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Dream wonders if he’ll ever get used to this. He was, once, a long time ago, but that was then and this is now. He sits with one leg bouncing nervously, heel hitting the floor in rhythm with the synthetic beat echoing from the recording studio. His eyes fall to the other side of the room, where George is standing, carefully adjusting the tuning pegs on the top of his guitar.
Before he can catch it, a frustrated groan escapes his throat. George glances his way, raising one eyebrow, before he sets the guitar down and steps over, sliding into the chair beside him. “What’s with that?” He asks, laughing in a soft sort of way—Dream notices that before he registers the hand reaching up to ruffle his hair. It draws another groan from him, though less frustrated and more teasing this time around.
“Dunno,” Dream admits, swatting away George’s hand; it leaves the brunet frowning playfully, but neither of them mind. “I guess I’m just…out of it.”
“What, generally, or just…this?” George takes a slow gesture between the two of them, then offers a sheepish smile. It almost baffles Dream.
“No, no , god no,” Dream scoffs, nudging George with his shoulder. “I mean the whole…music thing, I guess. I don’t hate any of it, trust me, I love it all and I love being able to sing with you and Sap again, but it’s…tough, I guess. Getting back into the swing of things.” He runs his teeth across his bottom lip for a moment, then stills one open palm over the front of his knee to keep the movement from increasing. “It’s been a good while—years, I mean. Of course I’m gonna be…nervous.”
Humming in acknowledgement, George tilts his head to one side. “You know how to adapt, though,” he says, holding his hand a bit closer, a silent offering to hold onto if he wanted—if he needed. “I think you’re doing just fine, all things considered. You’re not the only one of us who’s nervous, you know.”
Dream opens his mouth to protest, but the look George gives him is enough for his jaw to snap shut before even a full second passes. Instead, he grumbles something under his breath and laces his fingers between George’s.
“I’m struggling, too,” the latter continues, gently squeezing Dream’s hand. “It’s all familiar, sure, but it’s not like we’re just…pressing play on the moment we stopped so long ago. It’s fresh water, or something like that.”
Despite himself, the blond snickers. “Sorry,” is almost immediate, because he can feel the disapproving look coming his way. “I’m not laughing at you, promise. It’s just…a silly comparison, I guess. Fresh water—what are we, fish?”
“Okay, well, why don’t you come up with something then, smart guy?”
“I will,” Dream decides, a grin spreading across his face. “In fact, I’ll make a whole song out of it. Just for you. It’ll be our next big hit.”
George scoffs this time, rolling his eyes. He presses his thumb into the top of Dream’s hand, just hard enough for it to be something of a punishment without it hurting too much. “You’re such an idiot. I’m trying to cheer you up, dumbass. Maybe I’ll let you suffer in silence next time,” he teases.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Dream gapes at him in faux dramatics, gasping as if he’d just seen a ghost pop out of the wall in front of him.
“I would,” George shoots back, initiating his own shoulder nudge this time. Dream laughs, and it feels good. “Besides, you seem just fine now, anyway.”
Dream glances away for a moment, then shrugs. His expression softens, the front of his shoe tapping the slightest bit faster; he can hear the music picking up in muffled cadence. “‘Cause you’re here,” he mumbles.
There’s a quiet moment of softness, of unspoken fondness that sits between them. They don’t speak for that moment, allowing themselves to bask in it; George offers another squeeze to Dream’s hand, and the blond knows it is enough. The moment breaks only when George’s hand wanders back to his guitar, and he apologetically adds, “I’m sure you don’t want our first single back in the industry to be out of tune.”
“You’d find a way to make an out of tune guitar sound good.” Dream shrugs a second time. “Wouldn’t matter anyway.”
“Okay—cute, but fundamentally, you are wrong.” George shoots him a grin, plucking at the strings of his guitar and fiddling with the tune pegs. “Nothing could make an out of tune guitar sound good.”
“You could,” Dream insists. “You could make anything good.”
“Love is…deaf, or whatever,” George teases lightly with a grin, sitting at the edge of a stool and propping his guitar over his leg.
“Your guitar is in really good shape,” Dream points out, gaze flicking down to the baby blue polished wood. “Have you been maintaining it all this time?”
“...Maybe. I guess I always was hoping that things could go back to the way they were. I don’t know that I could’ve ever fully convinced myself to hate you.” A pause. “I was pretty damn close, though. I definitely didn’t like you, that’s for sure.”
Dream blinks at him. “Thanks?” George laughs, and Dream looks back down at the floor again. The instrumental that they’re meant to be copying in the studio and pulling into a finished demo begins to fade out, and he knows the time is coming for them to actually start getting down to business. No matter what sweet words George has, it’ll be nerve-wracking no matter what.
“What about you, have you been taking care of your instrument?”
Dream’s eyes raise up to meet him with a puzzled expression. “...My throat is my weapon, George. I sing.”
“You can still do vocal exercises and avoid strenuous activities.” George raises an eyebrow again, and somehow it makes Dream feel like he’s being scolded by his high school music teacher.
“And what strenuous activities should I be avoiding?” Dream counters. “What strenuous things could I possibly do with my throat?”
The innuendo flies over his head entirely. At first. “Screaming excessively, talking excessively and loudly—that one must be so hard for you, poor thing—certain drinks, smoking, uh…”
“What about certain forms of intimacy, George, should I avoid that, too?”
Once it clicks, George shoots him daggers. Dream lets out a quiet laugh, glancing at the tinted glass of the actual soundproof recording studio once the instrumental finally goes quiet. “That’s our cue.” George stands up, slinging his guitar onto his shoulder with the strap. He offers Dream his hand once more with a small smile. “Come on. You got this.”
Dream finds himself taking it again, a very difficult offer to refuse. He wonders faintly, for only a split second, if George notices the way he softens into mush around him. Especially recently. It’s almost embarrassing—that is, it would be, if he wasn’t completely and utterly proud of just how god-awfully in love with the Brit he is. If only his weak-willed, acne-ridden teenage self could see him now.
The recording studio feels just a little bit cramped, but it’s not like he hadn’t known it would feel that way. As Dream knows all too well, being used to living outside for a few years on end and then suddenly having to stuff yourself with a shit-load of instruments and equipment into a soundproof room is not exactly the easiest change in the world. He’s not going to complain, though. He’ll take a minor amount of claustrophobia over dumpster diving any day.
A small shiver runs down his spine at the memories. If only he could forget those.
Sighing to himself, Dream steps in front of the microphone that’s set up in the center of the stuffy room. He can see the person managing the audio on the other side of the room flash him an encouraging smile paired with a thumbs-up, but it doesn’t really do anything for him. His nerves are not made of steel— unless, of course, he’s making a stupid decision. Like, perhaps, somehow finding the home address of a former friend and bandmate and then showing up at his doorstep, drenched in rain, begging to spend the night in an actual house and not having to share a blanket made of leaves with a pack of far-too-angry squirrels. Another less-than-fond memory.
Nonetheless, he wraps his fingers around the end of the microphone and takes a breath. His eyes close, he stills himself, and feels the beat of his heart knocking against the inside of his ribcage. He can hear another quiet reassurance from George, but the words are muddled before they reach his ears.
Dream’s shoulders slump, he parts his lips, and—
A shrill sound infiltrates the room, piercing and high-pitched. Both he and George wince backward, and Dream’s hands tighten around the microphone as if the pressure would silence the horrid noise.
“What the fuck?”
He watches in utter confusion and something akin to horror as the person on the other side of the glass scrambles out of their seat in a hurry, then only a few seconds later does the door swing open and reveal none other than Sapnap, pure irritation etched across his face.
“What the fuck?” is spoken yet again, though Sapnap offers the words to the air this time around. His brow is pulled together tight at the middle of his face, a frown dragging the corners of his lips downward. “You two are such dickheads, you know that?”
Dream can only stare, because he really doesn’t know what to say.
George, on the other hand, laughs and Dream thinks he might have a death wish with the way Sapnap’s shoulders stiffen even further thanks to the sound.
“George,” he hisses, and for once the blond is thankful that Sapnap is mad at someone who isn’t him. Not that he’s entirely glad that Sapnap is mad at George, or at all for that matter, but a win is a win. “This isn’t funny! How the fuck are we supposed to be The Dream Team if it’s not all three of us? Screw you guys!”
“I—” Dream splutters “—I didn’t know you were recording with us today!”
George lets his laughter calm before he sighs it out and adjusts the guitar strap slung across his shoulder. “I figured you were busy,” he says slowly, “and would just, I dunno, record the drum part separately. It’s not that difficult to add in post.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Sapnap spits back, and Dream is moderately worried, but George looks none the more phased by any of this, which is honestly calming. Oddly.
“Will do,” is all the brunet offers before he taps his fingertips against the polished texture of the guitar. “Are you gonna join in then? Or just stand there looking stupid and eat up our recording time?”
He pauses, then, and Dream can see the color red spreading through his face to the tips of the ears. He can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry or embarrassed, though.
“Fine,” Sapnap grumbles, yet when his eyes fall to the drum set sitting idly in the far corner of the room, he visibly relaxes. He situates himself in the seat, inspecting the drum set and drumsticks with something of an expert eye, but Dream can’t help laughing at that.
It’s so…them, somehow. In the stupidest of ways.
Again, he’s readying himself at the microphone, and as the worker does one final once-over of the audio mixing, Dream flashes them an apologetic smile.
And then the music starts up.
He can feel that he’s shaky at first; it isn’t because he hadn’t sung, because he had—it’s hard to kill a passion like that just because you don’t have a ‘productive use’ for it. But more so because it’s all so familiar that it’s jarring. They’re all here; he can see George glancing at him for cues—when Dream’s singing slows or he pauses, they both pause, too, as if they’re perfectly synchronized. Within minutes, after just one flubbed take, they’re right back to how they used to be.
It’s a bit overwhelming. He realizes, then, just how much he had missed them—missed this. How grateful he is he finally worked up the guts to fix it once and for all. It’s in that moment that he swears to himself to never fuck it up again. Things feel more honest from the get-go; there’s no hidden or repressed feelings, everything’s out in the air.
He has to stop midway through their second take because he chokes himself up, much to Sapnap’s amusement, apparently; George just offers him a small smile. He can tell it’s getting to him, too—even to Sapnap, in his own inexpressive way. By take three they’re truly soaring; it’s the best take so far, and one that Dream thinks could wind up being the final demo. The music cuts, and Dream steps away from the microphone, chest heaving with breaths. It’s silent for a moment, all eyes on the mixer outside. When they give another thumbs up, Dream lets out a breath of relief.
Sapnap is, surprisingly, the first to cheer. George follows with laughter, and then Dream’s smile is splitting—they’re all cheering and laughing, pumping their fists and jumping around like idiots in the tiny booth. It’s not quite like it used to be. It’s better.
The adrenaline gets to him, and Dream surges over to George, grasping him by the shoulders and pulling him into a kiss. It’s nowhere near passionate or intimate, but rather full of energy and sloppily executed. It’s hard, so much so that he swears his lopsided smile might actually imprint across George’s own.
He only pulls back to laugh again, breathless this time around, and just maybe also because of the loud gagging noises coming from Sapnap’s side of the booth. George looks up at him with wide eyes, but there’s not a hint of any distaste or regret hiding behind the irises. He looks giddy, resting a hand over Dream’s heart. It feels like it might just belong there.
“I love us,” the blond whispers as he looks at George. Then, pausing, and louder, he repeats, “I love all of us.”
Sapnap gives a mildly disregarding grunt in return, but he’s still tapping his drumsticks against the drum set in happy little movements. Dream didn’t know he could scope out an emotion like that before, but it’s practically radiating off Sapnap’s body that it’s impossible not to catch.
“I love us too,” George hums back, pulling his hand away. “Think it’ll reach the top of the charts?”
Dream smiles. “If your playing is anything to go off of, yes.”
“Don’t discredit your vocals, Dream.”
“I think I carried both of you, I dunno,” Sapnap chimes in, a smug smirk pulling his lips to the sides.
“Right,” Dream replies. He rolls his eyes, wiping sweaty palms over the sides of his pants. “I’ll add a drum solo for you in my next record-breaking song.”
“I’ll hold you to it, asshole.”
“Love you too, Sap.”
Sapnap huffs, but Dream can hear the garbled mess of words returning the affection. It’s nice.
All of it.
He looks between the two of them, still taking up George’s personal space in that loving way he does, and thinks this might last forever.
He hopes it does.
He thinks they might agree.