a split second. He’s right there, breathing and soft and sun-lit. He’s right there, but Dream still feels like George is perpetually out of his reach.

Dream takes a deep breath and forces his eyes back onto the road. One state down. They’ve only got forty-seven more to go.

The drive to Savannah, Georgia is largely uneventful. George points at the big Welcome to Georgia sign as they drive in, which has a drawing of a big, ripe peach on it, and he seems excited to visit, even if they’re only passing through.

“Is it peach season?” George asks from the passenger seat. He’s holding a map in his hands, the paper crinkled from being repeatedly folded and unfolded.

Dream has to think about it. “It’s summer, so I think so, yeah. Why?”

They stop in the historic district of the city a little while later, and Dream hops out of the van to grab their lunch out of the cooler in the back. George is standing behind him, a hand over his eyes so he can see ahead past the bright sunlight, shifting in place to stretch out his legs. The sound of cicadas cut through the humid air.

“I’ll be right back,” is all that George says, and then he’s walking off towards the distance.

Dream is confused, but he nods anyway. He takes water and two sandwiches out of the cooler, and then uses the ladder on the back of the van to climb up on top. He’s nearly a hundred percent sure that he’s not supposed to be sitting on the van roof, but he supposes it’d do him good to get some fresh air.

From here, he can see the whole stretch of the park in front of him. There’s a gorgeous fountain on one end, and on the other, a cluster of tents set up along the path. Dream cranes his neck to see stands selling jam and preserves, cheeses and eggs, and tomatoes that have been plucked right off the vine.

When George comes back, he’s holding a little cardboard box stacked to the top with fresh, Georgia grown peaches. Dream gives him a hand as he clambers up to the roof of the van—one peach nearly goes falling towards the pavement, but George catches it at the last moment.

“Farmer’s market,” he says once he reaches the top, a little out of breath. There’s a bright shine in his eyes as he takes a peach in one hand and holds it up between them like it’s some sort of holy grail.

Dream grins at him. “You could’ve just told me where you were going.”

“Yeah, but that spoils the surprise,” George tells him. The sunlight catches on his cheeks as he puts the peach right into Dream’s open palm and takes another one for himself. “Let’s do a toast.”

Running his fingers over the fuzzy peach skin, Dream asks, “With the peaches? To what?”

George shrugs, settles himself so he’s sitting cross-legged on top of the roof. The whole van shifts at their weight, but George doesn’t seem fazed by it at all. “I dunno. To the trip, I guess. To summer.”

“Okay,” Dream says. He reaches out and bumps their peaches together, like they’re clinking glasses, and they both laugh at how ridiculous they feel. “To summer.”

The fruit is juicy and fresh and sweet like candy, and George exclaims as trails of peach juice dribble down his chin and onto his shirt despite his best efforts to wipe his mouth, and Dream just sort of stares. Stares at his best friend like he’s stuck in a trance, and not sitting in the boiling heat, his sandwich long forgotten.

“Oh my god,” George says, shaking off the sticky peach juice on his hands. “Can you pass me a napkin, Dream?”

Dream blinks. The blinding sun pierces through his eyelids and burns the image of George into his brain. What the fuck is wrong with him? “Um, yeah.”

When they set off again for the next stop, the box of peaches goes into the cooler.

In Charleston, South Carolina, they park at a naval museum by the coast. There’s water out as far as Dream can see, and an old aircraft carrier is docked along the pier. George stretches his back as they step out of the van, and he hands his camera off to Dream as he grins and runs up to the ship.

He looks so, so excited, even if the thing is nothing more than an old boat with a few American flags around. He smiles into the camera, stretches his arms out, and yells, “Take a picture!”

Dream narrows his eyes in concentration as he snaps the picture. “Got it,” he calls out.

“Your turn,” George tells him. He walks closer, making grabby hands towards the camera, his hair blowing in the coastal breeze. The air smells like algae. “Give it to me.”

Fumbling, Dream hands it over, the strap dangling between his fingers. “How do I pose?” he asks. He feels perpetually awkward in front of a camera, even though it’s been ages since his face reveal.

George takes the camera in one hand and tilts his head. “I don’t know,” he says, and then snorts. “You’re Dream. I don’t—just, like, do something.”

In the end, Dream settles for just smiling widely and doing a dumb little thumbs-up. George backs up on the pier so he can get most of the ship into frame, and Dream watches as he squints into the camera viewfinder. He’s smiling too, even though he’s not the one getting his picture taken.

“Perfect,” George says, bounding over so Dream can see the picture. “I like that one. You look good in it.”

Dream feels faint. It’s nothing really special—just him, blond hair tangled in the wind, freckles prominent in the sun and wearing a wrinkled Oklahoma Sooners t-shirt. “I do?”

“Yes, idiot,” George huffs. “Come on, I wanna record the inside of the boat for my vlog.”

Surprisingly, the aircraft carrier is sort of fun. There are a few people poking around inside, looking at the old equipment, and on the top deck sits a couple decommissioned planes and fighter jets. Dream crawls into the pilot’s seat of one of them and hits a few buttons in the cockpit for good measure. Nothing happens.

George laughs at him from behind the camera. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I dunno,” Dream says, pulling on the thrust lever. “That I’d take off and fly away to Australia and leave you here?”

“You wouldn’t,” George tells him.

In the gift shop, Dream makes George take a selfie of both of them in these toy sailor hats that are most definitely made for children, and then they head back to the van for another several hours of driving. George takes something out of his pocket and puts it onto the dashboard.

“Look,” he says. “Picked it up out of the water.”

Dream cranes his head to look closer. It’s a rock, plain and grey with a big crack going down the center. The surface has been smoothed over by the force of the tides; it goes sliding down the dash until it’s pressed up against the windshield.

“What’s it for?”

“One rock for every state.” George smiles. His dark eyes are bright and golden in the sun. “Thoughts?”

“I think,” Dream starts, reaching over for the rock and turning it over in his hands, “you’re going to run out of room on the dash.”

After that comes the road to North Carolina. George sits in the passenger seat with his knees pulled up to his chest, and he scowls when Dream tells him that it’s dangerous and pushes his legs back down. George is staring at his map again, trying to figure out where they should stop for the night.

The sun is going to be starting its slow descent down the sky in just an hour or two. Dream wants nothing more than a hot meal, shower, and bed, but they’ve still got miles to go until they get out of South Carolina.

George plugs his phone in the aux again. His jaw ticks to the side in concentration as he scrolls through his music library, all songs he downloaded just for this trip, and then he’s grinning like he’s the cat that caught the canary. “I have the perfect song.”

Dream is amused. “You do?”

“You’re gonna die when you hear,” George says, hitting play. A familiar song starts pouring out of the speakers, and he laughs gleefully. “Dream. Dream.”

“George,” Dream says back. He’s got both hands tightening around the wheel and his eyes trained towards the horizon in an attempt to hide his blush, but he’s smiling regardless. “You fucking suck.”

“People change like the tides in the ocean,” George sings along, all high-pitched and giggly, and then he reaches over to poke Dream just slightly in the shoulder. “Dream. Dream. Sing,” he urges.

Dream makes a face at him. “I—what?” He eyes the camera on the dashboard, the red light blinking back at him. He’s shy, and maybe a little nervous, because having his face recorded while signing is not what he signed up for.

But for George, he’s a weak, weak man. And fuck it, or whatever. Maybe it’s time to let go of all rational thought and just let himself have fun.

So he grins, takes a breath, and leans forward in his seat. “Twenty hours, in an old van.”

“Up the east coast, through the cold wind,” George sings back. He’s never looked more pleased with himself. “I’m gonna clickbait the fuck out of you singing.”

Dream laughs and shakes his head. His whole chest feels warm and bubbly, the same way it’s felt for this entire trip. George seems to have that effect on him. “You’re so stupid,” Dream tells him fondly, in place of a real answer.

By the time they arrive in North Carolina, it’s already well into the evening. Both of them are far too sweaty and exhausted to do anything, so Dream makes the executive decision to check into a tiny bed and breakfast place away from the main city.

They get a little room with two beds and a window view of the lawn, shrouded in the twilight darkness. George claims his bed first by way of flopping down onto it and pressing his face into the pillow, vlogging camera in hand. Dream dumps their bags by the door and shifts between his feet.

“Who’s showering first?” he asks.

George groans. “You go,” he says. “I don’t think I can stand in the shower for that long.”

So Dream hops in the shower first. The water is hot and scalding as it meets his skin, washing away a day’s worth of dirt and sweat. He watches as the soap suds slide off his arms and swirl into the drain. His eyes sting—partly because of how dry they are, and partly because his shampoo has run into his eyes.

When he steps out of the bathroom, George is still lying on top of his covers, scrolling through his Twitter timeline. He somehow manages to look comfortable despite how grimey he must be, and he looks up when he hears Dream come through the door. He frowns a little. “Your hair’s getting long,” he says.

Dream runs a towel through his hair. It’s still wet, and the strands have turned from dirty blonde to almost brown. Half of it is sticking to his forehead. “Um, yeah,” Dream says. “I was meaning to get it cut before we left, but I ran out of time.”

George sits up and swings his legs down so they’re dangling at the edge of the bed. The mattress creaks under his weight. “C’mere.”

It feels like new territory to be doing this in a place so unfamiliar to both of them. Dream slots himself in the space between George’s knees, tilts his head down to look at him. Slowly, like he’s still making sure that this is okay, George reaches up to run his fingers around the hairs on the back of Dream’s head. His nails graze over veins and freckles and damp skin, and something dizzyingly airy fills Dream’s lungs. He isn’t sure why. It’s just him, George, and the moonlight.

“It is long,” George murmurs. He twirls his index finger around Dream’s hair again, once, twice for good measure. It’s grown out enough to the point where it’s past Dream’s ears when it’s wet, and falls in front of his face when it’s dry. “Do you need help?”

“I don’t—” Dream stammers. “Help with what?”

“Your hair,” George says, staring up at him. “I mean, I could cut it for you.”

Dream makes a face, shakes his head. “You don’t even know how,” he tells him. “I—you’re probably gonna make me bald, or something.”

“I know enough,” George says. He shrugs a little. “I’ve cut hair before. Just a trim, maybe. I kind of like when your hair’s long anyways.”

The idea of it makes Dream’s heart stutter. George liking his hair, or maybe just liking him.

“Okay,” Dream croaks. Is it really so bad for him to want to feel George’s hands in his hair again? “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Just a trim,” he says.

It’s settled. George drags a chair from the desk in the corner into the bathroom, and Dream rifles through their bags for a pair of scissors. The only thing they’ve got is a pair of kitchen scissors, meant for days when they’re forced to cook on the road, but he supposes they’ll work just as well.

Dream takes his place in the chair, rickety on top of the bathroom tiles. George settles himself behind him and snips the scissors in the air. “Welcome to my salon,” he says. “I heard that you wanted to get a mohawk today—”

“Oh my god, George, no,” Dream cuts in, laughing. “No.”

George pretends to sulk. “Fine, then. Just a little bit off the top.”

It’s a little bit nerve-wracking to put the fate of Dream’s hair into George’s hands, but Dream trusts him more than anyone else in the world. George starts small, snipping off little bits behind Dream’s ears, and then goes in a little bit heavier around the back.

Every few sections, he’ll run his hands through Dream’s hair and step back, like he’s admiring his work. “Your hair’s so thick,” he marvels, fingers tangled in it. “Maybe you should go bald.”

“And leave my head cold and naked?”

“Not naked,” George insists. He feathers the ends of Dream’s hair behind his head. “You could be like Quackity. Wear a beanie all the time.”

“No thank you,” Dream says, grinning. “I actually like my hair, thank you very much.”

Bits and pieces of half-wet hair fall into the sink and onto the tiles. Dream watches in the mirror as George frowns in concentration or tilts his head to get a better look. It feels intimate to blindly jump into something like this, but that’s just how they’ve always been: YouTube, America, this whole trip. If one of them goes, the other one comes along. Funny how things work out that way.

The mirror must know something that Dream doesn’t, because when he looks in it again, he sees himself smiling without even realizing it. He looks towards George and sees his pupils dilate.

George doesn’t notice. He’s only halfway into Dream’s head of hair, and the bathroom has gone deathly quiet. Something in it feels empty, like a sinkhole has opened itself in the center of Dream’s chest. He feels George’s fingertips drift across his scalp, listens to the sound of George’s breathing, and studies the faint tan lines that have already begun to appear on his skin.

The sinkhole grows a little bit wider.

“I cut Dream’s hair last night,” George says to the camera, grinning. “Dream, show them your hair.”

They’re leaving the bed and breakfast, gravel crunching under their feet as they lug their bags into the van. Dream’s exhausted—he spent the entirety of last night focusing on the steady rise and fall of George’s chest in the other bed—and now they’ve got another long day ahead of them.

George thrusts the camera forwards into his face, and Dream wrinkles his nose. The sun has just barely risen, but it’s bright enough to burn into his eyes. Dream does a little spin so the camera can see; his hair is still as messy as ever, falling in loose waves over his forehead, but it doesn’t get in his eyes like it used to. It looks good, Dream thinks. George did a good job.

“Yeahh,” George exclaims, drawing out the syllables. “I like it. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Idiot,” Dream says, because right now, it’s the only surety he has.

Once they’re back on the road, George returns to studying his map, another one of the peaches from the cooler in hand. They’re already starting to over-ripen, the fleshy part of his peach growing mushy and too sweet.

“I wanna spend more time in the fun states,” George says out loud.

“Fun states?”

“You know, like the big ones. New York, California. I wanna see if Florida Disney is better than California Disney.”

“Hey,” Dream protests, “North Carolina is plenty fun.”

“How?” George asks him incredulously, gesturing around outside. It’s just more trees and pavement for miles. “There’s nothing here.”

Dream bites back a laugh. “You asked to see America, George. I’m just giving it to you. We’re almost there, anyways.”

George pokes at a bruise on his peach. “To see a rock.”

“To be fair—” Dream rushes out— “it is a very nice rock. Supposedly. And it’s more about the view from after we hike up to the rock.”

George just makes a face at him and laughs. He looks comfortable today, slouched a little in his seat, legs bare past the knees because it’s far too hot to be wearing anything but shorts today. The sun is caught in his face in a haze of golden light. Dream just wants to stare at him.

But Dream’s driving, and silly, stupid thoughts are starting to distract him, so he forces his attention back onto the road.

When they arrive at Chimney Rock, George pops open the trunk so they can get their backpacks. He clambers over the mattress in the back and tosses Dream his bag. It’s unbearably sunny today, so Dream looks around for his sunscreen and passes it to George.

“I’m not gonna burn up, Dream,” George tells him.

“You might,” Dream says. He shrugs and reaches towards George to open the cap for him. “I mean, I do.”

George grins, one eyebrow ticked up. “Wow, okay. Mister Florida Man just, like, dissolves into dust when he goes into the sun like a vampire.”

George ends up putting on the sunscreen, slathering it over his arms and legs, neck and face. There’s a little bit left over on his hands though, and he looks much too proud of himself when he brings his hand up and presses it right against Dream’s cheek. He uses his palms to rub the sunscreen in a little, but his hand lingers.

It sends sparks shooting up Dream’s spine. George’s hand, pressed up against the curve of his cheek, thumb drifting over his eyebags. Dream must be hallucinating from heat stroke or something.

“There,” George tells him. His hand falls. “Your turn.”

Dream feels like he’s going to pass out. He puts on two layers of sunscreen just to be safe, double-checks that their water bottles are full, and then they set off towards the cliffside. The ache in Dream’s bones from driving for so long seems to loosen with each step, and the woods around them are thick enough that the heat isn’t too relentless.

There’s a set of wooden stairs leading up to the main view, and so they tighten their bags over their shoulders before they start the hike up.

“It’s nice,” George says suddenly. “Walking around, I mean. I like it.”

“Really?” Dream asks. “I was, like—worried you wouldn’t.”

That was the thing about planning the trip. Dream remembers the two of them, sitting in bed together with a laptop balanced precariously over their knees, combing through each state on Google Maps. They’d put together a rough list of attractions they were interested in visiting, but nothing was set in stone. Picking things out for both them and the vlog was harder than expected.

George shrugs, and his pack shifts against his t-shirt, revealing a small patch of bare skin. Dream does his absolute best to maintain eye contact. “Yeah,” George says. “After being sat in the van for hours, it’s nice. I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t mind it or do you like it?”

“Do you like it?”

Dream has to think about it for a second. He’s been stuck inside for so long, watching all his friends have fun without him from across the globe, and he knows that George has suffered that deep kind of loneliness too.

So it’s nice. To have some form of assurance, like a safety net, that George is next to him and that he isn’t going to leave anytime soon. Dream wants to freeze this moment and stop this cruel Earth from rotating on its axis. He wants to hold onto this summer for as long as he possibly can.

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Um, do you?”

“Well, you’re here. So I’d say so, yeah.”

The way that George says it—candidly, like it’s a fact—nearly knocks the air out of Dream’s lungs. It reminds him of before, when George was in England and all they wanted was for him to just be there. But Dream doesn’t say anything. He just looks forward towards the horizon and keeps on climbing.

When they reach the top, all they can see are lush green forests and winding rivers. George records the view and turns the camera around so he can get a few shots of the two of them, hundreds of feet off the ground. From up this high, the warm wind whips in Dream’s face. He doesn’t get too close to the railing. He’s always been afraid of heights.

George, though—George leans over the little metal fence and peers over the rock to the ground below. His hair is all tousled from the wind, and Dream nearly wishes that he could cut George’s hair this time and return the favour.

“You were right,” George calls out, voice loud and carried away by the sky above. “This is a nice rock.”

There’s an elevator off the side of the staircase, and neither of them are particularly athletic, so they opt to take that on the way down instead of hiking back. On the way to the van, George makes Dream stop as he pokes along the trail for his North Carolina rock. He picks one out from the forest, a jagged striped one that must have been eroded off of Chimney Rock from over the years.

They settle back into the van. George puts it on the dashboard, and it goes sliding into place right next to the South Carolina rock. Like two puzzle pieces from different sets that somehow fit together anyways.

Dream has to take a deep, shuddering breath before he starts the car.

They’re on their drive up to their next stop in Virginia. George falls asleep somewhere along the way, lulled to sleep by the soothing, constant sounds of the van engine, and he’s curled up in the passenger seat with his head resting against his window. He’ll stir every so often when the van hits a bump in the road, so Dream does the best he can to keep them steady.

It’s hard not to look at George. Even after all this time, some parts of Dream still aren’t convinced that he’s real. Like when the AC makes George’s lashes ruffle up, or when they’re at a red light and Dream can lean in and count the freckles on George’s skin that’ve darkened ever since he moved to America. He smells like summer, Dream’s coconut sunscreen, and peaches.

At some point, Dream pulls over for gas, and George startles awake when the engine shuts off. He looks disoriented from their new surroundings: the sky bleeding orange, the scent of petrol hanging in the air. His sleep-swollen eyes blink around. It’s more endearing to Dream than it should be.

George stretches out his joints. “Where are we?” he asks, voice weighed down by sleep.

“Blacksburg,” Dream tells him. He’s already halfway out his car door, but there’s something about the gentle exhaustion in George’s voice that makes him want to stay. “Do you… I mean, if you’re tired, we can stop driving. We can pull over at a campsite or something, use the mattress in the back.”

“Use the mattress?” George repeats back to him, jokingly, teasingly, with his nose scrunched up. “Dream.”

“Okay—not like that,” Dream splutters, cheeks warming. George has always been good at making him flustered. “I meant that, like, if you want to lie down—”

“I know what you meant, Dream,” George says gently. He sighs as he tips his head back against the headrest, eyes drawn shut like the light outside is too blinding for him. “Could we actually?”

So they do. Dream fills up the gas tank, and their plans for their next stop in Virginia are promptly pushed back to the next day. George uses his map to direct them to a campground just a half-hour drive away, paper crinkling under the relentless air puffed out by the AC.

When they arrive, the sky is quickly dimming. George climbs out of his seat and opens the trunk to get to the mattress. He switches on the fairy lights strung across the ceiling, tilts his head back to look at them as if they’re a sky of constellations.

Dream sits next to him on the edge of the trunk. He pops open their cooler and rummages around for something to eat, but there’s nothing much. They’ve got a portable grill somewhere in the van, but neither of them feel like cooking tonight. In the end, he and George end up passing a box of Cheerios back and forth, tipping the contents of it into their open mouths. The vlog camera is left on the van dashboard.

They’re the only ones around. Dream can hear the chirping of crickets coming from the thick forest surrounding them, swallowing them whole from all sides. The darker that the night grows, the more that the trees begin to look like shadows, inky forms lost to the darkness.

Dream sighs and tucks his knees up to his chest. It feels different without the camera around—like something more vulnerable, intimate. Like when they were first getting started with YouTube, and they had to learn to draw that new line between content and reality. Part of him misses those days. But Dream knows that right now—being elbow-to-elbow with George, syncing up the rhythm of their breathing, going to sleep with the reassurance that George will be there when he wakes up—is even better.

“Those woods are fucking scary,” Dream confesses. “Like, look at them. You can’t even see anything past the trees.”

George pokes him between the ribs. “You’re such a—like—scaredy-cat, or something.”

Dream has to hold back a laugh. “Scaredy-cat?”

“Yeah,” George says, grinning. “You get scared. You get nervous and blushy and shit and then you just run away.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It does,” George sing-songs, “it is. That’s you. Like when we went to Universal and I had to drag you onto half the rides before you could run off.”

“Because roller coasters suck,” Dream protests. He pokes George back in the thigh. “What about you, huh?”

George makes a face at him. “What about me?”

“You get scared,” Dream says. “You, like—get into these dumb fights with Sapnap and then turn to me and expect me to take your side.”

“That’s different, though,” George tells him. He looks down at the ground for a moment and drives his heels down into the dirt below him, stray pebbles and leaves crunching beneath his feet. Then, he kicks Dream in the shin and holds out his hand for the cereal box. “Shut up. Gimme that.”

Dream gives the box to him. “I stay impartial,” he says.

“You stay an idiot,” George shoots back, words muffled by a handful of Cheerios.

“Ew, you’re gross,” Dream tells him, shaking his head, but he’s laughing anyway. He makes a face and pushes George away by the shoulders. “Get away from me.”

George resists, pushing back against him and craning his neck forward into Dream’s face. “Nooo,” he draws out.

“You’re getting fucking Cheerio crumbs all over the mattress,” Dream exclaims, halfway between laughter and genuine shock. He snatches the box of cereal out of George’s hands. “I thought you were tired. I thought you wanted to lie down.”

“I am,” George says, as if suddenly reminded. “Maybe I just wanted to talk to you, Dream.”

A strangled breath rises out of Dream’s throat, and he turns away in an attempt to hide it. His heart rate picks up in his chest. This is so, so stupid. He feels stupid. His mind races as he tries to think of something to hold on to, some absolute truth that can keep him from spinning out of orbit.

“Well, I’m tired,” Dream says. The abrupt clarity in his voice surprises him. “So maybe we should go to bed.”

George doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just goes still, stares into Dream’s eyes like there’s some sort of secret that Dream is hiding in there, and frowns. His brows draw together, his stubbled jaw clenches. The crickets chirping on in the forest seem apathetic.

Dream stares back at him. He feels like he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what.

“Okay,” George says, finally. “Okay, we can go to bed.”

George puts the box of Cheerios away. Look at me, Dream wants to tell him. They slam the trunk shut and kick off their shoes. Do something. They shuffle back until they’re both settled comfortably on the mattress, and then George pulls the fuzzy blanket that he brought along for the trip over their bare legs. Reach over, loop your arms around my waist, and hold me like you mean it.

Dream lies flat on his back and forces his vision up at the fairy lights. He watches as they twinkle, fading in and out of brightness, and does all he can to ignore George’s ankle brush up against his. Sleeping in the same bed is nothing new for them—they did it when George moved to Florida and they wanted to spend every single minute together, and they’re doing it now—but something about tonight has Dream’s heart pounding. His entire body feels hot. Maybe he should just get out of bed and sleep in the driver’s seat tonight so he doesn’t have to—

“Dream?”

He feels breathless. “Yes?”

“Can you, um,” George says. He looks awkward, one hand held out like he wants to tap Dream on the shoulder, his brown hair tousled and falling into his eyes. “Could you turn off the lights? It’s bright, and the switch is on your side.”

“Oh,” Dream says. Stupid. “Yeah.”

The lights strung up above them wink into darkness, and the van goes pitch black. Dream feels George sink deeper into the mattress from next to him, feels him turn over and shift to get more comfortable. He can’t see, but he knows that George is looking at him right now, big brown eyes blinking at him in the barely-there moonlight.

Against his better judgement, Dream rolls over to face him. “I think this summer is going to be good for us,” he croaks out.

“You think so?” George whispers back, but Dream can tell by the tone of his voice that there’s no need for an answer. The bedsheets rustle as George reaches up, hesitantly, towards Dream’s hand resting in the shallow space between them. “Is it okay if I…”

Dream doesn’t even know what he’s agreeing to, but an empathetic “Yes,” escapes his throat before he can help it.

He feels George inch impossibly closer, and then loop their pinkies together like a promise. The gesture is enough to make him feel dizzy. If he just reached out a little more—if he had the courage to tangle their fingers together—

George sighs a soft, satisfied sigh, and all those thoughts melt away in the blistering summer heat. “G’night, Dream,” he mumbles.

So fucking stupid. “Goodnight,” Dream says.

Dream stays up for an hour straining his ears to hear the sound of George’s heartbeat, then stays up for another two relishing in the soft dips and curves of George’s hands. He counts the seconds that it takes for his resolve to crumble away long after George has fallen asleep, and then when tears start to pool beneath his eyes, he counts how many times he needs to blink them away.

Two seconds after they drive past the Welcome to New York sign, George says, “We should go to Times Square.”

It’s a week later. George is slouched in his seat, his laptop wobbling over his knees every time the van hits a crack in the road. Dream recognizes the video paused on his screen: it’s the two of them, laughing at some café in Baltimore because Dream got donut icing on his nose. George has been trying to start editing his vlog together recently, but with all the distractions of being on the road, he’s been largely unproductive.

“Dream? Thoughts on Times Square?”

“Oh,” Dream says, zoning back in. He tightens his grip on the wheel, focuses on the bright horizon ahead. “Yeah, Times Square sounds fun.”

And so Dream drives them to New York City and follows his GPS to Times Square. Trying to find parking nearby with their big, bulky van is some new kind of hell, but when he finally finds a spot, they both breathe a sigh of relief. New York is breathing and alive and busy; Dream supposes that the summer season does them no favours.

George buys a cheesy pretzel from a stand to share on the way there. The dough is hot on Dream’s fingers, and when he tears off a chunk of it, steam comes rising out. It’s salty and soft and the flavours are sharp in all the right ways. George grins up at him, and then he pulls off another piece and feeds it to him. Something about that makes Dream’s heart swell.

When they get to Times Square, George is filming with his camera out. He steps in front of Dream, looks around at the flashing neon billboards, and says, eloquently: “This place sucks.”

“Right?” Dream says. Someone behind him bumps into his shoulder as they walk past. “I’m fucking overwhelmed. It’s loud. There’s too many people.”

“I thought it would be like in the movies or something,” George says, frowning. He turns back towards the giant billboard towering over him, the lights turning his skin blue, then pink, then lime green. “This is just advertisements.”

Dream laughs, but it’s drowned out by the sound of everyone around them: the chatter, the music, the cars. He has to nearly shout to talk to George. “We should’ve gotten our own billboard up there or something. Then we’d actually have something to look at.”

“Yeah? Of what?”

“Of the Dream Team, obviously,” Dream tells him. “That’d be epic.”

“We should’ve put your face reveal on a billboard,” George replies. He’s got one eyebrow quirked up, lips pulled into an almost-smile. “That would’ve been epic. Everyone would be wondering who you were, and then you’d get a hundred million subscribers overnight. Easy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dream says, nudging George in the shoulder. “You could put your face up there and milk your pretty privilege, or whatever.”

George wrinkles his nose at him, ears going pink. He holds out the last bite of their pretzel in a silent invitation. “Shut up. We’ll just do, like—a DNF billboard, and then we’ll both get a hundred million subscribers.”

Dream takes the chunk of pretzel, fingertips covered in bits of powdered cheese. “You get me,” he says.

They set off down the sidewalk back towards the van. The air here is hot and sticky from the crowds, swallowing them from all sides, and Dream just wants to melt into it, wants to turn into a puddle of goo on the sidewalk. It’d be far, far easier than suffering through the rest of this summer’s heat.

George is looking at his phone, scrolling through his camera roll while they walk. Dream peers over his shoulder to see. There’s the selfie from the naval museum gift shop in Charleston, and a few from the Minecraft exhibit in New Jersey, grinning next to giant models of creepers and zombies and endermen. A couple of Dream’s side profile while driving, haloed in twilight. He didn’t even know that those existed.

“I—when did you take those?” Dream asks.

“Last week or something, I don’t know. Somewhere between Pennsylvania and Delaware,” George says, turning off his phone and pulling it to his chest like he’s been caught. “Why were you looking?”

“Why were you taking pictures?”

“Hey,” George protests, grinning as he elbows Dream in the side, “I asked first.”

“I didn’t know I was being interrogated,” Dream snarks, but he’s smiling too. “I don’t even know. I guess I’m just nosy, or whatever.”

“Nooo,” George says. He’s got a playful look on his face. “You’re just… clingy.”

“Am not,” Dream scoffs, making a face. He feels warm all over and can’t tell if it’s from the heat. “Stop changing the subject, idiot. Answer my question.”

“What, the pictures?”

“Yeah.”

They reach the van, parked on the side of the road and unmistakably theirs. George wrinkles his nose as he tightens his grip on his door handle. "Maybe I just wanted them,” he says, simply.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe I just thought you looked nice,” George tells him. His voice is pitchy, and he clears his throat. “Is that so bad?”

Yes, Dream wants to say, because you don’t like me back and this makes everything so much worse.

But his heart is caught in his throat and his brain waves feel all tangled up, like he has to unravel every agonizing thought he’s ever had. Instead, he takes a breath before tucking his hands into his jeans.

“Oh,” Dream forces out, voice raspy. “Well, thanks.”

George nods at him, almost stiffly, and then he’s ducking away into the van. The door slams shut with resolute strength, and Dream is left standing on the sidewalk, trying to compose himself before something else goes terribly, terribly wrong.

“Wait, wait, oh my god, stop,” George blurts out.

New York City passes by in a blur. It turns out that New York has an influence on George, because he leans into all the touristy bullshit that he’s seen on television: dragging Dream to the top of the Empire State, riding the subway to the deli spot that he picked for lunch, tossing coins into the fountain in Central Park and refusing to tell Dream what he wished for.

Now, they’re in the van again on a small road just past Syracuse. Raw panic hits Dream’s mind first at the jolt of George’s voice, but he has the good sense to not immediately slam the brakes and send them both flying into the dashboard. Instead, he eases up on the gas. “What?”

“Just—wait, just pull over,” George tells him.

As soon as Dream parks on the side of the road, George gets out of the van and jogs forward, staring at something off in the distance. He doesn’t even bother to close his door. Concerned, Dream follows him out, sneakers hitting the sweltering pavement on the road.

“George?” he asks, shielding his eyes from the sun. Tentatively, he reaches out for George’s shoulder, and his voice drops into something softer, gentler, the kind of tone he uses on Patches when she’s scared of a thunderstorm. “Hey, are you okay?”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting when George turns around. George is nauseous from food poisoning in New York, maybe, or he’s got motion sickness from spending so long in the van.

Instead, George turns to him with a smile, pointing at the road ahead.

“I saw this!” he exclaims gleefully. “Dream, oh my god. I saw this. On GeoGuessr. I saw this exact spot, like, a day before we left Florida, and I guessed the United States and now we’re actually here.”

Dream heaves out a sigh of relief. “You’re an idiot,” he decides to say, mind still recovering from whiplash. “You scared me, you know that, right?”

George doesn’t respond. He’s too busy looking at the maple trees scattered along the road, the dandelions and weeds sprouting out from the overgrown grass below, and turning around in slow circles like he’s savouring this moment for all that it is. He looks cute in his oversized I Heart NY tee and the sun in his hair. Summer is a good look on him.

“This is awesome,” George says, turning back towards Dream. “This is like GeoGuessr IRL.”

Dream laughs. “Except you already know where we are.”

“Yeah, exactly. This trip has just been one giant ruse for me to become the number one GeoGuessr US player, and you fell for it,” George says. Then he tacks on, “Idiot.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dream tells him, scoffing. “Get back in the car. We have places to be.”

George rolls his eyes, but he shuffles back towards the van, kicking up gravel along the way. When they’re both back inside, Dream cranks up the AC a bit and rolls back his shoulders before he starts driving again.

“I miss GeoGuessr,” George says, picking at his cuticles. “I haven’t played since we left.”

“We can play tonight, if you want,” Dream offers. “Find some wifi, play on your laptop.”

“Mm,” George hums. He’s got his eyes closed, head tipped back against the headrest as he sinks into his seat. Soft, warm, vulnerable. “That sounds kinda fun, actually.”

“Yeah?” Dream asks.

“Yeah,” George tells him. “We can have a little sleepover. Just like the old days.”

Dream holds back a grin. “Old days?”

George frowns, eyes still kept firmly shut. “I guess I just mean before,” he says. “When I was still in London, and we had our Discord sleepovers.” He cracks his eyes open and wiggles in his chair. “I guess I kind of miss it, in a weird way.”

For a moment, Dream’s entire being cracks. “You miss London?”

“Maybe,” George says. “Sometimes. Like, I miss my family and my friends and my pets. But not in a way where I want to live there again, you know? At least not yet.” There’s a tiny smile on his face, and Dream can see George turn towards him out of the corner of his eye. “I have you and Sapnap and Patches now, anyways.”

Something rosy and warm works its way across Dream’s ears, cheeks, nose. “Aw, George,” he coos, sticking out his bottom lip. “I didn’t know I meant so much to you.”

George somehow manages to screw his face up at him even though he’s smiling. “And now you’ve ruined the moment,” he sighs, throwing his hands up into the air. “Dumbass.”

Dream doesn’t say anything. He just smiles back and focuses all his attention back towards the road, trying to ignore the way his heart is beating in his chest like a drum and making his body ache.

Their next destination is Niagara Falls, and by the time they arrive there, it’s only midday. Dream hops out of the van to stretch his legs in the parking lot. Even from here, he can feel the mist from the waterfalls on his face, the coolness of it washing over him like a tidal wave.

“Hurry up, idiot,” George calls out. He’s standing a little ways away, vlogging camera in hand and squinting in the bright summer sun. “I wanna see the water.”

“My back fucking hurts,” Dream groans. “Let me stretch for a minute longer. The waterfalls aren’t going anywhere.”

“They are,” George deadpans. “They’re leaving, and they’re leaving fast.”

So Dream shakes out the rest of his achy limbs and follows George across the parking lot, down the sidewalk, and towards the falls.

There’s an observation deck somewhere along the way, and they both peer over the railing to get a view of the water, bright blue and crashing down the river in patches of white seafoam. Dream slides a quarter into one of the coin-operated binocular machines and turns it towards George.

George looks at him, confused. “Why are you, like, zooming into my face?”

“I’m looking at you,” Dream says, grinning. “Obviously.”

“Stop,” George laughs. He looks silly through the binoculars, holding his hands up towards the lens and the image of him zoomed in too far. “You’re wasting your precious quarter.”

“It’s only twenty-five cents,” Dream protests. He keeps his face pressed firmly against the machine in fear of George seeing how blushy he must be. “I just want to look at you, George.”

Through the binoculars, he sees George huff out a laugh, sees the fullness of his cheeks as he smiles. “Yeah, okay, we get it. You’re like, a billionaire or something,” he says, and then walks out of Dream’s field of vision. “C’mon, I wanna go on the boat.”

It’s a short walk away. They go down towards the dock and buy their boat tickets. Before they board, they throw on their disposable raincoats, and then they step onto the boat and set off into the tumultuous waters.

The ride is bumpy and windy and icy cold. Sprays of misty water hit Dream in the face, despite his raincoat and the boiling summer heat. George is pressed up against the railing, waving at the Canadian boat across the river and trying to film the rainbow that’s appeared in front of the giant falls. Faced against them, Dream has never felt so utterly small.

“Stop leaning against the railing, idiot. You’re going to fall off the ship,” Dream tells him. He’s barely audible over the sound of the rushing water.

George turns back to look at him. His hair is all wet and curly from the mist in the air. “Well if I fall, then you’ll just dive in and save me.”

“How?” Dream exclaims, incredulous. He stands next to George and points down off the boat. “Do you see these fucking waters?”

“I don’t know. You’re Dream,” George says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You just would somehow.”

Dream would. He’d give George the universe if he asked, plucking the stars from the sky like ripe fruit and pulling the planets of the solar system out of their orbits. He’d turn the world upside down if it meant that George could stay next to him like this forever: peach juice on his lips, the sun kissing his cheeks.

Something brave strikes within Dream, then, and he blindly reaches down for George’s free hand to intertwine their fingers together. The curve of George’s palm feels warm, solid, safe, like a heartbeat pressed against Dream’s ear. Like a reassurance standing in the face of the howling wind.

Dream takes a breath before he squeezes George’s hand, trying desperately to say, As long as you’re here, it’s enough.

George squeezes back. I know, he replies, with the brush of his skin and the steadiness of his knuckles. I’m here.

Later that night, they get a hotel room to sleep in before getting back on the road tomorrow. It’s nice—the air smells like eucalyptus, and the bedroom has clean sheets and a mattress that’s soft and springy. Dream sighs as he lays down, the duvet swallowing him whole. He could just fall asleep right now.

But George is sitting at the desk across the room, face lit in the pale glow of his laptop. The GeoGuessr home page is on his screen. “Dream,” he says, dragging out the vowels. “You said we were going to play tonight.”

“We can still play,” Dream offers, shifting up in bed so he can get a better look at George. “I’m just gonna watch from here, probably.”

“Just come over here,” George insists.

“No,” Dream says. Then: “You come over here.”

George looks to consider it for a second, staring at him. Dream is sure he looks absolutely ridiculous: hair splayed out on his pillow in messy waves, duvet tucked up to his chin. But it’s George. Dream wants to open himself up to George wholly, to allow George to learn the ridges of his spine and the pattern of his brain waves. He thinks that George would let him.

Finally, George huffs and gets up, balancing his laptop in his hands. Dream moves over to make room for him and holds up the covers so George can slide into place. The laptop settles between them, and the warmth of it only adds to Dream’s exhaustion.

George presses play. The screen changes, and now they’re on a road, surrounded by dry sand and dirt and rocks. No buildings, no license plates—just a few poles along the side of the road.

“Alright, Dream,” George says, clicking around. “Where do you think we are?”

Dream squints. His eyes sting from the brightness of the computer, and he blinks away the pain as he tries to focus. “Um,” he starts, “I dunno. We’re driving on the right, so.”

“So,” George teases. He spins their view around, zooms in on a road sign. “It’s Arabic.”

“Palestine, then,” Dream decides. His voice is weighed down by sleep, and he has to resist the urge to yawn. “Or Jordan.”

George guesses Palestine. He’s wrong. It’s Jordan, and he lets out a long, annoyed groan. “Dream.”

“George.”

“You’re dumb,” George tells him, poking Dream in the arm and making him squirm.

This time, Dream yawns, and he turns his face into his pillow in an attempt to muffle it. “‘S not my fault you picked the wrong option.”

He’s so comfortably warm, and he can’t tell if it’s from the weight of the duvet or the presence of George next to him. Dream could just drift away on the feeling of this alone. He wants to take this moment and let it fester in his dreams.

His eyes close without him realizing it, until he hears the laptop shut and feels it lift off of his lap. George shifts next to him under the covers.

“Hey,” Dream mumbles, eyes only halfway open. He reaches out blindly towards George. “Why’d you…”

George takes his hand, presses it down onto the mattress. “Because you’re falling asleep on me, Dream,” he says gently.

“Oh.” Dream frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” George tells him. “I know.”

“You know?”

“I know you spend all day driving us around because I don’t have my license yet,” George tells him. He feels George’s fingertips rake against his scalp, and in his exhaustion-addled haze, tries to lean into it. “I know you’re tired.”

Dream hums. “You should really get your license.”

George laughs, soft and muted like he’s afraid to disturb the quiet that’s settled between him. “I should,” he agrees. “And you should go to bed.”

Dream cracks his eyes open all the way. He’s slouched against George’s shoulder, pressed up against his side. It’s warm enough to sink into. George is sitting up against the headrest—one hand in Dream’s hair, the other in his lap—smiling down at him. Dream can’t tell if this is real or some fantasy his brain has made up to soothe him to sleep.

“Talk to me,” Dream rasps.

“Talk?” George asks, tilting his head. “About what?”

“Whatever you want,” Dream croaks out. “Niagara Falls. Your vlog. Your dumb rocks.”

“They’re not dumb,” George tells him, combing through his hair, but he relents with a sigh. “I got a new one today. It’s from the gift shop in the hotel lobby, and it’s only technically a rock.”

Dream snorts. He lets his eyes fall shut again to the feeling of George massaging his scalp. He can feel the good vibrations of it down to his bones. “Technically?”

“It’s a geode,” George says. The syllables melt together in Dream’s ears like liquid gold. “Amethyst. It’s probably fake, but like, it looks cool. It’s supposed to be for protection. Emotional balance.”

Dream sighs in contentment. He can smell George’s body wash and the faint scent of laundry detergent woven into the stitching of his sleep shirt. “Protection from what?” he tries to ask. It comes out rougher than he intended, tangled in with his yawns.

George shushes him. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be literal,” he says, like he’s thinking out loud. “I think it's supposed to be about… the feeling of security and safety. Things like that.”

I feel that way with you, Dream thinks, thoughts so thick and heavy in his skull that he’s not sure he’ll remember this tomorrow. It’s just them, no cameras, no prying eyes. I feel safe right now.

“But I don’t know,” George adds, before Dream can get the chance to vocalize anything. “I don’t really know if that stuff is real or not, so.” He clears his throat, and the covers wrinkle together as he moves to get out of bed. His warmth slips out with him. “You should probably go to sleep now.”

Dream squints at him, too fatigued to move, but all he can see is the faint outline of a silhouette, backlit by the orange light of their lamp. His throat feels like sandpaper. “You’re not going to stay?”

The look of pity on George’s face is blurry. “There’s another bed,” he says.

And Dream says, “I know.”

Something unspoken passes between them in the spaces of their silence. Heat flares in Dream’s chest. He can’t tell if he went too far, can’t even tell what he’s doing. All he knows is that George is right there, close enough to touch, and Dream wants to reach out and try.

George huffs and shakes his head as he climbs back into bed. “You’re so clingy. You know that, right?”

“Mhm.” The bed dips, and with that knowledge, Dream lets his eyes slip shut again. “You’re an idiot.”

The lamp clicks off. Dream can feel George getting settled in next to him and leans into the warmth. He itches to reach out, to hold George by the waist like he’s always wanted.

George grins at him. “You love me,” he says.

Dream takes those words in his mind. He flips them upside down, turns them inside out, rearranges them until they’re gibberish, but he still doesn’t understand what George meant. You love me, George had said. You love me, you love me, you love me.

You’re my favourite person in the world, Dream wants to tell him. Of course I love you.

But thoughts like that are dangerous. Tearing apart a friendship he’s had since he was sixteen is dangerous.

So Dream holds all those thoughts within him. He holds them inside until it physically hurts, and then he holds them inside until he falls asleep to the rhythm of George’s breathing: slow, steady, and sure.

“Okay, wait, this one is good. What can you have in your right hand, but never your left hand?”

It’s some number of days later—Dream isn’t really sure. Everything has started to blend together as of late, in a hazy routine of driving and talking to George. He doesn’t even know what day of the week it is.

But he does know that they’re in Michigan, and they’re heading back to their hotel after a long day swimming at the lake. George is rattling off random riddles from some website he found on his phone to pass the time.

Dream thinks about it for a second. “Your left hand.”

“Fuck you,” George replies, groaning. “How do you know all of these?”

“I’ve just, like, heard all the ones you’re telling me,” Dream says, trying to defend himself. “Just pick a really, really obscure one that’s impossible to solve.”

George squints in concentration at his phone. He’s barefoot since his shoes are filled with sand, and his shirt’s still wet in the front from his damp hair. “Okay, shut up. People need me to buy things. What am I?”

Dream scrunches up his nose. The answer seems too obvious, but he goes for it anyway. “Money?”

George lets out a high-pitched, ecstatic laugh. “No, Dream, you’re wrong,” he teases. “It’s dough. Get it? Kneading dough?”

“Okay, that one’s dumb,” Dream protests. “That barely even makes sense! Technically. Technically—I’m right.”

“No, you’re a sore loser,” George tells him, smiling with rounded cheeks as they pull into the hotel parking lot.

When they get into their room, the first thing George does is jump onto his bed and press his face into the clean duvet. Dream laughs and moves to push his legs off of the mattress. They look a bit darker than they did yesterday, the sun gradually leaving behind tan lines as the summer creeps on.

“Ew, get off the bed,” Dream says. He drives a finger into George’s thigh. “You’re still dirty from that Lake Michigan water.”

George flips over to face him with pink cheeks and a mischievous grin. “We’re not sharing a bed tonight, so why do you care?” he asks.

Warm panic rises to Dream’s face first. “I—what?” he splutters, trying desperately to find something to keep him from slipping. “I was, like—saying that for you. Because you’re making your sheets dirty, idiot.” He kicks George lightly in the ankle. “Also, you stink.”

“You stink,” George retorts. He stretches his arms out to the side, like he’s a bird in one of those National Geographic documentaries showing off its wingspan, and sighs as his eyes flutter shut. “If you want me to shower so badly, just come into the bathroom with me.”

“What?”

“Not like that,” George says, between his teeth. “I just meant that, like, I can shower, and you can sit on the tile near the tub and we can talk.”

It’s stupid. It’s a terrible, terrible idea. But Dream has a thing for bad ideas, and he also has a thing for George, so he says yes.

He waits outside of the bathroom for George to get settled. Once he hears the sound of running water, he carefully opens the door just a sliver and peeks inside.

“George?”

“I’m here,” he replies. “You can come in.”

Dream pushes the door open. The air inside is warm and humid from the shower, and there’s condensation already starting to form on the mirror. The shower curtain is closed tight.

He sits down by the tub, just like George said, and listens to the water hitting the porcelain and swirling down the drain. Things are different now, he thinks. Different from before, when George would bring his phone into the shower back when he was in London. It feels intimate for George to trust him like this, to be so close yet so out of reach. Dream’s chest aches.

“The water here is so hot,” George says. His voice echoes and bounces off the tiled shower walls. “I turned it nearly all the way to the cold side and I’m still boiling.”

Dream hums. “Fix it, then.”

“I’m trying,” George tells him. He pauses for a second, and then makes a noise of disgust. “I can see all that sand washing down the drain.”

“Gross,” Dream tells him. He stares ahead at the wall ahead of him, listens to George’s feet squeaking against the tub. “This is why you need to take more showers.”

“I take loads of showers, Dream,” George says. Dream can tell he’s smiling without even seeing his face. “Hypothetically, I could be the cleanest person on Earth right now and you just wouldn’t know it.”

“Yeah, but you’re not,” Dream scoffs. “I can smell your five-in-one shampoo from here.”

“It’s not five-in-one,” George tries to protest. “Whatever. I just washed my hair. I’m stealing your soap. Which one is yours?”

“Don’t steal my soap,” Dream warns, but it falls on deaf ears.

George laughs out loud as he looks through the soaps set along the edge of the tub. “Oh my god, you brought your vitamin C scrub?”

“George.”

“Hold on, I’m smelling it.”

There’s the sounds of bottles clattering, and then the lid of the jar coming undone. Dream wraps his arms around his knees. He can smell the scrub through the vapor in the air; it’s citrusy, like the lemonade shop they passed by in Massachusetts, but almost woodsy, like the forests in Virginia.

“I like it,” George says, suddenly. “It’s kind of like… grapefruit.”

Dream holds back a yawn. He’s exhausted after a full day at the lake with George, swimming and splashing water at each other and lounging in the sun. “I’ve never had grapefruit,” he confesses.

George hums in understanding. Dream can only assume that he’s slathering the scrub all over him at this point. “You should try it,” George tells him. “It, like—it smells like you.”

Some sick, invisible force takes Dream by the lungs and pulls all the air out of him. You’re so cute, Dream wants to say. You make me want to kiss you. He thinks about what might happen if he tucked George’s hair behind the shell of his ear, if he settled himself between George’s legs like that night in North Carolina—

“I’m done,” George announces. The running water shuts off and leaves them both in silence. “Um, could you, like—”

“Oh,” Dream cuts in. “Oh—uh, yeah.”

His legs are swaying with the force of a tidal wave as he stands up from the tile, and they’re shaking as he slips out of the bathroom and sits on the edge of his bed. It feels like the longer that this summer stretches on, the wider that Dream’s sinkhole opens up, tearing him open from the inside out.

Sometimes, while they’re stuck in traffic, Dream will look over at George—George, with his bright eyes and pink cheeks and stupid vlog camera—and think that there’s no one else he’d rather be on the road with. Because Dream wants George, wants him in every state, wants to follow him to the ends of the Earth. Dream wants George however he can have him, even if it means spending a lifetime as nothing more than just friends.

The walls are thin. Dream can hear George getting dressed and brushing his teeth through the bathroom door, and he prays that George can’t hear him thinking from there. His thoughts loop around his head and turn themselves to an indistinguishable pile of mush. I love you, he thinks. I want you to love me back so hard it hurts. I want this summer to last forever. I need you to understand.

George comes out of the bathroom. The skin by his collarbones is still damp, and his hair is curly where it falls over his widow’s peak. He smells like grapefruit.

Dream desperately wills this cruel Earth to swallow him whole.

“Oh my god, Dream, look,” George tells him.

They’re hiking in North Dakota, in Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Dream crouches down next to George on the hillside. Far off into the distance, in a field of yellowed grass, there’s a herd of bison soaking up the warm sun. They seem peaceful, tails swishing around them in contentment.

George fumbles for his camera, zooms in on the bison. They’re so close; Dream can make out the tangles in their fur and the notches in their horns from here. He’s never seen bison before, but he supposes that this trip is full of firsts.

“They’re kind of cute,” Dream finds himself saying, before he can stop himself. “Like, they look happy.”

George sits down cross-legged on the dirt. He squints off into the field, pointing somewhere ahead. “That one’s you,” he says.

Dream grins. He shuffles closer and knocks their elbows together. “What, are you calling me cute?”

Scoffing, George shakes his head. “No, I’m calling you a big idiot,” he says, and points ahead again at one of the bison, grazing on grass under the shade of a tree. “You’re that one. Sitting in the shade because you’re afraid of the sun.”

“You’re that one,” Dream says. He gestures at one of the bison laying down in the sun, fast asleep.

George makes a face at him. “How?”

“Lazy,” Dream says, cheeks hurting with how hard he’s smiling. “C’mon, the sun’s about to set. I’m hungry.”

They head back to their van, parked in a campground just a few minutes of hiking away. George clambers into his seat and tosses their bags in the back, then pulls out the cooler. Dream pops it open. They went grocery shopping for dinner earlier today, and they’ve got everything they need for a good burger sitting inside. Dream sets up the portable grill on a picnic table, and both of them huddle around it, holding their hands over the top to check if it’s warm enough.

When it’s sizzling hot, Dream throws the meat on the grill. George sits at the picnic table, and even though the vlog camera’s obscuring half his face, Dream can still see his smile behind it. Dream feels warm. He can’t tell if it’s from the grill or the summer heat or the comfort of knowing that George is there.

Dream slathers mashed avocado on his burger, George lays down a slice of cheese on his, and then they’re both clambering on top of the van. The sky is melting now, into the same colour as overripe peaches and the pink on the highs of George’s cheeks. It’s peaceful. The air smells like good food. Dream wants to grasp this night in his fingers and carry it in his heart.

“I kinda missed you cooking for me,” George confesses, mid-bite. “I don’t—it’s just good, y’know? You’re good.”

“You like my cooking?”

“Mhm,” George says. “It’s just, like, warm. Better than McDonald’s.”

Dream laughs loudly, and the sound cuts through the chirp of cicadas. “Do not compare my cooking to McDonald’s.”

“It’s a compliment,” George protests. “You know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” Dream replies, a little too fondly. George’s praise makes him feel dizzyingly content. “And luckily, I like cooking for you, so funny how things work out.”

It’s an understatement. He doesn’t know how to put it into words, but cooking for George is like food for his soul, like he’s fulfilling some invisible need to care. to nurture, to protect. To see George happy and healthy is all Dream’s ever wanted, even if his heart calls for something more.

They finish their burgers to the last drop of the setting sun, then dust off their crumbs off the side of the van. It’s colder now without the warmth of daylight, and Dream shuffles in closer until their knees are knocking together. The twilight breeze makes him shiver.

“George,” he whines. “It’s cold. Hug me.”

“No,” George laughs, pushing him away. “I'm cold, but I’m not complaining. Go get your hoodie from the trunk.”

“It’s too far,” Dream complains, voice pitchy. The desperation of wanting pulls at the strings of his mind with a tug, and his head falls down on George’s shoulder. “George.”

“Dream,” George responds. He smiles with half his face screwed up, and he takes Dream’s face between his two palms. “Why are you being—being so, like—weird?”

“Not weird,” Dream says, looking up at him. “Just cold.”

“Uh huh,” George replies disbelievingly, pulling Dream’s face closer so he can get a better look. He squints at the spot between Dream’s eyes, the tip of his nose, the space just above his lips. “You really do burn up fast in the sun,” he says, softer.

They’re too close. Dream nearly pulls away, but he doesn’t want to ruin this moment before it’s had the chance to take root. “I do?”

“You’re, like, all red and sunburnt,” George says, and then laughs. “Do you always get like this?”

“I have thin skin,” Dream tries to protest. He’s a little uncomfortable, hunched over so George can look down at him through his eyelashes, but he’d gladly stay here forever. He tilts his chin upwards, studies the speckles stretching across George’s nose and cheeks. “What about you, huh? Your freckles are all dark now.”

“Yeah, like yours,” George says. He presses one of his thumbs into the side of Dream’s jaw, like he’s checking how much pressure it can take before it falls open. “Your skin’s getting tanner now, too.”

“Because I’m actually out in the sun for once,” Dream replies. He turns his head to the side, just slightly, and sighs into George’s palm. The sky above has turned into a void of stars and endless space, and he can only barely see through the darkness. “I’m still cold.”

“You’re stupid,” George tells him, but he moves his arms so they’re hugging Dream at the waist, pulling him in. “Better?”

Dream’s head feels like it’s been turned upside down. He can pick up the scent of George’s skin from here, can trace the shape of his collarbone and press his ear against his chest to hear the beat of his heart. Impulsively, he reaches out. Hugs George back, like he’s tethering himself to George. It’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Better,” Dream says, grinning into George’s shoulder. “You’re comfortable, y’know.”

“Don’t start falling asleep on me again,” George says, but it sounds like an empty threat. He sighs into Dream’s hair. “Now what?”

“What?”

“What do we do?” George asks.

“I dunno. Exist,” Dream replies. He allows his instincts to pick at his mind further, to let his next words spill out of him before he can think too hard about them. “Kiss, maybe.”

George shakes his head, and Dream can feel his nose against his scalp. “Dream,” George breathes out. “Just—don’t.”

Dream frowns. “Why not?” he asks, nearly whiny.

“Because you don’t mean it,” George says. He pulls away just slightly, letting his arms fall loose around Dream’s waist.

“I meant it,” Dream tells him. It’s so honest that his voice sounds like it’s about to crack. “One hundred percent, I meant it.”

“But you don’t mean it in the way that I want you to mean it, Dream,” George says. His eyes are glossy, searching for something in Dream’s face that isn’t there, and he reaches up to run his thumb over Dream’s cheek. “I want you to mean it in a different way.”

Dream feels breathless. “Different how?”

George just looks at him. He looks almost resigned, a barely-there frown set over his lips. “You’re my best friend, Dream.”

“I know,” Dream reassures. He inhales a sharp intake of air, spurred on by nothing more than his brain running on overdrive. “I just—I meant it. I meant it.”

An exhale escapes George’s lungs. He traces his thumb over Dream’s face, presses it against his bottom lip until his mouth parts. Dream lets him. It takes another deep breath for George to say, “I trust you. You know me.”

“I do,” Dream whispers. “Kiss me?”

George leans in. His cold lips press against Dream’s own, and Dream lets his eyes fall shut, pushing back against him. There’s the feeling of George’s hand ghosting his jaw, then tangling itself into his hair. Warmth floods into Dream’s chest, comforting and glowing like the feeling of coming home. He cups George’s face in his hands, feels the solid realness of him down to his fingertips. Dream’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

He’s forced to pull away by the growing ache in his lungs, but he keeps his hands firmly planted on either side of George’s face. “You’re my best friend,” he says, repeating George’s words back to him. “And I love you. So much.”

“Dream,” George says, breathy and in disbelief. He laughs, bright and clear into the starry sky, and then pulls Dream in by the neck for another kiss.

They hold hands over the van center console. They kiss at red lights, and when the stoplight turns green again, they pull away with spit-slick lips. They go to South Dakota and Montana and Wyoming, and George vlogs the whole thing, camera in hand as they hike through the trails of Yellowstone. The camera is more for them now than for the vlog—it gives them the surety of taking a moment and turning it into something tangible and alive.

True to Dream’s word, George’s rocks start to crowd up on the dashboard, so Dream buys him a little box to keep them in. The box goes in the van glove compartment, and Dream hears the familiar sound of them hitting together every time he hits a speed bump.

On the drive down to Nevada, they get stuck in a sudden burst of rush hour traffic. It’s getting dark, the van AC is working overtime, and Dream misses the comfort of his bed back home. But then he looks over at George, biting down on his thumb nail as he searches for the next song to play, and all that stress fades away.

Dream manages to sneak a glance at George’s lockscreen. It’s the picture of him he saw in New York, the candid one of him focused on the road. The knowledge of that makes his skin warm. This is what he was made for, Dream thinks; this is what the cosmos decided was his purpose. To love, to be loved. To push and pull against George’s lips like an ocean’s tide.

He opens his window all the way and sticks his head out, reveling in the warm air against his face. This is real. This is everything he’s ever wanted and more.

“After Nevada,” George starts, tugging Dream back to reality, “can we do California next?”

Dream dips his head back into the van. “California’s fun,” he says. “And then Arizona, and Colorado, and New Mexico.”

“And then after the forty-eighth state, we book tickets to Alaska,” George continues, with a smile that could rival a thousand suns. “And then Hawaii. So I can collect a volcanic rock. And then I’ll be like, whatever, let’s go to Guam.”

Dream laughs. He would go anywhere, he thinks, as long as George came along with him. “I’ve heard Guam is nice.”

George reaches over, takes Dream’s free hand in his own, and slots their fingers together like they were made to fit. “I’m excited to look through all the vlog footage when we get home,” he says. Home. The reminder of that does funny things to Dream’s stomach.

Scrunching up his nose, he says, “As long as you don’t ask me to edit it for you later.”

“What,” George deadpans. “Dream. Please.”

“Nooo,” Dream insists. He takes their intertwined hands and pokes George in the shoulder. “I’m staying strong here, George. I’m holding my ground.”

George grins back at him. “You say that, but you’re going to end up editing it for me anyways.”

Yeah, I am, Dream thinks. But he just laughs and shakes his head. He squeezes George’s hand, gives in to the rhythmic thump of affection in his chest, and pulls George in for a kiss.

In turn, George follows.