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Sonrisa. 

It was the name of a band that went viral, the name of four guys who made it big. Their music was played all over the world, on every music-making device of the early 1980s. 

Dream liked the fame, sometimes.

He liked the way people yelled his name when he walked into the room, the way every girl was dying to have his arm around their shoulder. He liked record deals and the plain and simple thought that his music was out there for the whole world to hear. The lyrics he held close were sung by others globally, the melodies the band created were stuck in people’s heads for days.

But fame, however, always had its downsides.

Dream didn’t realize all of fame’s blemishes until he met George. 

George with his pretty brown eyes, like caramel crescent moons and warm childhood teddy bears. George and his curly brown hair, perfect for running a warm hand through on a rainy day. George and his killer smile, George and his witty sense of humor, George, George, George. 

George, the one person Dream could never allow himself to fall for. And yet, he fell hard. With every aspect of his being, he fell for the brunet. 

Ever since they met eyes during the London concert, Dream was a goner. Ever since the brunet introduced himself with a lazy grin and told the blond his singing was ‘decent’, Dream had no chance with anyone else. 

Their first night together was spent under moonlight and stardust. 

At first, George had sat around with Sonrisa after their gig– he was, apparently, an old friend of Karl’s– and fit right in with the whole vibe of the group. Together they had a couple of drinks, laughed, and talked until one by one the other three left for the tour bus. 

Dream, however, was much too awake with the closeness of George right next to him to sleep. The electricity between their shoulders was livid, and even though they’d only just met, Dream wanted to pull him closer. The London air was making him crazy, he decided.

George was pretty in the darkness of the London night, his face was lit up beautifully by a nearby street lamp. He looked so at home, so comfortable, that Dream sort of wanted to stay there forever. Fuck the tour, George was better.

He was so in awe of the brunet next to him– trying to remember every single attribute about him before he inevitably left for Brussels in two days time– that he didn’t even notice the brunet was speaking.

His honey-like voice, his thick English accent, had been seeping through the night sky, and Dream had been too wonderstruck to realize.

“Dream,” the brunet said again, voice soft as a ripened strawberry, “Dream, are you listening to me?”

The blond zoned back in immediately when he felt a small hand brush a gentle touch against his thigh. The motion gave him butterflies, and the brunet’s voice alone almost made him see stars. He nodded, “Of course. How could I ever ignore you?”

The words were true to his core, they’d slipped out in a moment of pure honesty, of pure vulnerability. It was his way of saying: I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. It was an attempt at seeming cool, an attempt to behave the complete opposite than the way he felt (which was, in a word, completely fucking terrified). 

“I dunno,” George said sweetly, scooting just an inch closer to the blond next to him (‘for the warmth,’ he’d say later on). “You sort of went all spacey on me.”

Dream sighed slowly, dangerously close to resting his head along the brunet’s shoulder. George was tempting as the apple in the Garden of Eden. He’d never wanted anything more than he’d wanted to know George. He wanted to dive in and discover every part of George’s aura, wanted to learn all the information he could about the brunet next to him. Dream wanted to hold George close and never let go.

The thought– the thoughts he’d had tonight– were gut-wrenching, heart-breaking things. He couldn’t afford to think that way, not ever. But there, in the London moonlight with George, every sinful yearning he’d felt had been okay. Gentle touches felt earned as if there was nothing more satisfactory than being in the brunet’s presence.

“Long night,” he said, finally choosing to give in to his wants because after all, he only had one more night. After tomorrow, he’d never get the chance to do this with George again. 

As blond curls settled around a tense shoulder, Dream started to have second thoughts. He wondered if he’d done the wrong thing, if George had thought he was weird or one of the queers the news’ always tortured (in his defense, there, in the quiet empty streets, he was . But nobody else needed to know that, no one else earned that right). He frantically waited and waited for George to push him away, but then–

George’s hand found the nape of his neck, and he threaded his hands through soft curls until Dream felt sleepy with desire. 

“I called you decent earlier,” George said, quiet as the night.

“What?” Dream whispered to the stars surrounding them.

George chuckled as his hand fell from Dream’s hair to his shoulder. He rubbed tiny circles up and down his arms length, touch as light as a feather. “I called you decent earlier, but I was completely lying, Dream. You were incredible tonight, probably the best band I’ve seen perform in a long while. Karl told me about you… and, I mean, I’ve heard your voice before obviously, but seeing you perform– seeing you perform in person was totally different. I could tell how much you loved it up there, I really could.” He paused, his hand’s motions stopping, “I don’t think many bands ‘love’ it nowadays. I think it's really important that you do, that’s all.”

The blond could hardly even breathe after that. He was awestruck, paralyzed. George’s words were a spider’s web, and Dream, the unsuspecting fly, had been woven right into it. 

He gulped, cheeks red enough to be embarrassed. He couldn’t fathom looking at George right then, didn’t trust himself to be faced with such beauty of a man at the time being. He stayed against the brunet’s shoulder instead, breath puffing smoke in the cold wind. “I really don’t know what to say to that, but uh… thank you?”

“It’s the truth,” George hummed, voice supple as a daisy. 

He lifted up his pale, lithe fingers tinted purple from the cold. Dream wanted to hold his hand. 

George cut him off before he could, “We should go,” he said gingerly. “I don’t feel like dying of hypothermia tonight.”

Slowly, Dream let himself sit back up straight. He missed the warmth next to his cheek immediately, but when he saw George’s pink face stained from the cold, his heart felt all gooey again. 

As they stood up to leave together, Dream so badly wanted to take the brunet’s hand into his. He wanted to hold it as he walked George home, wanted to fiddle with his fingers as they stood side by side. But George held his own hand before Dream could act on his stupid, lovestruck urge.

He reached for the brunet’s shoulder instead, eyes pleading with one final question, “Will I see you again tomorrow?”

George tilted his head, deviously making Dream wait. It felt like the gods were punishing him for his desire– a whole 20 seconds of agony as his penance. Finally, finally, to numb the pain of waiting, waiting, waiting, George grinned. “I suppose so,” he said, teasing, “If Karl can get me tickets again.”

Dream’s eyes widened in pure delight, as if he’d seen a thousand gardenias. “I’ll get you a ticket,” he said quickly, almost easier than breathing. “You’ll be front row, I promise.”

George smiled, sweet rosebuds filled with snow, “You’ll upset a lot of people if you do that.” His voice sounded anything but worried, like he was almost smitten to be treated this way. “Sonrisa has so many fans, so many Dream admirers. I can’t imagine what they would do if they heard you telling me this.”

The blond’s cheeks were as pink as a dahlia. “I don’t care,” he voiced. “I want to see you again.”

The words fell through his lips much too simply. It was scary, the way he was so quick to know what he wanted with George. The idea of seeing him again tomorrow was almost horrifying, but the way his heart beat faster at the thought made it all worth it. 

George looked as if he were debating for a moment before moving in closer. His hands found Dream’s shoulders, and as his lips inched closer, Dream was itching for them to meet his own, desperate to finally know George even further. 

The brunet’s lips found his cheek, and Dream involuntarily let out a gasp at the tenderness, his eyes closed in warmth. Where George’s lips touched, his senses burned. It was as if every fiber of his being was lit aflame as their skin was connected.

The touch of the lips– the kiss – faded, and Dream thought it would be okay to open his eyes. But then he felt the warmth again on his other cheek and he sunk deeper into an unending feeling of being burned alive. 

He’d never felt as he did right then. No girl had ever set him on fire, no girl had ever ignited him as so. He was drowning in George’s fire, lost to a sea of blaze. 

When George pulled away, Dream could barely speak. George, pretty George with eyes like the sun, had kissed him on the cheek, twice. 

The brunet, however, was giggling, sweet as peaches on a summer day. “Spanish custom,” he said, as if Dream had any idea what the hell he was talking about. “You would know.”

He could hardly gather himself as he asked, “Huh?”

George was still smiling like an Adonis as he moved closer. He tucked Dream’s hair behind his ear, hand staying put for just a moment too long. “ Sonrisa is your band name, idiot. It means smile in Spanish?”

Dream blinked, head spinning at the fact that George was so close, “Well, Quackity came up with the name. Said we needed something with ‘spunk.’”

“Well,” George said, “The dos besos mean ‘hello,’ or ‘goodbye,’ or ‘see you later,’ basically whatever you want them to mean.”

Dream was frozen in place. “What do you want them to mean?”

George grinned and stepped away. “See you tomorrow, Dream. I expect you to follow through on those front row tickets!”

He crept away, disappearing into silver moonlight, and left Dream standing there, outside the London auditorium, holding his cheek in surprise. He could hardly believe what had happened that night, could hardly even function correctly when the thought of George kept circling his brain. 

As Dream walked back to the tour bus that evening, there was something in his chest he’d never quite felt before. He felt like he was weightless, walking in midair. 

He smiled as he closed the door behind him, ready to face the impending doom of tomorrow as long as George was by his side. 

The next morning, Dream had asked Quackity about the dos besos thing, totally inconspicuously and not at all suspicious in his form.

“It’s all fake,” he’d said, grinning. “People give dos besos and all, but from what I’ve heard they don’t actually end up kissing the cheeks. It’s air kisses, I believe. Like what the French do.”

Dream had absolutely lost his mind at that. If George had known what dos besos truly was, then he’d had to have known they weren’t actual kisses. Yet, Dream had felt his lips, warm and real, at the edges of his cheeks. So, surely, George knew what he was doing. Right?

The day went by leisurely. There were sound checks and practice sessions, and Dream found himself exhausted before the concert had even begun. The only thing that was keeping him going for the night was the thought of George being there. He might see George again, might be able to talk to him. He was bouncing in delight, purposely choosing to ignore the pounding in his head that kept whispering to him that it was only one more night.

He could get his number, write down his address. They could communicate throughout the tour, they could keep in contact . There was no way Dream would let George slip from his grasp that easily. 

But as the crowds began to waft into the stadium, Dream found himself getting more and more nervous as he stared out at the people from behind the curtain. Seats were being filled, fans were humming in excitement. Dream, though, saw no sign of the brunet from the night before. 

It’s not like he craved George’s presence, exactly. It was just… he wanted to know why he was so drawn to a boy he’d never met before. He wanted to know George in the short time they had left, wanted to figure out why his heart beat faster at the thought, why his hands grew sweaty at the image of the brunet in his head. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

“Dream!” a voice called out from behind a pile of instruments. “You have a visitor.”

He knew the voice was Karl just by the bubbly aura surrounding it, but when he ventured past the colossal pile, he wasn’t expecting to see the brunet holding his bass, with George right next to him. The brunet was dressed in a pretty fur winter coat, a god-awful striped blue shirt, and khakis; Dream was awestruck.

Karl bounded away, giggles echoing in his trek.

George smiled as he stepped forward. “I got Backstage Passes,” he voiced, holding up a hand with nothing in it. “They’re right here, and definitely real.”

Dream had to laugh. Maybe out of relief for finally seeing the brunet again, or maybe just because he was funny. Whatever it was, the brunet’s gleaming eyes made it impossibly hard for Dream to remember he had a concert to be getting ready for. He grinned, “I thought Backstage Passes were for after the concert.”

“Well,” George shrugged, “Guess I got it confused then. Whatever will I do?”

The blond felt the beating in his chest speed up a million miles a minute. He realized that they were flirting. Obviously, they were flirting. But the act was so foreign to Dream, so unknown, that he felt his lips part at the notion. He’d never flirted with a guy before, but this being George made it even scarier. Good, but scary nonetheless. 

The brunet caught his sense of daze and moved even closer. They were now less than a foot apart, any closer and Dream would be able to feel the heat radiating off the brunet’s body. “I guess,” he smiled, looking Dream in the eyes, unmoving in his gaze, “I just wanted to say ‘good luck.’ You hardly need it though.”

Just like the night before, Dream was frozen in place at the brunet’s words. It felt like every breath of oxygen had been removed from his body, like air was being sucked out of him through a monstrous vacuum. 

George grinned in delight, all sunshine and pretty daffodils. “I should go grab my seat, but, uh, yeah.”

He began to turn away, but Dream reached to grab his arm before he could go far. He took in a deep breath, trying to hide every vulnerability he felt. “Thanks,” he huffed out, head dizzy. “I guess I should repay the favor from last night.”

George’s brow ticked up, his lips cleaving in surprise. 

Dream, before he could back out due to the unsanctioned terror emanating through his veins, leaned in to close the gap. His lips met with cheeks once again dusted pink from the cold. Two short pecks and then he was pulling back, blushing in embarrassment. 

George looked like he’d been hit by a train.

His eyes widened, darting from Dream’s eyes to his lips to his burning cheeks to everything in between. He backed up just a step before sauntering away. “Seeyoulaterbye!” was said, all muddled together.

As the concert began, Dream held a sinking feeling in his gut. He felt embarrassed, stressed, beaten down. But he couldn’t let it show on stage. He wouldn’t ruin Sonrisa’s image, wouldn’t disappoint his fans. He only hoped his acting was good enough.

During the concert, George was in the front row, just like Dream had promised him.

He dodged Dream’s eyes during most of the songs (not that Dream was looking at George, or trying to get his attention the whole time, or anything). He sort of swayed to the music, chatted to the people next to him for a bit, and then proceeded to look at every member of the band besides the lead. Dream was almost furious.

Quackity was killing it on the keys, Karl on the bass, Sapnap on the guitar. So, yeah, of course, they deserved eyes on them. Dream just, didn’t particularly enjoy those eyes being George’s. 

Finally, though, during their finale, George looked at him. They were playing their most famous song, and the entire crowd was standing up, jumping and screaming out the lyrics to the song that had made Sonrisa go viral in the first place. 

George had looked at him while he was singing the world-famous lyrics and Dream had to force himself to keep going, to keep singing because George’s eyes meeting his own was just so much to take in. He’d been waiting for it all night, and now, here it was. Stars spinning, galaxies connecting in a single glance.

His lips were pretty as he yelled the words back, eyes gleaming in mystery. Dream wanted to run off the stage, wanted to pull George away from the crowd into their own space, wanted to relive the night before.

But he kept going, singing proudly as his head spun with the thought of all his fans in the room for him. All these people had paid money to see Sonrisa , they’d traveled here to see his friends play, to hear Dream sing. It was so much to bear, and yet, with all the incredible fans in the room, all the screaming girls, Dream was only thinking about the brunet in front of him, of the boy with stars in his eyes, a gaze full of nebulas. 

When the song ended and the band did their final bows, Dream’s eyes found George’s. He saw the brunet mouth a ‘decent’ his way, and had to laugh. Maybe they were fine, maybe he hadn’t screwed up whatever the fuck they had was. George seemed okay now, and if George was okay, then, Dream was okay too. 

The curtains closed, the crowd started leaving. Dream took a sip of water, dehydrated from all the singing, and almost choked on it when Sapnap patted his back. The brunet chuckled, “You were rather googly-eyed tonight, weren’t you?”

Dream choked again, sputtering. “I– no, I definitely wasn’t.”

“For George, obviously,” Karl said, giggling as if that omission meant nothing. As if it didn’t disrupt the entire foundation Dream’s life had been built on for so long. “Don’t be dumb, Sapnap.”

The brunet turned to Dream with a questioning glare, and the blond felt like his skin was burning. “No, I– I wasn’t looking at George. Karl,” he seethed, “Why would you say something like that?”

Karl looked at him with furrowed brows, an expression of ‘we’ll talk later’ hanging on his face, before he turned away, skipping. Sapnap stared at Dream a moment longer before following Karl’s wake. 

Dream tried to pull himself together. Inhale. Exhale. But he ended up leaving for the cold air before he could think any differently. Exiting the stage door and feeling the cool wind brush his senses made him relax, he finally felt like he could breathe properly. Out here, in the London air, there wasn’t a pressure in his chest, there wasn’t an anvil waiting to drop at the slightest wrong move. Outside, he was safe.

A figure could be seen under a lamppost from across the street. Slim, dazzling, and exactly the person who had caused Dream’s freak out in the first place. 

Inside, it felt like his body was going to explode if one of the bandmates so much as mentioned the brunet’s name. It was too much to take in, too hard to even think about. Outside, though, was easier. Especially when the brunet was with him.

He made his way over to the lamppost cautiously, careful in the way he stepped. 

George turned around at the sound of footsteps, his body immediately relaxing to the length of the pole when he saw Dream’s figure. An exhale sent fog into the surrounding air, “That was good,” he said, smiling almost genuinely.

Dream, though, couldn’t pretend to forget the brunet’s avoidance throughout the whole concert. Really, it didn’t matter much if it were an accident, obviously, but the way it felt so purposeful, so intentional… it made him crazy. He huffed, letting out an ill-advised chuckle. “You didn’t even look at me until the end.”

George scoffed, eyes lighting up with a fire that Dream had never seen quenched before. “I have ears, idiot.” He sighed, eyes weakening their force, body relaxing. “Besides, what you did caught me off guard. What was I supposed to do?”

The blond felt his heart pounding, electricity shooting through his veins. The dos besos had affected George. The kisses had made him nervous, and not in the bad way Dream was originally thinking. “You–” he started, voice cutting off with a stifled groan. “You could’ve at least made it known that you weren’t mad at me. God,” he sighed in relief, “I thought you were pissed at me.”

“Why would I be mad at you?” George asked, grinning like a madman. “I literally did the same thing to you last night!” His ‘literally’ was punctuated in the sweet, British accent Dream had come to adore. Dream was smiling giddily. 

“Well,” Dream started, ignoring the way his heart was set ablaze, “Can I get your number, then? So I can call you while I’m on tour.”

George crossed his arms, teasing, “Why would I want you to call me? I doubt I ever want to see you again after this.” He was smiling, a complete juxtaposition to his words. 

“The kiss on the cheek would be a start.”

The brunet rolled his eyes, “Fine, tell Karl to give you my number. Just don’t let him give you my address. I can’t have you stalking me, or anything.”

Dream pouted, “But what if I want to send you songs I’ve written? And I don’t feel like reading them out over the phone?”

“Are you saying you want to write songs for me?” George grinned.

That grin would be the death of Dream, surely. He would never be able to forget it. Through every city, every country, every place, Dream would remember George’s stupid smirk, always. 

His cheeks fumed red, “Maybe I am. Guess you’ll have to write it down for me or you’ll never find out.”

The brunet huffed before tearing out a pen from his coat. He clicked the cap and reached a hand out to Dream, raising an eyebrow when the blond didn’t seem to follow. Dream blinked a couple times before George just yanked the blond’s hand into his grasp, scribbling down a series of numbers and letters. He harrumphed at the end, “There. Now you have my address and number in the palm of your hand, literally. Make sure you never wash your hands again.”

Dream looked down at the crisp numbers before placing his hand in his coat pocket. He wouldn’t let anything keep him from the boy’s information, he’d hold it close to him for forever. Instead of swooning, however, he let out a, “Gross.” 

George rolled his eyes again, and only then did Dream realize how close they’d gotten, how much space had diminished between the two of them. The hairs at the back of his neck pricked up, a shiver ran down his spin. 

The brunet quirked up a brow, “You’re gonna call me while you're on tour?” His eyes were quizzical, his gaze precise. It was a calculated stare, and Dream felt like a dog that had just dragged mud through the house. He didn’t know whether to be scared of the stare, or guilty for it.

“Mmhm,” Dream said. “Why not?”

George grinned, pulling the pity card right out of Dream’s system. “I dunno,” he sang, his heels lifting off the ground as he tilted his head up to meet the blond’s. “I’m just some London boy, right? Why should you call me, of all people?”

It was a good question, to be fair. Why did Dream want to keep in contact with George over any other of his fans? Over all the ladies begging to have a drink? Maybe it was because of the night before, because of the connection he felt in the London air. Or, maybe it was something else. Maybe it was the pulsing in his chest whenever the brunet got close, and the fire in his veins when the brunet made contact with him.

He rolled his eyes, playing into the act. “You’re special,” he admitted, “obviously. Who else would give me dos besos and then run away after I do the same exact thing?” 

George flushed, but tilted his chin up impossibly more, now eye level with the lead singer. He grinned, “Special?” 

“Did you not listen to the last thing I said?” Dream huffed, but his lips betrayed him in a twisted smile. “Fine,” he admitted, grinning cheekily, “you’re… great. Is that what you wanted to hear? That you’re awesome and cool and epic?”

Teasing as ever, the brunet nodded his head. “Yes, actually. I thought you’d never admit it.”

His breath met Dream’s Cupid’s brow, and the blond had to blink in order to regain his senses. He’d felt knocked out, completely beaten up when he sensed George’s breath next to his own. 

He breathed in, head spinning.

George, though, was relentless. He reached his hand out to enclose Dream’s in his own, whispering a, “This okay?” Dream could only nod his head dumbly.

Soft, warm fingers threaded with his own and a jolt of heat shot through his entire system Like the day before, a simple touch from George lit his soul ablaze. Now, though, he felt comforted too, like the pretty, smoky bonfires he joined in on all those years ago at camp. George was the warm feeling that came with eating burned marshmallows, the sweet taste of chocolate on his tongue. 

“You’re so dumb,” George laughed, looking down at their linked hands as he refused to make eye contact with the blond. 

“Thought you said I was ‘decent’?” Dream teased. 

George shook his head, finally looking up to meet his gaze. The lighthearted mood seemed to fade as the brunet’s eyes turned solid. “How do I know I'm actually special?” he asked. Dream was absolutely drowning in his eyes. “How do I know that you won’t just… forget about me after tonight?”

“I have your number now, right?” He lifted up his hand to show the scribbled lettering George had left only moments before, but it was the hand George had taken in his own. He tugged their enclasped fingers down immediately, blushing in embarrassment. He’d never done this before, never held hands with a guy. It was new. He shook his head, trying to muster all the confidence he could. “Besides, how could I ever forget you?”

George let out a shaky sigh, his fingers tightened their grip on the blond’s. “Promise?”

Dream’s other hand found George’s chin. His fingers met with unshaved stubble, with soft and pretty skin. He had no idea what he was doing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to stop. “Promise.”

The brunet was biting the inside of his cheek, looking up at the blond with doe-like eyes. Right there, right then, in the shitty lighting of a London lamppost behind a beaten-down auditorium, Dream was struck with the realization that he wanted to kiss the brunet right in front of him. He wanted to share gentle touches, feel their entwined breaths. 

He wanted it so badly that he just, leaned in.

Dream moved slowly at first, cautiously. He looked at George all the while, eyes darting from his alluring eyes to perfect lips. It was more than slow enough for the brunet to pull away, to push Dream back and scream at him for being a queer, or the less favorable term that Dream didn’t even want to think about. And yet, he stayed still, watching quietly as Dream moved in.

It was almost painful how close they were, how much of George Dream could feel, and still, it was just waiting waiting waiting. Dream wanted to close the distance, to finish what he’d started. But he was downright terrified. He’d never kissed a guy before, only sunny girls with pseudo smiles. Their smiles, though, were nothing compared to George’s. His smile was brighter than the sun, brighter than anything Dream had ever known before. 

Their lips were dancing around each other, so close but yet so far. It was almost like a wall had forced them apart, an invisible force field. So small, but so important. 

It was one simple movement, one swift gesture. All Dream had to do was close the gap, seal their lips together, finally. He could do it, surely. He was the lead in a famous band, he was Dream, he was–

George silenced his thoughts with a kiss.

The press of their lips together felt like a supernova. Dream felt as if his insides were all exploding, bursting into a million different pieces. He felt good; the final puzzle piece in his life was finally connected. He felt complete.

Kissing a boy was hardly anything like Dream expected. He was always raised to be tough and fierce and ‘act like a man’. He’d shared soft, as well as sinister, kisses with girls before. But not like this. Never like this. 

George was gentle with the brush of his lips, he was kind. Their mixed breaths, their entwined hands, felt like a flower field on a sunny day, a valley of daisies. The kiss was light, and airy, and probably the best feeling Dream had experienced in a long while.

And that thought, that thought scared him. 

But when he thought of the way George leaned into his hand like it was the easiest thing in the world, or how the brunet’s hand found the back of his hair, threading fingers through messy curls, he didn’t care about scary.

Kissing George felt natural. Dream felt like he could kiss George forever. 

But, like all good things do, their shared moment came to an end. They both inhaled, out of breath, and before Dream could open his eyes, he found his forehead leaning forward to meet George’s. Warmth settled around his face, making his head go fuzzy.

As George fluttered his eyes open, Dream could feel the motions. He, though, couldn’t find it in himself to open his own. It was so much. He didn’t know how he could manage to see George’s pink cheeks and tinted lips without fainting because he did that. 

The brunet chuckled before placing a final peck on the blond’s lips. That kiss almost felt like it meant more than the other one; it felt like a goodbye. 

George’s voice flooded his senses, almost dragging him to open his eyes, to see the first boy he’d ever kissed, the only boy he wanted to kiss. And still, he couldn’t. 

Their hands disconnected, warmth dissolving. He could hear George step back from the sound of crunching gravel. “Make sure,” he said, whispering into the night air, voice meant only for Dream’s ears, “that you call me.”

Footsteps left the area, and only when Dream knew he was alone, did he open his eyes. The air was empty, the lamppost was cold. And Dream had just kissed a boy.

He faintly brought the hand filled with George’s letters, with George’s presence, up to his lips. They were still warm from the kiss, still parted. 

He’d kissed a boy that he’d probably never see again, at least, not for a while. Shit. What the hell was he supposed to do now? 

As he made his way to the tour bus, there was a loopy smile coating his face. He smiled hard as he remembered the fleeting feeling of George’s lips against his own, the feeling of hands in his hair, fingers tethered to his own. 

London had ruined him for everyone else. 

When the tour picked up in the morning, Dream felt a yearning sense of melancholy as the bus left London grounds. He was leaving George, leaving the pristine air that made him do things he’d never even imagined doing before. He didn’t know when he’d be back. 

They traveled for the whole morning, and arrived at Brussels in the early afternoon. Karl had tried to grab Dream away from the other two for a ‘chat’, but he brushed him away, mumbling apathetic apologies of how he was ‘so busy.’ He couldn’t talk about his thing with George yet, he could hardly even think about it.

All he knew was that George was a pretty, witty, boy that he happened to like the same amount, if not more, than the girls he’d been with. He’d kissed George, a boy, outside the venue the night before. Dream wasn’t religious or anything, but it felt like a sin. If Sonrisa’s fans found out, there was no telling what would happen to the band’s reputation. Dream couldn’t ruin this for his friends just because of a London boy.

But, when he thought about the way he felt when George’s lips were on his own, he wanted to go back to London instantly, to kiss George again, to tell his friends about the special boy. He knew he couldn’t. There was a mental block in his head, a twist in his tongue that would never allow him to speak as such. So, as much as he wished he could tell someone that would probably be chill about the whole thing (maybe Karl, since he had his own items to deal with), he couldn’t even bear to utter a word about the event.

And so, instead of speaking, Dream was left with just the thought of the brunet to tide him over. 

They practiced and set up the stage for their performance and then the crowd was flocking in, clapping and singing and moving along with the songs. 

The place in Brussels was much larger than the London setting. There were more seats, more screaming fanatics, and yet, it wasn’t the same as before. He missed the brunet in the front row, missed George’s gaze.

He felt, kind of, stupid for thinking about a boy he’d known for two days this much. He barely knew him, and they’d kissed, and god, he missed George so much. Why did he have to be so far away? 

He tried to forget about George while the performance was going on, while he sang his heart out. But as soon as the concert ended, he was flocking to grab water and dial a number into the venue’s phone outside, coin pressing into the slot for the international number.

It rang once, twice. Dream’s heart beat faster in the silence.

Then, he heard a sweet voice. “Hello?”

He smiled involuntarily. “Hi.”

“Did you just finish your concert?” his tone was quizzical. Dream could almost imagine his curious glare. “Your voice sounds raspy.”

“Mmhm,” he said, taking in another sip of water. “Missed you.”

He realized what he’d said a moment too late. Could he even say that? Was he allowed? Or, would George call him creepy if he knew just how much he’d been thinking of the brunet as of late?

George, though, sighed wistfully. “Miss you too.” There was a brief pause, a silence over the call line, and then his tone was changed into something more mocking. “Did you write those songs for me yet?”

Dream felt his breath catch. He cooled himself down regardless. “I was on a bus all day. Didn’t have time.”

The brunet hummed, “Well, my day was great, in case you were wondering. I got yelled at by my publisher that the article I wrote was too ‘feminine’. Like,” he sighed, “What does that even mean? It was a page I wrote about AIDS. How would a medical epidemic be feminine?”

The phone beeped, so Dream slotted in more coins. “I’m sorry that happened,” he said, wishing he could see the brunet in person. Maybe he could hold his hand again, or hold him. He let out a shaky breath at the thought. Yeah, he really wanted to hold George.

“Thanks,” George said, sarcastic as ever. “Well, it’s late. You should sleep if you have another gig tomorrow.”

As much as Dream didn’t want to go, he was tired. He nodded, although the brunet couldn’t see. “Goodnight, George,” he whispered, the words too soft to be said to anyone else.

There was another pause, he could tell George was thinking. “Night, Dream.”

The line disconnected, and Dream was left alone in the Brussels night, chest heavy, mind full. 

They played in Brussels one more night before moving on to Amsterdam. 

Crowds started to group up outside the venues. They asked for autographs, asked for Backstage Access. Dream started to realize how famous they’d gotten. Why would someone want his autograph? What made him so special?

Their music, he realized, had impacted people from around the globe. It was incredible. He’d never thought the words he wrote would be the world’s to hear, never thought the melodies his friends created would be blasted on the radio. 

The Amsterdam show was crazy, and Dream found himself falling asleep before he could reach the phone. Which was fine, since they’d never agreed to talking every night. Dream was busy, George probably was too. He was a journalist after all, apparently. (After the call, Dream had asked Karl about George’s career while ignoring every other question Karl sent his way about the London boy). 

They didn’t need to talk every night, surely. Even if Dream’s heart was pulling him to the phone everytime the moon came out, he would be fine without George’s delicate tone, without his mocking attitude.

The second night of Amsterdam, he finally dialed George again. 

There was a mumbled “hmph” before George was already teasing him, “Look who it is, I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“How did you even know it’s me?” Dream asked, “I didn’t say anything.”

“I just do,” George voiced. Dream could feel his grin all the way across the English Channel. “What were you doing the past two nights?”

Dream let out a breathy laugh. Maybe George missed him as much as he missed the brunet. “I was performing for crazy people. I’m on tour, if you’ll remember?”

“Right,” George sighed dramatically, “I almost forgot.” 

Dream’s lips turned into a lovesick smile. He’d really missed the brunet’s voice the past two days, and he didn’t fully comprehend it until he heard it now, in the low atmosphere through shitty phone lines outside the Amsterdam venue. 

He inserted more coins into the slot. “I started writing the song,” he whispered, hushed, quiet enough that barely even George could hear. 

“Oh,” George said, voice small. “Really?”

He’d started the song on the bus ride to Amsterdam. It was really messy, and the lyrics didn’t quite make sense, but it was about George. 

Your smile makes my head spin
Your voice makes my ears ring
You're sunlight, golden on a winter day
You’re beauty, grace, in my head on replay

The lyrics were… a lot. It was almost like he’d blacked out while writing them down. He couldn’t remember scribbling them into his notebook, but looking back now, they did sum up what he was feeling. 

He hummed, “Don’t ask me to sing it, though. I’ll mail it when I’m done.”

“Wow,” George teased, “my very own Sonrisa song, unreleased to everyone else.”

Dream scoffed lightheartedly, but his demeanor was serious. “Not Sonrisa. Just me.”

He couldn’t ask for help with the chorus from Quackity like usual, couldn’t beg Sapnap to pluck from strings in sync to the tune. Karl couldn’t help him pick the right tone. He was alone. This song meant too much to show the others, it was too personal.

“Just you,” George repeated, sounding like he’d been knocked out. 

The line beeped again, but Dream was all out of spare change. He’d need to get more before tomorrow. “Goodnight, George,” he sang, wishing with everything inside that he was next to the Brit instead of miles away.

“Night, Dream.”

The tour continued through Berlin to Warsaw to Vienna. The travel and performances were so much that Dream barely had time to sleep, let alone make a phone call.

After their second night in Vienna, though, he made an effort to grab all the spare change he could to get to their nearest telephone booth at the back of the venue. He had the brunet’s number memorized even though he’d only used it twice before. Writing down the numbers, mimicking George’s handwriting, had been calming him down when he couldn’t get to the phone during the past week. 

It rang only once before the brunet was picking up. “Which part of the tour are you on now?” 

Dream let out a sigh of relief before he knew what he was doing. He quickly reached a hand up to cover his mouth in embarrassment, but when he touched his lips he was reminded of the night filled with warmth and cool air and George. 

He shook his head to snap out of it, cheeks flushed impossibly more even though the brunet wasn’t even with him. “Vienna.”

George hummed, “I’ve been there with my mum before. It’s nice, pretty.”

“Not as nice as London,” Dream let out immediately, quicker than he could take in a breath. 

The brunet laughed a beautiful laugh, “You were only in the shit parts, though.”

“Yeah,” Dream drawled out, “but you were there.”

The line rang in silence, and then a moment later it was beeping at him. He inserted another coin. A muffled sound was heard before the line connected again, “Did you say something?”

“Nope,” George rushed out too quickly. Dream wondered what he could have possibly said. “Just making fun of you for being lonely.”

His heart almost shattered from the inside of his chest. “And you’re… not lonely?”

“Idiot,” was muttered fondly from the other side of the line. 

Dream almost fell into the wall at the soft tone, the gentle way George’s lips said the insult, the smile he could practically hear from all the way in London. His head felt woozy, his knees felt weak. George was making his senses go awol. 

He regained his balance, twirling the telephone wire from between his fingers. “So,” he said coolly, “how was your day?”

“Got my article about AIDS published, finally. No thanks to my publisher. Now, I’m starting on an article about a band I got backstage interviews from the other week. It’s going to be a really good article, I think.”

Dream’s brows furrowed. “You got interviews from a band the other week? Who else came to London?” He didn’t mean his tone to get so irritated, so offended. 

“You’re actually dumb,” George said fondly. “I got interviews with Sapnap, Karl, and Quackity before your 2nd gig here. I was planning on getting one from you after the concert, but…”

The kiss. 

They hadn’t mentioned the kiss yet in any of their three calls. He wondered if it would never be mentioned at all, or if it were something to keep secret, to have it hidden until they met again in person– if they saw each other again. 

“We can–,” Dream said, senses suddenly overflowing with remembrance. “You can interview me now, if you’d like.”

It sounded like George was debating for a moment before he let out a heavy sigh. “No. I’m too tired right now, and my paper and pens and stuff are all the way on the table.”

Dream realized he’d never seen the inside of George’s house, never learned if he were messy or tidy, if he kept things a certain way or had a randomized system. He felt melancholic at the thought. 

George cleared his throat. “Would you call me tomorrow night then? Or even the day after, if that’s better.” He paused, thinking, and probably using the curious gaze Dream had come to adore. “Where’re you heading next?”

“Budapest,” he said, a sigh slipping past his lips. “I should have time before the gig tomorrow, if that works better for you? The drive isn’t as long as the others. If not, I can just– I’ll call you after?”

He hated the way he sounded, hated how conceited it was. He didn’t want to sound like he was too busy for the brunet, or that he was trying to fit him into an overflowing schedule. George was more important than that, Dream just didn’t have enough time. 

Father Time was a menace.

“So you just want me to wait around for you, Dream?” George asked. It sounded like it were supposed to be lighthearted at first, just another bit of banter. But when he’d finished, Dream almost felt like the words held a hidden bite. George sounded, kind of, angry.

To be fair, he absolutely had the right to be. Dream was being a vain, occupied asshole (or, arsehole, as George would say). 

“I didn’t–” he tried to start, but realized that yes he absolutely did mean it that way. He wanted George to wait for him forever; he was selfish.

“It’s fine, Dream,” George said instead, voice back to its softer tone. “Call me whenever. I’ll try and be here to pick it up. Okay?”

A breath of cold air, “okay.”

“Goodnight, Dream.”

“Night–”

The connection was gone before he could finish. 

“–George,” he muttered into the empty booth.

The band arrived in Budapest hours later than they should have. 

The bus had gotten a flat tire in the middle of nowhere, so the driver had to walk all the way to the closest town, which was over half an hour away, and then there was a whole shebackle with a repair crew that came with. It was exhausting, and they got to the venue with barely enough time to do sound checks.

Dream decided he would call George as soon as the concert ended. He could do the interview then, it would be fine.

But when the concert came to a close, there were so many fans crowding the back of the venue that he couldn’t even leave for an hour. Then, when he finally got inside the telephone booth, more girls flocked him, trapping him in to do more autographs.

By the time Dream was actually alone, he was too exhausted to participate in an interview. He felt like his head would fall off if he didn’t get some sleep right away.

So, he went back to the bus, deciding that tomorrow he would call the brunet. George had said the next day would be fine too, so, truly, everything was great. 

When Dream closed his eyes, he was met with visions of the last night he shared with the boy in London. His chest felt warm as he fell into the dreamland, George encoating his late-night fantasies.

The next morning was just as busy as the one before.

They practiced the setlist, did impossibly more soundchecks, and managed to run into more fans. Dream was starting to get tired of their fans, honestly. Of course they were great, of course Dream appreciated the following, but speaking to so many people was just downright draining. It made it almost impossible for him to speak to the one person he truly wanted to converse with. 

The performance went by quick enough. During the finale, Sapnap had even started singing along with him, and Dream had handed over the mic completely. The crowd went crazy, and Dream smiled as his friend shone like the sun. 

After, though, when he finally got to the phone booth, the dial was broken. With great persistence, Dream tried to turn it to fit George’s number anyway, but was simply met with an aggravating beeping. 

He huffed as he slammed the door shut, angrily strutting back to the bus.

When he reached the vehicle, Sapnap and Quackity were sitting outside, talking about something lowly. He brushed past them with a smile, and opened the door to find Karl reading a newspaper on the shitty bus bench. 

The brunet perked up immediately. “Dream,” he said, lips curling into a grin.

“Karl,” he said back, some of his frustration from before wearing off into his words.

The brunet grimaced, eyes squinting, “What’s wrong?”

“The phone’s broken,” he said simply. “I was trying to make a call.”

Karl smiled. “Who did you want to call?”

“None of your business,” Dream said quickly. He realized his aggravated tone after the fact, sighing, “Sorry. I’m just… stressed. I told George I’d call him yesterday, and now I’m a day late and I can’t. It’s for a piece he’s writing, I don’t want to ruin it.”

“So that’s who you’ve been calling all these nights. Karl said slyly. “Well, George is pretty understanding, so if you tell him what happened tomorrow, I’m sure he won’t be mad.”

Dream sighed in relief. “You really think so?” 

His shoulders tensed at the remembrance of their last phone call, where George had seemed pretty ticked off. He didn’t want George to get mad at him again; he didn’t know if he could take it.

“Yeah,” Karl agreed, “I do. Besides, he likes you a lot. You should be fine.”

He likes you a lot.

Dream’s stomach did flips at the words. 

Karl eyed him wearily. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” 

“You know,” Karl said, hands opening in a knowing gesture, “George.”

Dream’s stomach dropped at the words. Of course Karl had noticed, of all people. “I don’t–” he gave up his halfhearted excuse two words in. It would be a lie to say he didn’t know what Karl was talking about. He’d have to be oblivious. “Are you sure? You guys are friends; I don’t want you to feel weird, or anything.”

The brunet nodded, “I’m your friend, too.”

The blond took in a deep breath, hands shaky. This whole thing was a lot to talk about, a lot to think about. But, with Karl, Dream was ready. 

“We kissed back in London,” he said, voice a faint whisper. “We kissed on the lips and now I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Karl was gobstruck, eyes wide, lips parted. 

Dream continued, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He’s so far away, and he’s a boy. We’d have to keep this secret from the fans, from the world, from my parents .” His voice raised an octave higher, “I have no idea what to do, and now, I can’t even talk to him. It’s so–”

Karl put a hand on his shoulder in an effort to calm him down. “It’s okay, Dream. Breathe. George isn’t going anywhere. I’m sure he’s also frustrated, also nervous. I mean, think about it from his perspective: you’re a famous singer with so many ladies that would die to have a shot with you. How is he supposed to know with complete certainty that you like him over everyone else?” He paused, mind spinning, “At least you know he feels a similar way. Maybe after the tour, you can visit him? At least, you guys have a shot. I wish I had a shot.” The last line was said so quietly that Dream could barely hear it. He did, though. He heard it.

“What do you mean, Karl?”

The brunet looked up at him, eyes glazed over, a frown twitching in the edges of his smile. “You’ve kissed him, Dream. You shared a moment with a boy from London. I like a boy from Texas, a boy who will never reciprocate anything I send his way.”

Texas.  

Dream was about to respond, a question of Sapnap? on his tongue, when Karl cut him off. “It’s fine, Dream. Me and Sap are fine. Just… this isn’t about me, okay?” He took in a breath, inhaled, exhaled. “You and George will be fine, I’m sure of it.”

He sent a small smile Dream’s way before going back to his newspaper, a frown permanently etched into his lips.

Dream went to his own bedroom in silence, mind humming with what Karl had just admitted. 

The next morning, far earlier than Dream would have liked, the bus made its way to Sofia. 

Immediately upon arrival, Dream made headed over to the nearest telephone booth. He swiftly dialed in George’s number and waited anxiously, the dial tone ringing painfully in his ears. 

The line went quiet before an English accent broke through, “Hello?”

He sighed in relief, “George.”

“Took you long enough,” the brunet said, voice rough. He sounded tired, although Dream supposed it was probably early back in London. He was two aching hours ahead. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out. “Our tires went out, and then the crowd wouldn’t leave . Then, the phone broke . And now I’m here, in Sofia, and it's literally the first time I could dial you for the past two days.”

The end of the line was quiet, so Dream continued, “Karl told me you’d understand, but, please, don’t be mad. I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

George cleared his throat. “You talked to Karl about me?” 

His cheeks flushed red in embarrassment. “Yeah. Is that bad?”

“Good,” George said almost immediately. “It’s good.” 

Dream let out a sigh of solace, his shoulders untensed. “Okay. Okay, good. Are you, uh– are you mad at me?”

The brunet chuckled, the sound as light as honey. “I’m a little upset that you’ve delayed my deadline for this, but no, I’m not mad at you.”

Dream heard rustling from the opposite end of the call. He was about to ask what happened, when George spoke up, “I have my stuff now, so, I’ll start if that’s okay with you?”

The blond inserted another coin into the phone. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

George hummed. “What made you want to make music?”

Dream’s mind flooded with images of his dad. They were playing guitar in the basement, strumming it out to Elvis, singing and dancing around the sofa. 

His eyes felt watery. “My, uh, dad, actually. He was a musician– not a very popular one, but a musician. He taught me how to play guitar, how to sing. I got everything I know from him.”

George audibly gasped. “You can play guitar?” 

“Mmhm,” he hummed, “I don’t really anymore, though. After my dad… after my dad passed I stopped practicing. Now I just— now I just sing.”

The line went quiet. Dream could hear George thinking. He wanted to say that ‘it's fine’ or that the death barely even hurts anymore, how it’s more of a dull ache. But George responded before he could. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

Of course you didn’t, you don’t know me yet.

But I want to know you. Do you want to know me, too?

“Thanks, it was a while ago. I think he’d be proud of me, now. I mean, touring Europe before doing our American tour? That’s insane.”

George let out a breathy chuckle. “He’s definitely proud, Dream. You’re probably the best son out there.”

Dream smiled sunnily. 

As the interview continued, Dream found himself wishing he could see George next to him. He wished he could feel the brush of a thigh against his own, wished he could see the brunet’s expressions. Dream wanted to see George do his job the same way the brunet had seen him perform. Maybe, he could say George was ‘decent’ at journalism.

Question after question, Dream answered about his life, and George wrote it down. The night ended with singing goodbyes and blushing smiles. 

Dream’s mind was soaring as he fell asleep. 

The Sofia concert went well both days. On the second night, Dream found himself practically racing to the telephone booth. 

As soon as George picked up the phone, he asked, still high on the performance, “Did you know that for dos besos, they don’t actually kiss the cheeks?”

“Dream?” George asked, guffawed. “My god, yes, I know they don’t actually kiss people’s cheeks. I’ve been to Spain, idiot. It’s kind of like what the French do.”

Quackity had said the same thing. “You knew and you still kissed me on the cheek the first night we met?”

He heard a cough from the end of the line. “I mean, I kissed you somewhere else a day later, so.”

Dream sputtered. “You–”

George laughed . “You’re an idiot. Whatever. How was the show today? Tell me all about it.”

Dream had to regain his composure before he could speak. “It was good, fun. Quackity did a solo at the finale and the crowd went ballistic.”

“Hmm,” George said, “Sounds fun.”

Dream could tell there was something at the tip of George’s tongue that he was hiding. He lowered his voice, whispering so that only the phone, George, and himself could hear what he said next. 

“I miss you.”

George snorted. “Miss you too. Now, ask me about my day.”

“How was your day?”

“Good, thanks for asking,” the brunet said sweetly. “My article about Sonrisa is going well, now that I have all the interviews done. I visited my friend Wil today as well, we went on a lunch date.”

Dream didn’t know who Wil was, but if he was close to George then Dream wanted to meet him. He wanted to meet everyone that knew George. 

The phone beeped another time, and when he checked his pockets, he was out of spare change yet again. He sighed, “I have to go.”

George sighed dreamily. “Night, Dream.”

“Goodnight, George.”

The phone cut out before he could hear anything else.

With a puff of cold air, Dream leaned against the telephone booth. His body went slack at the thought of George, at the sheer moment during the phone call when he’d briefly mentioned the kiss.

He smiled as he walked back to the tour bus.

The tour was paused for a day as the tour bus made its way around the Adriatic Sea. From Sofia to Rome they went, and the whole time Dream was sitting on the shitty bus bench, adding more verses to his song. 

He liked to call it London Sun, but no one else needed to know that besides him and George, when he actually got around to sending the song. 

It was practically done by the time he arrived in Rome, yet, he couldn't help but feel that something was missing. 

So far away you are,
so far from me, you stay.
Come back to me, my sun.
Stay close
until the day is done.

At night, we’ll kiss under cold, crisp air.
I like you so much, it can be such a scare.
But I don’t care, love,
I don't mind.
For the sun’s holy brightness,
keeps me in line.

It was… different from his other songs. It was softer, barely anything like the alternative, somewhat rock ‘n roll anthems of Sonrisa. When he imagined singing the song (not that he ever would), the gentle lyrics were sung with a ukulele, or tender guitar strumming. 

He thought the song should be played in a field of flowers, with the sun shining on his face and George by his side. They would be alone, far from humanity, far from the pressures of fame. 

Maybe the problem with the song, though, was the fact that George was so far away. Its tone wasn’t supposed to be sad, but in its underlying melody, Dream realized there was a large sense of longing for the brunet. He yearned to be back in London, or, even better, to have George right next to him during the tour.

He wondered if… no, asking George to leave his home for a boy he met a week ago was foolish. Maybe in the future, though. Maybe someday.

Dream was scribbling corrections to the song, scratching out the words that didn’t make sense, when Sapnap walked through his section of the bus. He looked down at Dream’s notebook for a second before letting out a small sigh. 

“So,” he asked, taking a seat next to Dream on the uncomfortable bench. “Karl was right then? You do like him?”

The blond shut his notebook immediately, gazing at the brunet next to him with a questioning stance. “I, uh– no? Why would I–”

“Dream.”

The blond fought back tears. “Yes, okay? I like him. I like George a lot.”

Sapnap smiled easily before wrapping his arms around Dream’s middle. Hickory pulled in sunshine, a warm embrace flowing over the bench. The brunet’s hands gripped bundles of Dream’s crewneck as small, teary drops coated Sapnap’s shoulder.

He pulled away, thumb finding Dream’s face in full clarity. A swipe of the fingers to clear the drop of water, and then Sapnap was rubbing an arm in comfort across the blond’s back. “It’s fine, Dream. Really. You’re still my best friend no matter who you like, okay? Even if I’m not into that kind of stuff, I’ll always support you.”

I’m not into that …

Dream’s mind immediately drifted to Karl, to their conversation days prior. His heart ached for his friend. He wished Karl had gotten the shot he did with George. But, sadly, he knew that wasn’t how the world tended to work.

“Thanks, Sap,” Dream said, voice a little rough from the tears. “Love you.” 

The brunet pinched his sides like a menace. “Love you too.”

Karl and Quackity walked into the room a moment later, eyes widening when they saw the duo on the bench. Dream scooted away immediately, grabbing his songbook as he stood up. He walked to his bedroom without a word, but when he passed Karl, he could see the longing dotting his features.

Dream felt terrible.

Their first night in Rome, one spent without a concert for the first time ever, was reserved for drinks and stupid games and just having a good time. Sometimes, with the busy schedule and music inquiries in the way, it was hard to remember that the boys of Sonrisa were friends first. 

Dream had known Sapnap since middle school; Karl since high school; Quackity since college. They were his best friends, something more important than all the music they’d created over the years of togetherness. It was wild. Being friends in a band was almost unheard of.

So, that night, he laughed and drank (only a little, it was too fun to stay sober and watch Sapnap do dumb shit than to acutally do anything himself) and had fun with his friends. The tour was stressful, but his friendships with the guys were anything but.

The Rome concert passed by in a blur, and he was out like a light before he could think any differently. 

The second night, though, after a fanatic audience and brilliant flashing lights, Dream found himself at the phone again, dialing an all too familiar number. 

The boy from London picked up instantaneously. “I sent you something for when you get to Munich,” he said slyly.

Dream, once again, was shocked. “How do you always know it’s me?”

George snickered from the other end. “I can just… tell. It’s like I’m psychic, or something.”

“Psychic for me,” Dream replied offhandedly, reducing to silence a moment later. 

It was so easy to flirt with the boy across the line. Every comment, every innuendo came too quickly that Dream often let out replies before fully thinking them through.

George, though, didn’t seem to care. He chuckled, “Obviously.”

Dream’s head was spinning at the comment. Talking to George wasn’t complicated, or difficult; it was simple and effortless. Speaking to people had never been his strong suit, but George made it easier than ever.

Maybe, though, it was because he liked him too much. 

“I sent you something,” George repeated, and Dream could hear the grin in his tone.

His heart stopped beating all over again. “What did you send me?”

Silence.

Dream counted one…two…three…

“George,” he pleaded into the phone, only for it to beep at him for more money. Disfunctionally, Dream scampered around, dropping another coin into the slot just before the line was cut. “George, come on. Tell me.”

The laugh that drove him crazy, drove him senseless, resounded across the wires. “You’ll have to get to Munich to find out.”

Dream sighed, and George laughed impossibly more at him. 

He quickly recovered, though, when he realized he had his own tricks up his sleeve. “I, uh, sent you something too.”

True. He’d sent George the song earlier that day, before the concert. Purely on impulse, he’d ripped out the page of his notebook– doodles, scratch-outs, and all– and pressed it into an envelope. With shaky hands he’d written George’s London address and placed a stamp on the corner. He’d swung by the post office, and off it went, destined to London, destined to the place Dream wished he could stay in. 

“Is it–”

George’s voice was soft as he asked, stunned into speechlessness. Dream, though, could hardly laugh the way the brunet had laughed at him moments before. He breathed in, trembling, “Yeah, yeah it is.”

“Can’t wait,” the brunet replied, breathy.

Dream was smiling wide. George made his cheeks hurt in gaiety. He whispered goodbyes to the London air, heart falling when George whispered back in a honey-like tone.

More travel, more roads, more countries passed, and finally, Sonrisa reached Munich. 

Immediately upon arriving, Dream headed to the main reception area of the venue, pleading the nice lady working there to give him any mail that had come in for the band. She’d smiled kindly and called him ‘honey’ and then minutes later, he was walking out with a crisp brown envelope. It was bigger than he expected, and he wondered what could possibly be inside.

He practically skipped back to the bus, and when he got inside, quickly tore open the flaps and pulled out the wad of paper.

It was a copy of the London newspaper, The Times. A small piece of paper was clipped to the top, George’s pretty handwriting residing on the front.

To the boys of Sonrisa:

Thanks for the interviews (page 3)!
Especially the 3 that talked to me in person,
(I'm looking at you, Dream).

<3 George

Dream found himself grinning at the note. This was the article George had written about the band, about him. It meant a lot to the brunet, and hell, it meant a lot to him too. He’d never read anything written from George before, but he knew he would love it.

He flipped to page three. His eyes immediately widened when he saw the picture implanted at the top. It was of the band doing their final bows before the curtain closed, all holding hands, smiling proudly, sweating profusely. It had been taken from the front row, definitely. When Dream looked closer, though, he realized he was looking directly at the camera. Oh god.

He didn’t even realize the brunet had a camera on him because he was too consumed staring into his eyes as if they held galaxies in them. Dream was an idiot– he didn’t know George was talented at photography as well. What else could he do?

The title was Sonrisa, the Global Phenomenon, Takes First Foreign Tour. It sounded so journalism-like, but underlying the tone, Dream could feel George’s sarcasm. The Brit was probably laughing as he wrote ‘global phenomenon,’ probably thinking back to calling Dream ‘decent’ way back in the night.

At least, that’s what Dream was thinking about.

He read farther. George started off strong, boasting about front row seats two nights in a row, claiming how much ‘better’ the music was in person. He gave a little background to the band’s history as well, and described some of the most popular songs. Then, though, he got into the whole interview part.

George said Quackity was an “underappreciated keys player with humor to go around for days.” He called Karl a “bassist with more spunk than Elvis”, and Sapnap an “insane guitarist with a secret killer voice.”

Dream could barely read further because the next part was about him. 

He took a deep breath and braved the unknown.

    Dream, lead singer of the band, is a fan favorite. Known for his incredible hair, gorgeous voice, and questionable style, he makes the fans go crazy. Perhaps the name comes from the fact that he is so-called “dreamy” to everyone who looks at him. Regardless, Dream manages to fight through obstacles and produce incredible songs alongside his mates. His late father taught him all about music, and after he passed years ago, Dream used the pain to push forward, to become better. If only his father could see him now.
    I had the chance to speak with Dream on multiple occasions, so I truly believe I know him better than any other journalist. Listen to me when I say this: he’s not the typical lead singer. Dream isn’t greedy, or stuck-up. He’s genuine, and funny, and kind. He truly cares for his fans and appreciates everyone who's followed the band thus far. (He told me to say this in the interview, but I believe it wholeheartedly.)

Dream felt like his heart had combusted at the words, his veins had exploded. But, he continued on with only somewhat wet eyes. 

    Sonrisa is a band like no other. Their music feels real, raw. You can tell they love what they do when you see them play. They care about the music– they don’t just do it for glory, for fame. I enjoyed meeting these four amazing guys and can’t wait to see how far they go in the future.  

Karl, Sapnap, Quackity, and Dream: the guys on the way to taking over the world.

Dream was crying just a little bit now. He’d never been written about before, and now, the first one to do so was George. George had such a way with words, such a flow that was funny and genuine all at once. Dream wished he could read more of George’s works; he’d have to ask the brunet to mail them. 

The guys walked in a second later, though, and noticed him absolutely losing it over a sheet of paper. They walked over, cautious, and then Sapnap was snatching the paper from his hands. 

He chuckled as he read it through and then handed it over to Karl, now leaning down and grinning maliciously. “He called you dreamy,” he snickered. “He just, like, insulted you publicly.”

Dream smiled. “Yeah. It was cute, though.”

Karl turned his way, grinning as he looped his arms around broad shoulders. “We made it into the paper, guys,” he exclaimed. “George wrote about us for the London newspaper ”

“He’s, kind of, epic,” said Quackity, eyes still roaming the article.

“Very epic,” Sapnap agreed.

Dream smiled, hiding his flushed cheeks in Karl’s shoulder. “The best.”

The Munich show was a blast both nights. Karl and Quackity sang a terrible, completely nonsensical song at the beginning just for kicks, but the fans loved it regardless. 

It was the second to last stop on the tour, so they spent the night dancing and singing outside the venue. As Dream jumped around under the stars, he thanked those same stars for a near-perfect night beside his best friends. The only thing that could possibly make it better would be a brunet far, far away.

Arriving in Paris felt like a dream.

Dream saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time, saw the Louvre. From the venue they were playing at, the city’s spectaculars were visible in sight. The blond hoped he could go back and visit someday, maybe with someone as well. It was the City of Love, after all. 

They were late to the city, though. So, it was straight to sound checks and practicing the songs they’d rehearsed a million times before. 

After the performance, Dream wandered all the way to the Eiffel tower. He found a phone booth practically underneath it and dialed across the line. 

A withered sigh made Dream’s legs go shaky. “I’ve been waiting,” George huffed, breath gone, “for you to call.”

Dream felt a churning in his gut. He’d been busy in Munich and hadn’t been able to thank George for the article. He’d been rushed into things in Paris, and he hadn’t even gotten the chance to ask George if he’d received the song yet. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “We got so busy, and then– Sorry. I don’t have a good excuse.”

George was quiet before he breathed out again. “You called me the sun.”

All the oxygen in the Parisian sky left Dream’s system. “I uh, yeah. Did you– did you like the song?”

“You compared me to the sun,” George repeated, voice baffled, gone, vanished. 

“I did, yeah.” Dream was quiet. His mind was raking over all the things he’d compared George to in the song, every lovesick phrase he’d managed to scribble down. “Did you not like it?”

He heard a pretty laugh and immediately leaned against the booth for support. “No, Dream. I loved it. I mean, you wrote a song… for me? And it's incredible. How insane is that! I never expected anyone to write a song about me before, but now, oh my god. Dream, I don’t even know what to say.”

The blond’s heart had definitely exploded, had burst into a million stars. It had been destroyed by a comet, by an asteroid, and shattered into thousands of bits, lost to the galaxy forever. He couldn't speak, tongue tied by a million nebulas.

“Did you,” George started again, “read the article?”

Dream chuckled. “You called me ‘dreamy.’”

“For the fans, idiot,” George assured, voice seriously sarcastic. “Not my opinion whatsoever.”

“Right,” Dream agreed, cheeks in pain from smiling so much. “Well, whatever. It was amazing, George. Your words were… they were great. I was laughing and…”

“And what?” George teased.

Dream sucked in a breath, all his dignity along with it. “I cried a little bit. Just a little, though. We’ve never been written about before, and it was you that did it first, and you wrote it so well, and–”

“I made you cry? Holy shit, I’m incredible,” George boasted.

With a groan, Dream had to insert more coins into the dispenser. “Yeah, yeah. It was worth it, though.”

A content hum, and then, “Where are you now?”

“Paris,” Dream answered, eyes stealing a glance at the city around him. It was lit up with a thousand lights, bustling with people. It looked gorgeous. 

His eyes roamed to a bar on the corner, where a couple was sharing a drink. It was a goddamn margarita, and the guy was trying to lick up the salt on the sides while the girl just sat and laughed. Dream immediately thought of George, with his charming, mocking laughter that could go on for days. 

The girl, though, ended up giving the guy a sweet kiss, even though the margarita salt was dotting his features. Dream felt his chest close up as he turned away. 

Why couldn’t he kiss someone at a nice bar in Paris? Why couldn’t George be here with him? Why couldn’t he kiss George like that? 

“Dream,” a voice chided in his ears, “Come back.”

The blond blinked his eyes once before focusing back on the telephone call in front of him. “Sorry,” he admitted. “Zoned out.” 

“Idiot.”

Dream’s face felt like it was on fire. His brain, however, didn’t seem to care as he said, “I’m in the City of Love, you know?”

George laughed at him again, “I’ve been to Paris before, stupid. It’s like, a seven hour drive. My mum used to take me every summer.”

Dream was quiet, a silent ‘oh’ leaving his hushed lips. 

“Dream?” George asked, voice tender as the night. “I know you said you probably wouldn’t, but…”

“Yeah?” The blond was nervous, stomach churning. 

“Would you…” George was fully whispering now, in an almost sheepish tone. “Would you sing the song for me? I just– I want to know how it sounds with your voice.”

Dream felt as if he'd been knocked unconscious at that, never to see the light of the world again. He’d never sung for anyone before (except his sister, but that wasn’t like this). This was new, this was personal. The song was something he’d poured his heart into; it was for the very brunet he was speaking to right then. 

“Um,” a gulp, “Sure. Let me just–” He inserted more coins, anxiety getting the best of him. He didn’t want to disappoint George, or have the call cut halfway through. It needed to be perfect, just like everything else he did. 

“You don’t have to,” George said gently. “Just a silly thought.”

It sounded almost like the brunet was backing down. Dream really didn’t want that, so he cleared his throat, “No, I’ll sing it for you. Since you asked so nicely.”

A gasp all the way from London, and then Dream was starting, voice low, only meant for the brunet across the channel. “ Sun, my sun. So far away, my love…”

With small breaths from George, Dream continued all the way through, remembering every last word because the song really just meant that much to him. 

At the end, he was met with silence. Dream was scared. What if it was too much? Had he overdone it? Was the melody terrible?

George, though, sounded shaky from the other end. “Thank you, Dream,” he said, sounding more genuine than the blond had ever heard him before. “I love it.”

The line disconnected before Dream could say anything. But, when he looked down, he still had a minute left. George had disconnected without saying goodbye, and Dream had no idea as to why.

He frowned as he headed back to the tour bus.

The other performance in Paris was great, and then they were whisked back to the tour bus, told to get a good night’s sleep for their flights home tomorrow. 

After tonight, Dream would be back home in America. He’d see his family again, see Patches, for a little while. But then he’d be going on tour again. A longer tour than the European one, and farther than George than ever. 

On the flight, he’d held Sapnap’s hand out of fear, and at the airport he’d hugged his mom for the first time in a long while. He’d missed her a lot, and promised to tell her everything about the tour (besides George, of course. He couldn’t do that yet. Maybe eventually, though. At least, with his mom, never his dad). 

He’d said goodbyes to the band, all going back to their families for the week before inevitably being swept away to tour again. Dream liked the European tour a lot, but the pressure of performing well every night was a lot. And now, George was an ocean away. He wouldn’t be able to call him as frequently due to the stupid time difference.

He hoped they could manage, wished they could survive the atrocities of American travels. 

Dream didn’t know what he would do without the brunet’s calls, without George’s presence in his life. 

[around one year later] 

London. 

The place Dream’s heart had been for the past year. 

Their American tour was long finished, they’d released a new album (with more romance songs than ever before…), and now, they were back in London for the tour.

Dream hardly knew what to do with himself. 

He hadn’t been calling George as often as he wanted to, and he felt terrible. But, it had been a year, and no one else had captured his heart in the same way George had. It was almost laughable, how much he’d thought about George during their separation.

It was almost pathetic, how badly he wanted to break down and just beg George to come with him for their next European tour (bigger, better than than first). He just wanted to spend as much time with the brunet that he could, and now that he was finally in London, he could ask.

It was pointless, hopeless thinking. He didn’t know why George would abandon his home for him. Sure, he was the lead singer of a popular band, but he was also pretty lame. What did George see in him, past the fame? Why had he kept up with the phone calls for so long?

They’d called maybe twice a month for the last half of the year. It sucked, but everytime Dream got to the line, he talked with the brunet for hours about the most random things. They talked about music, about journalism. Dream had even mentioned the brunet to his mother, embarrassingly enough.

“Mom,” he’d said, voice weary.

She smiled at him, a cheeky mom smile that Dream had learned to adore throughout his years of youth. “What's up, honey?”

“Back in London,” he hesitated, “I met someone.”

She grinned knowingly, “Are all those love songs you've been writing for her, then?”

A beat. 

“Uh, him, actually.”

He hid his face immediately, too scared for her response. It was his mom, so he had to tell her. But now, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t want his mother to hate him; he wanted her to be proud.

Her eyebrows raised before she smiled softly, pulling Dream into a warm hug. “Baby, I’m sorry for assuming. I didn’t realize.” She paused, tightening her grip around his middle. “I love you no matter what, okay?”

Dream pulled away, tears in his eyes in front of his mother, of all people. He laughed in embarrassment, still unable to meet her gaze because of everything he felt.  

His mom rubbed a hand along his shoulder, eyes gleaming, “What’s his name?”

Through teary cheeks, Dream smiled, “George.”

“George,” she repeated, smiling like the name held the entire galaxy in its grasp. “What’s he like, then? You have to tell me all about him if he’s the cause of all these melodies.”

Dream sighed and rolled his eyes, but he was never one to ignore his mom. “He’s incredible,” he breathed out. “He’s a journalist, and he wrote an article about the band. He can do photography too. And he’s really witty, super sarcastic. He has the prettiest laugh, and–”

He realized he was rambling and shut himself up. 

His mom, though, looked at him with sunshine dancing along her face. “You really like him,” she observed.

Dream nodded. “But I haven’t been doing the best job of showing it. We barely call anymore because of the shitty time zones and both of our busy schedules– he’s editor of the paper now, so he has a lot on his plate too– and it’s just… I miss him.” He huffed, realizing that his mom really didn’t care if he went off on tangents about the boy he liked. She supported him, no matter what. 

“When we do call, though,” he sighed wistfully, “It's like nothing ever changed. I could talk to him for hours.”

His mom patted his cheek, “You should call him right now, honey.”

Dream checked the time. 6pm. Maybe George would still be awake at 11 pm, hopefully. He hugged his mom again, kissed her cheek, and whispered a ‘thank you.’

She smiled and ushered him off to the phone, grinning as he dialed in George’s number.

They’d talked about everything, and yet, it felt like there was so much left unsaid at the same time. But now, Dream was in London. George knew he was in London. George was coming to the tour in London. 

He wanted more than anything to go back to the night they met, to the night they shared dos besos under the London light. He wanted to relive the second night, too, wanted to kiss George again, wanted to feel the puzzle pieces of his life connect again. He needed to see George again.

As he made his way through London streets to the house he’d desperately wanted to visit ever since he’d met the brunet, he remembered their last call filled with warmth and saccharine hope.

“You’re coming to London?” George had said, voice an octave higher than usual.

Dream was smiling to himself, too happy to even try and tease the brunet about something like this. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” 

He heard George take a deep breath. “You’ll be in London. With me.”

With me.

The words made Dream want to teleport all the way to London right then and there. But he had to wait a couple of weeks to see his London boy again.

“I’m coming to London, George,” he affirmed, giddy.

The brunet laughed in relish. “I have so much to show you, Dream. So many things that we just have to do with your two nights here, okay? Promise me you’ll let me show you around?”

“I promise,” Dream replied, easier than breathing. The hidden message went unsaid. 

(Anything for you, George.)

He rang the doorbell to a pristine apartment building, a bouquet of flowers in his grasp (irises from the shop down the road). The buzzer hummed with a pretty British voice, suddenly closer than any of their telephone calls combined. “Who is it?”

“Let me in, idiot,” Dream replied to the mic. The click immediately went off to the door, and Dream pushed his way through, speeding up four flights of stairs until he was standing in front of George’s apartment.

This was his home, his special place. Dream didn’t know if he was even ready to see George yet, let alone see his whole place of being. He was hopping in place as he waited in front of the door, too nervous to knock or call out to the brunet. He was pacing, nerves on high alert.

The door opened a minute later. 

Dream’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the brunet in front of him. He was wearing a blue suit accented with a brown trenchcoat– his work outfit. His hair was messed up from a hat presumably, and his eyes were wide as he looked up at the blond in front of him. 

Dream almost dropped the flowers when their eyes met for the first time in a long while.

George, though, tugged him inside the apartment by the strap of his suspenders. 

He was laughing, smiling to himself in the pretty way Dream could only imagine for the past year. “You’re actually here,” he whispered. “You’re here!” he yelled.

His arms locked around Dream’s middle before he could move any further. They’d never hugged before, never been as close as this. George was warm, and fuzzy, and brilliant. Dream barely even thought before he was wrapping his arms around the brunet’s back, tugging him closer. He could smell the strawberry shampoo George was using. He felt his breaths, felt his body actually move. 

It was surreal, the way George fit into his arms like he was always meant to be there.

Maybe, though, he was. Maybe, a small part of Dream had been waiting for George his entire life, or, at least, ever since he’d left London for the first time.

George pulled away, snatching the flowers from his hands. He sniffed them and grinned, “Thanks.”

Dream flushed, snatching the flowers back into his own grip. “I was supposed to give you the flowers in a nice way, idiot. Like this.” He held out the flowers for George to take, composing his face to be utter seriousness. “George, will you, my favorite Londoner, show me around as much of this crazy city as possible before my show tomorrow night?”

(He’d gotten the guys to agree to come a night early to London, definitely not for George though, whatsoever. It was for the sights, obviously.)

The brunet accepted the flowers, nicely this time, and nodded. “Yes, I would love to, Dream, my favorite American.” He said American in a shoddy Texan accent, giggling after the fact. 

The flowers were placed in a vase on the kitchen table, and then George was skipping toward him. He grabbed the blond’s hand and pulled him out the door before locking the apartment behind them. Looking down at his watch, George hummed. “Let’s go.”

Despite soft hands enclosing his own being new to Dream, holding hands with George felt natural, as if all his insides had melted like a marshmallow in a well-cooked s'more. 

He followed the brunet out of the apartment, watching him from behind. He paid careful attention to the way George’s grip never faltered, how he managed to lead with stride. His curls bobbed as he walked, their hands swung together.

Dream was smiling giddily at the fact they were finally together.

As they reached a large crowd, George disconnected their hands. The feeling of longing was ten times bigger now, it hurt a hundred times more.

But Dream sucked in his frown as they walked through cobblestone streets, content with just having George by his side.

George would always be enough for him.

They ventured to the Big Ben, but Dream’s eyes were too focused on the brunet leading him there to actually pay attention to the massive clock. George had told him the park surrounding it was his favorite place to write articles from, and Dream found himself imagining it. He thought maybe one day, he could grab two coffees for them and meet George in this park. The brunet would be working on his stories while Dream worked on his songs.

It would be perfect .

As they walked through the dim London streets searching for something to do, they stumbled across an ice skating rink. 

It was hardly winter yet, but the wind was cold enough for the ice to stay solid. 

George tugged him there before he could disagree, a smile enlightening his face as they bought skates and tied them together. 

Dream didn’t think he’d ever gone ice skating before. Maybe, when he was little, he’d skated for a party, or something, but it wasn’t anything like now. Now, he had no idea what he was doing. As George pulled him toward the opening to the arena, he pulled him back. 

“George,” he whispered speedily, “I don’t know how to skate.”

The brunet grinned and let out his annoyingly perfect laugh. “Of course you haven’t skated before.” He tugged Dream forward again, “Follow me. I’ll teach you how.”

Finally, they were on the ice, and Dream was clinging to the side with one hand while his other was gripped with George’s so tightly he feared the brunet may see stars if he pulled any harder. 

The brunet was by his side, standing effortlessly on the ice as if it were regular ground. Dream envied his balance ability. 

“If you skate with me around the rink,” George proposed, grinning, “Then it gives me an excuse to hold your hand. Since I’d be ‘keeping you from falling,’ or whatever.”

Holding hands with George through clothed gloves was too good to refuse, so Dream nodded his head and pushed off from the wall. 

They skated and skated and skated, and once they finished a lap, Dream was leaning back against the wall, out of breath from his complete focus of not falling on his ass. George, though, didn’t seem to be finished with the skating yet. He tugged Dream out from the wall again, but this time, since the blond wasn’t properly ready to move, he slid to the ground, bum hitting the ice, back meeting with the cold. 

His hand was still connected to George’s, though, so when he fell, the brunet fell right on top of him. 

Their chests were close, hearts entwined in a quick-paced beat. Dream could feel George’s chilled breath on his neck, he could feel the pressure hanging over his entire body.

It felt much too nice to be happening at a public skating rink.

His eyes met with George’s, and then they were looking at each other, and even though they were surrounded by people, Dream wanted to lean up and kiss him again. He wanted to know if George's lips still tasted as sweet as they had a year ago, wanted to figure out if he’d remembered the touch.

It was tense, the air surrounding the fall. 

George bit his lips, debating, before pushing himself up. It was quick, too quick. Dream had felt like minutes had passed while he’d stared into the brunet’s eyes, but now, the feeling was gone too soon. 

With a chuckle, the brunet helped him up. His features looked nervous as they continued to skate around the area. Soon enough, however, they returned to their normal banter, almost forgetting the fall had ever occurred.

After a quick street food dinner, George made Dream walk all the way to a boardwalk, claiming that they just had to go on the Ferris Wheel together. 

He agreed only because of the way George was smiling, and then they were being pressed together in an uncomfortable cart. They went up, up, up and the whole time Dream could hardly even focus on the beautiful view because the brunet sitting across from him was sending too much warmth and electricity through his body. 

They were so close, and so alone.

The carriage they were in was boxed close, there was only one window to see out of. The Ferris wheel was tall, too. So, even if someone was looking, there’s no way they would be able to see Dream and George properly. 

Dream turned to gaze at George again– just because he could– but the brunet’s eyes were already placed on his own. His cheeks turned into strawberries on a summer day. 

He composed himself just enough to say, “Thanks for tonight.”

George sighed buoyantly, “Just stay forever.”

Dream really wanted to. He wanted to live in London, curate a life with George, and share special kisses under the moonlight forever. But the band, and his mom, and everything else he had going on were tying him to a life in America. A life, without George.

“I want to,” he said earnestly, honestly. “I wish I could.”

George hummed quietly. His eyes looked like the sea, and Dream was drowning in every aspect of them. “Just, stay tonight then. Please.”

“With you?” Dream’s head was blank. George was asking him to spend the night together, asking him to stay while the moon took its lap.

The brunet smiled, “Yes, with me, idiot. That’s why I asked.”

Over every doubt, every anxiety Dream felt in his body, the urge to be with George was stronger. He only had three nights, after all. Two of them would be spent with the band, so now, then, was all he had to be with the brunet without interruptions. 

“Okay,” he breathed out. “I’ll stay.”

George’s face visibly lit up at the words. He grinned, tilted his chin down the slightest bit, “Yeah?”

Dream’s eyes scanned from the brunet’s eyes, to the curve of his nose, to the twist of his lips. He moved forward almost unconsciously. “Yeah.”

The brunet didn’t even blink before he was wrapping a hand around Dream’s neck, tugging him closer with dazzling eyes. He batted his lashes; Dream could feel them against his own eyelids. “I missed you,” he stated lowly, only for Dream.

The scene felt intimate, confidential. It was just the two of them, alone, fifty feet up in the air. They could do anything, really. They could hold the world in their fingertips, they could dance with the spirits of the Earth.

All Dream wanted to do, though, was kiss George. His lips were reaching for the brunet’s, itching to be connected again. He wanted more than anything to share a breath, to feel soft London lips against his own. 

He smiled, face embarrassingly lovesick, “Missed you too.”

The feel of George’s hand against his neck was making his pulse thrum. His whole body felt electric at the brunet’s touch, ready to go haywire if their lips didn’t connect the very next second. He was a livewire, ready to pull their breaths together at any cost.

George seemed to be walking the tightrope as well. He leaned in, breath meeting Dream’s Cupid’s brow (the blond immediately flashed back to the first time they’d kissed, and, if anything, he yearned to kiss his sunshine even more than before).

Dream could feel the humming of George’s parted lips, he could almost taste them. They were so close, so close after spending an entire year apart. 

Dream’s heart lurched as he closed the distance. 

The kiss was different from the first they’d shared. It wasn’t smoky bonfires and completed puzzles. It felt like home. 

The way George’s mouth met his, the feel of skin against skin, made Dream feel like he’d finally arrived home after years of being away. He felt like he’d walked in on a home-cooked meal with cheap wine. It was sharing soft kisses before sleeping, and dancing around the kitchen table with the person he wanted to spend forever with. 

It was domestic, and sweet, and so George, that Dream’s entire body felt intertwined with the brunet’s. He hummed, wrapped his arms around the Brit, and pulled him so close that their chests were touching. He felt warm, fuzzy.

Dream never wanted to let go.

He wished that he could hold George like this forever. Real. Warm, in his hands. In a perfect world, they would always be composed like this, connected like lovers.

Dream supposed, though, that they were lovers. 

Not the typical lovers, no. Not the handsome guy and gorgeous girl the magazines boasted about, not at all. They were two boys, one pretty, one ‘decent.’ But they were lovers, regardless. It didn’t matter because Dream liked George too much to care about what was supposed to be typical. He liked him so much that what he was feeling while they kissed– while they called– was probably a hidden measure of love.

He’d probably been in love with George ever since the night they first met. 

But love was a scary word. It was something that, at least in Dream’s book, you couldn’t take back. It was permanent, forever. 

So, Dream tightened his grip on the brunet in front of him, and washed away his fears of forever. Right then, at the top of the Ferris Wheel was enough. One temporary night with George was enough to satisfy him for all of eternity.

George, let out a chuckle as he pulled away. His hand fell to Dream’s chest as he traced the lines of the blond’s stupid graphic t-shirt. Dream watched him as he messed around, eyes falling for brunet curls and stupid grins ten times over again. 

“You’re here,” the brunet mumbled in awe, a repeat from hours before. 

Dream moved his hand to the brunet’s thigh, a touch of solace, of warmth. “I’m here.”

When the ride ended, they walked around the boardwalk for a little while. (Dream won George a penguin stuffed animal, and the brunet had smiled so wide that Dream did everything he could to win another one– he didn’t have any luck.)

Then, they headed back to George’s house, hand in hand because it was dark out. It felt like Dream was breaking a rule while they walked side by side back to the apartments, like he was committing a crime. Though the warmth he felt whilst doing so made it worth it. He didn’t know what he would do without the brunet’s heat.

The door to the apartment closed in the blink of an eye, and then Dream was being pulled back onto George’s lips, a hand was running through his hair.

Dream absolutely melted into it. 

He fell back to the couch, and George was leaning down to him, thighs meeting his, touch turning fuzzy. Dream’s hands found the dip in George’s wrist, and he sighed at the contact, alabaster meeting alabaster. 

George laughed at him, but continued stealing his lips anyway. 

Dream had to pull back for fresh air, overwhelmed, out of breath. “Don’t you,” he asked, panting, “want to talk, or something?”

The brunet shook his head mischievously. “We have time to talk on the phone. Now, it’s kiss time, so, shut up.”

He leaned in to close the distance again, and Dream was once again met with the familiar feeling of home. He could hardly argue with a deal as sweet as this one, so he relaxed into it, allowing his entire being to melt into George’s.

Hours later– many kisses later– Dream was laying in George’s bed.

George was laying in his arms, snoring away peacefully as the clock hands turned toward midnight. 

Dream could barely sleep, though. Not when they were like this, not when he’d kissed George for hours, not when he’d never felt this drawn to a person before.

He knew he liked George from their first meeting, for their first kiss, from all their calls. But now, being able to spend a night with him in pure, intimate domesticity, he knew what he was feeling was driving much deeper.

Dream wished the brunet could live inside of his veins; he wanted to share every aspect of his life with the boy in his arms. It wasn’t a simple crush, it wasn’t temporary.

What he was feeling was… more.

It was huge, and terrifying, but when they’d kissed earlier, Dream had known. 

He’d known the horrible thing he’d been scampering around for so long. He’d realized that he’d never be able to escape the way he felt, finally. He realized that George was more than a London boy; he was his everything.

Dream was in love with George. Completely, undeniably, in love.

He could admit it to himself in the silent London night, with the brunet curled up against him. He could admit it when they were alone, when there wasn’t a concert with raging fans, when there was no one he could pretend to.

Dream loved George. He loved George so much that he barely knew what to do with himself.

The next day was whipped away from him with hasty practice sessions and terrible sound checks. George had snuck backstage with him all throughout, hidden behind the curtain as they tested the microphone. 

They hadn’t kissed again that morning, after waking up together. There wasn’t the time to. But, Dream really wished they had. He wanted to kiss George until the sun set across the London horizon.

An hour before the concert started, the band was grabbing dinner from a street vendor (George along with). They had bought brisket, and were hanging around outside the stage door in a closed-off alley away from the busy streets. 

George was next to him, thigh brushing his, and the other three were across. Their glances every five seconds were knowing, and as much as Dream wanted to punch them in the face, he was glad they were so accepting of who he was. He didn’t know what he would do if they weren’t. 

“Are you excited?” George whispered, bumping him on the shoulder.

He hummed, “Nervous. But, you’ll be front row, so it’s all good.”

George smiled happily before turning away. Dream knew he’d given the right response.

Too quickly, they were ushered back inside the venue– a different one from a year ago– and thrown backstage, being yelled at to get ready. 

Dream was supposed to get his makeup done by a nice lady in the dressing rooms, but George came along with him, saying he was Dream’s ‘mental health consultant,’ whatever that meant. But it worked, and when the lady applying his eyeliner left, he and George were left alone for all of one minute.

From the poorly lit corner of the room, George was smiling like the sun, “You’re gonna do great,” he voiced. It sounded less like an affirmation, and more of a belief. 

George believing in him was really the only thing he needed to succeed. 

He grinned, “Thanks, idiot.”

A pound on the door almost made Dream jump out of his skin. “Dream!” said an irked voice, probably the stage manager, “You’re on in one! Get out here.”

“Just a sec,” he replied calmly before turning to look at George again before he left.

The brunet, however, was grinning as he strided toward the door. Their eyes met again, and then he was tugged down by the collar of his shirt. A small kiss was placed on the ivory of his cheek, and then George was bounding out of the room. 

He was so stunned that all he could do was just, stand there. 

The manager came back a moment later, ushering him out of the room and behind the stage curtain quickly until he was standing next to the guys. They were grinning at him, eyes suspicious. Dream scoffed as he brushed them away, ignoring their gazes with an eye roll.

The curtains opened, and the concert began.

The whole time he was singing, Dream couldn’t really look at anything else besides the pretty brunet in front row. The crowd was huge, the people were fawning over them. But George was in front, sitting pretty as he mouthed the words to the songs. 

You could hardly blame Dream when the brunet looked like that.

After the performance, it was back to their rooms. Dream was ushered to his own area, told to take off all his concert wear (which wasn’t much, if anything) and wipe away his makeup for the night. 

There was a window in his room, but they were so high up that no one could possibly see him without binoculars. So, he quickly tore off his sweaty tank top, not minding the open window, and put on a comfy sweater. 

When he looked back to the aperture, however, there was a brunet standing there, wide-eyed as he looked through the glass. 

Dream almost choked on his spit as he raced to the window. An unclick of the lock, a pull inward, and then, “How did you get up here?” 

George just shrugged, “There’s a fire escape ladder, so I thought…” he paused, cheeks turning red with embarrassment. “I didn’t expect to see you naked.”

“I wasn’t naked,” Dream scoffed. “Besides, it's not like you didn’t see my chest yesterday. You just caught me off guard.”

(He'd exaggerated on the seeing his chest part. He’d taken off his shirt to go to bed, nothing more. But, it was funny to tease George anyway.)

George rolled his eyes with a fond smile. “Whatever,” he hummed. “You did good tonight.”

Dream grinned, remembering how he’d only really looked at George throughout the entirety of the concert, “Thanks.”

“I told you you would,” George shrugged, teasing.

Dream raised a brow, “Are you saying I would have played terribly had you not told me I’d ‘do great’?”

The brunet smiled, toothy, deviously. “Maybe.” He paused, walking forward in a pace that made Dream’s heart speed up incredulously. “Maybe that kiss helped too.” 

“Oh yeah?” Dream was playing into it now, wanting nothing more than to steal another kiss from his London boy. 

George grabbed his hand, and pulled him close as if he were as light as a feather, “Yeah.”

Dream leaned in, breath faint, “Yeah.”

And then they were kissing. 

They were kissing and as their breaths mingled, Dream could feel how much energy George was putting into it. It was like the brunet was doing things only for Dream’s benefit, like he was showing gratitude. 

Dream could hardly wonder why, because sure he’d played well tonight, but that was only because of the pretty boy in front row. If anything, Dream thought he should be thanking George.

But when he tried to show the way he was feeling, tried to show his appreciation, George pulled away. A sly grin dotted his lips as he repeated, “You did good.”

The night was spent with the rest of the band (and George) near the tour bus. They were laughing and smiling and George was so close to him all throughout that his body was warm even in the chilled air. 

He’d slept with the guys that night in the bus. George had to leave early because he had work the next day, and as much as Dream missed his presence, the night was still immensely fun. They were his best friends, after all.

In the new day, there was more prepping for the gig. They were playing and then Dream was smiling for the audience and then he was going back to George’s apartment with hushed giggles throughout dark London streets. 

The door behind them closed, and George was leading him to the couch, and they were kissing again, and Dream was so happy that he felt like he could burst if one more thing turned out bright in his life. It was so much good, that he couldn’t ever fathom anything possibly being bad.

And so, of course, he decided to remember the inconvenient fact that he was leaving the next day right when George’s lips were connected with his. His chest turned heavy, his heart felt like it had been stepped on.

How was he supposed to just leave after all of this? How was he meant to go on without George by his side? 

The brunet pulled back, brow furrowed, voice tender, “What’s wrong?”

Dream almost cried when George’s hands cradled his face, when he wiped away a tear that had slipped out unnoticed. He breathed in a shaky breath, "I’m leaving tomorrow.”

It was whispered, a silent plea, a beckoning for any godforsaken being to help him stay in London at all costs. He wanted to be with George. Screw the tour, screw the music, George was right here. 

Obviously, he couldn’t abandon his friends. Obviously, he knew he had committed to the tour for the fans. Obviously, he knew he loved making music more than anything.

But it still hurt. Everything hurt.

“I know, Dream. Believe me, I know,” George mumbled, hands quivering at their position on Dream’s face. “You’re leaving tomorrow, and I’ll be alone again.”

Dream was about to ask the question he’d been mulling over ever since he’d arrived to the city, ever since he’d known that George was the person he wanted to be with. But, George continued, “We have our phone calls, though. Right? We can call, and you can mail me your stupid love songs, and– and everything will be fine.”

Dream wanted it to be fine. But he had no idea when he would ever come back to London. They were taking a break after the tour, so it could be years before he had the opportunity to see the brunet again. 

He frowned, eyes drooping, “It’s not enough.”

George’s hands fell from his cheeks. “What do you mean it’s not enough?” His voice was less soft now, more guarded. 

Dream was quick to realize his faults. He’d made it seem like George wasn't enough when in reality, he was more than enough. The distance was the problem. He couldn’t stand the ocean in the middle of them, didn’t know how he’d be able to return home after feeling something as powerful as this. 

It wasn’t like the time before. Now, it was so much more. 

“George,” he pleaded. “That’s not what I meant.”

The brunet wasn’t meeting his eyes. 

“It’s just… I can’t take the distance and the time zones and everything. I just want you with me. That’s why,” he sucked in a breath, heart pounding all the way up to his ears, “I want you to come with.”

Pretty orbs finally met his own, stunned, confused. “On the tour?”

Dream nodded, hoping, praying, pleading that George would say yes. He wanted them to be together in all of Europe, wanted them to kiss in every country, wanted to serenade him under the Paris light, just like he had a year ago over a telephone call.

But, George scoffed, his face turning hard. “I can’t just follow you on tour, Dream. I have a life here, a job, a family.”

Dream opened his mouth to apologize, to say something that might convince to abandon all of that for him– he was selfish, but he was so, so desperate that he didn’t care. Instead, George continued. “I can’t just be there for you all the time, Dream. You’re so far away, so busy. I know you have millions of fans, and all, but I’m not like them. I can’t abandon everything I know just to support you.” He huffed. “I know you reach out, I know you call me when you can, but it’s so…”

He drifted off, groaning in frustration, “It happened with Karl, okay? He said he wouldn’t forget me, that he would call and write, and that it would be just how it used to be before he left. But it’s not, Dream. It’s different. I don’t want to leave my whole life just for things to be different with us. We’re fine the way we are.”

We’re not fine! Dream wanted to shout. Instead, he scoffed. It was mean, and selfish, and entirely the type of thing he never wanted to turn toward George. But he scoffed anyway, “I’m not Karl.”

“You’re not Karl,” George affirmed, nodding sarcastically. “You’re so much more to me than Karl is. What am I supposed to do if we don’t work out? How am I supposed to come back to a place where all I’ve known for the past year has been you? London’s not just my home, Dream. It’s also the only place we’ve ever been together.”

Dream was almost furious, but he knew he was being a dick. He knew he was a complete asshole who didn’t think about George’s feelings at all before popping the big question. His shoulders hunched down, his face turned neutral. 

“London is my favorite place to be,” he said simply. “Because it’s where you are.”

George’s eyes lost their fire. He sunk back down to the sofa, limbs entangling with Dream’s again. “It sucks being here without you,” he said smally. “I hate waiting for you to call me. I hate not being able to reach out because you move from place to place all the time.” 

His head found Dream’s chest. “I hate it, but I can’t leave. My mum’s here, my sisters. They need me to help out with my dad. And I have the paper. I’m the best editor they’ve got, and the only one actually trying to get things out on time.”

Dream tightened his grip on the brunet, a try of saying how much he cared, how much he understood. He was too nervous to speak in fear of upsetting George any more, so he stayed quiet, showing his support through touch instead.

“London needs me, Dream,” George mumbled into a teary chest. “The world needs you.”

And so, as Dream’s last night in London came to a close, he found himself holding onto George for dear life. He pulled him close and whispered sweet nothings to the boy he loved. 

For one more night, they stayed together. For one more night, they relished feeling each other’s touch, being in one another’s presence. 

A final kiss filled of shaky breaths, of salty lips, was shared before Dream ventured back to the band. A kiss of yearning and guilt made his insides turn out.

It was his last night with George until god knew when. It was his last night of sunshine and warmth. 

His heart felt empty as he slept through the night, his head felt dull. A life without the brunet was never something he wanted to live without. And now, it was seemingly more feasible than ever.

[a year and a half later]

London.

A place of new beginnings. Of hope. 

Dream was finally back after half a year of tours, a band hiatus, and many contracts signed to make London the new home for Sonrisa. 

It took forever. So many hours were spent convincing the guys to pack their bags and move across the world. Karl was fine with moving back, since he’d been an exchange student in college. Quackity thought the experience would be cool, as long as it was ‘temporary’. (He didn’t know that Dream planned on staying forever, but it was fine. He’d tell him eventually.) Sapnap, though, Sapnap was the hard one to convince. 

He was a big family guy, and he had a girl that he was talking to back at home (Dream pointedly avoided that topic of conversation whenever they were around Karl). He didn’t want to leave. However, when Dream offered to give him more ‘creative authority’ (whatever that meant– Dream had totally made it up) over their songs, Sapnap happily obliged.

So now they were here. They weren’t touring, weren’t staying for only two quick nights. Sonrisa was staying in London for a long time. Dream was staying in London for a long time.

After the last time he’d been there, things between him and George gotten  heated. But, with many phone calls and letters, they were back to being okay again. More than okay, actually.

He’d planned on surprising George when he got there, originally. Dream really wanted to show up at his apartment and kiss him and tell him that he wasn’t leaving any time soon. However, he got too excited, and ended up spilling on the phone call.

“What if,” he said, grinning as he imagined the brunet across the line, “I told you that Sonrisa was moving homes to somewhere in Europe?”

He heard George gasp. “And,” he added, “What if I told you we were coming to England? Specifically London.”

“You–” George stuttered out of sheer disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can mail you the contracts, if you’d like,” he teased. “Or, I could just tell you how soon I’m coming, so you can make proper arrangements and all.”

The brunet scoffed. “Yeah, right. Why would I rearrange my schedule for you?” A second later his voice dropped lower in opposition. “Are you serious, though? You’re actually going to be here?”

“ Yeah,” Dream affirmed, voice gone, “I’ll be in London, with you.”

It was mid-afternoon, so Dream knew George was at work. He was probably critiquing peoples’ articles, probably being the best editor the paper ever had.

Instead of waiting around in pure agony to see the brunet again, Dream decided on helping the guys move into their apartments. 

Karl and Quackity were rooming together, and he and Sapnap were supposed to be as well. Although, Dream was kind of hoping it would only be temporary. He wanted to eat, live, and breathe in the same space as George as much as possible while they were here. 

(George had offered him a stay in his own apartment, but Dream had declined at first simply because it was a lot to think about. Now, though, he was sure. He wanted to live with George for the rest of his life.)

When he walked into their apartment complex, which was somehow just across the street from George’s, Karl and Quackity were throwing decorative pillows at each other while Sapnap sat by, idly watching. It was a sight, to say the least.

Dream laughed as he walked to Sapnap’s side, bumping shoulders. “Does our place look any better?” he whispered, gesturing to the messy furniture that had come along with the places. Their stuff wouldn’t be shipped out for at least a week, so all they had was a couple of suitcases. It was fine, though, because Dream told himself he would just steal some of George’s stuff if he ever got low on clothes.

Sapnap shook his head. “ No. But it’s not like you’ll even be living there anyway.”

Dream began to rebuttal, but Sapnap continued. “I know what you have planned, dude. You’re not very subtle in the way you’ve been picking out matching pajamas with him ever since you knew we were moving here for sure.” 

(Okay, true. He had been eying different flannel pajama pants that they could match in when it came time for Christmas. Sue him.)

“Whatever,” Dream scoffed. “It's still our apartment. I’ll be living there sometimes.” 

Sapnap chuckled before running away to join in Karl and Quackity’s all out war. Dream could only smile and watch his friends be complete nimrods. 

He would be content with a life like this for as long as he could have it. His best friends were with him in London. George was with him in London. What more could a man ask for?

When 6pm came along, Dream was bounding across the street to George’s apartment. He wanted to pick up flowers, or something nice for the brunet, but he’d forgotten earlier. Instead of being late, Dream practically bounced as he rang the buzzer for George’s floor, deciding that his presence alone would be enough (hopefully). 

“Who is it?” spoke George’s sweet, saccharine voice.

Dream smiled genuinely, for the first time in a long while, “Your favorite person.”

When the door buzzed open, Dream sprinted up all the flights of stairs. He didn’t think he’d ever run faster in his entire life. He was too excited to see George again, too happy to be back in London.

Dream barely had to knock before the door to George’s apartment was whipped open. The brunet was standing there, staring.

He looked the same as last time, as every time. His outfit was more professional now, his hair a little longer, but it was George. He was still the most gorgeous being Dream had ever laid eyes on. 

“You’re in London,” George whispered, eyes gleaming up as the blond outside his door. “Sonrisa is in London. For more than three days, holy shit.”

“You’re actually here.”

“You’re here!” 

Dream was almost reduced to tears as he finally walked through the door. He was finally back to London, finally back to George, finally back home.

(When he’d told his mom about the need to be in London, she’d rushed him away, demanding he follow his heart to its true place. Home wasn’t Florida. Home wasn’t even London. Home was George. Home was the life Dream wanted to create with the man he loved.)

Dream wasn’t scared to admit to himself that he was in love with a man. He’d admitted it to himself over a year ago, back when he’d seen what a glimpse of life with George would be. He’d admitted it to his mom, who’d been so supportive that Dream had ended up sobbing in her arms. He’d even admitted it to the band, to his friends. He was forever grateful for the fact that they’d moved all this way just so he could live his silly little fantasy, just so he could be with George.

So, as he looked at George through new lenses, he was overcome with love. 

It had been over two years of the brunet inhabiting every single place in his mind, in his heart. Two years of distance and longing. 

He’d loved him all this time, and now, he finally wasn’t afraid of saying the dreaded word. 

So, as George was staring at him as if Dream had created all the stars in the galaxy, Dream was staring right back. He was wondering how on earth he’d been able to have this beautiful boy all to himself, pondering over how lucky he was. 

George reached out his hand, their skin finally making contact with the touch of ivory fingers. He looked at Dream like he was the only guy on the planet, and Dream’s mind went completely blank. It just repeated one thing, over and over:

I love you I love you I love you I love you

His mouth moved without his brain’s consent. “I’m in love with you.”

The words came out too easily, too effortless. He almost wanted to take it back, but then George’s eyes were welling up. He was tightening his grip on Dream’s hand, pulling him close enough that their feet were slotted into one another, their chests barely touching. 

George was smiling, and crying, and hell, Dream was crying too. 

All he wanted to do was kiss the brunet and tell him that he was staying forever. He wanted to hold George and plan visits to his family. He wanted to take George to America one day, wanted the brunet to meet his mom more than anything. 

The brunet’s head fell against his chest without warning, a chuckle leaving his lips. Immediately, like second nature, Dream wrapped his arms around George. It was instinctive, and Dream was barely even cognizant, but it felt so right. Dream thought George was meant to live in his arms forever, always warm, never fleeting.

Something was mumbled in the crevice of his chest, the warm air sending shockwaves through Dream’s entire nervous system. He couldn’t hear, though, so he mumbled a “huh?”

George tilted his head up immediately. “I said you’re an idiot.” He paused, lips twisting into the evil grin Dream had fallen head over heels for. “Love you too.”

Their lips met in tranquil harmony. The birds were singing, the bees were buzzing. Everything was finally right in the world. Dream was finally right where he was always meant to be, finally with the boy who mattered most.

He wasn’t phone calls away anymore, they weren’t separated by an ocean’s pull. He was there, with George, in London. 

To think it all started off with a kiss on the cheek– to remember just how stunned Dream had been on that first London night– was incredible. They’d come so far, learned so much. 

Dream was still figuring himself out, for the most part. He was still unsure of who he liked; girls or boys, maybe both. He had time, though. There, in London, all that really mattered was that he loved George. 

He wasn’t ready to tell the world yet, maybe ever. He wasn’t ready to tell the fans, or get written about in all the tabloids. That would be too much, too intense. But George was never intense. He was smart and pretty, caring and witty. Dream didn’t know if he would ever get enough. How could he ever get enough of his sunlight?

He was in love with a London boy.

So, as the kiss came to a close, Dream found his lips gravitating to George’s cheeks, stealing two kisses the same way George had long ago. He reciprocated back the very thing that made his world tilt on its axis in the first place.

This time, it was a start as well, a new start. They would begin a life together after years of distance, years of hopeless yearning.  Their new life was just around the corner, filled with warm days and tender nights.

Dream could hardly contain himself as he pulled George in for another kiss. It was all he ever wanted, the only home he ever needed.

As the brunet fell asleep in his arms, Dream could never imagine not repeating the three little words until George got sick of it. He didn’t know how he could keep his love inside, how he could possibly not utter it like a prayer into the night sky.

I love you I love you I love you.

So, he kissed George’s forehead and thanked every celestial being out there for the life he’d gotten to live. He praised the stars above, the asteroids, for the beautiful boy in his bed.

He owed all the gods, all the stars, for George.

He’d never get enough of his London boy.