Chapter 12: fact from fiction
George had his eyes closed, headphones on, laying on his bed.
He was listening to Flightless Bird, American Mouth by Iron and Wine, and though he normally listened to songs of a completely different genre than this, he continued to put the song on repeat. He felt emotions he had never felt before be suddenly reeled in by the careful construction of melodious sounds. For a boy who's life was run by focus and set goals, he had not been used to being so driven off course by turns of events he could not explain.
He believed there was a science to everything. He knew that if he tried hard enough, everything he had ever known could be solved with numbers and quiet genius. He had been a firm believer in the construct of everything he knew being just another number. Life was data. Everything he had ever committed himself to had been data. His job, daily routines, and his whole life were just another algorithm he knew was solvable on pen and paper.
So why had a phone call suddenly thrown all his beliefs down a waterfall of madness?
He could have just been clinging to the one person in his life that had ever given a damn about him, but he felt something more. Amidst the impossibility and outlandish circumstances was an emotion that was formed simply by exchanging words on a device connected by a rip in the timeline. He wasn't going to run to a scientist to get an explanation, or post about the miracle that was this old telephone and show the world that he had discovered some sort of magic. It was almost like he wanted Dream to himself. That this bond was made strictly for them, and that the world wasn't meant to know.
Dream's voice threw his logic down the drain, along with all his crap about scientific proof and algorithmic nonsense. He had been the magnetic pull that he needed to realize how much he had messed up his life, his relationships, and everything decision he had ever made, all to help himself.
So he lay there, wondering why the one entity in his life that had seemed to fix him was someone he couldn't have.
What he wanted Dream as? He wasn't sure.
He had never had a friendship in which he'd find it safe to spill his inner demons in exchange for words of comfort and honest criticism.
George and Dream had made a schedule in which Dream would call. 8 PM every night, and even earlier on weekends. George glanced at the clock, squinting to see he thankfully had two more long minutes to wait before he'd hear the saving grace that was the phone ringing.
Three minutes had gone by, and though George knew that not every call was going to be on the dot, he felt a little lonely and worried.
Ten minutes went on, then thirty, then an hour and a half.
He had heard a knock on his door just as he was about to give up waiting and make dinner.
He placed a small figurine on the phone, so if it rang the phone would shake and the figure would fall, and if George came back and the figure was on the floor he'd know if Dream had called while he was gone.
He forced himself downstairs quickly, not wanting to miss the call in case one ever came. He opened the door to see Wilbur, with his usual pocket notebook in hand, and Niki holding a bottle of apple cider.
"Wilbur, Niki," George greeted, "what brings you here at 8 in the night." He gestured to their presence and the bottle of cider.
Wilbur wrote in his notebook and stuffed it into his pocket, "Well it's been a while since we had friends to have a chat and a drink with, so we figured to knock on the door of our fellow Brit to see if he's available."
George hesitated a bit, a little weary of leaving the phone in the event of Dream calling, but Wilbur and his family had been so kind and hard to say no to. "I'd love to."
"That's lovely!" Niki smiled before the couple were gestured inside, "I adore your house, it has such a vintage feel."
George looked around, if only she knew, "It is sort of vintage. Nothing's changed in this place since the 60s or 70s I assume."
Wilbur nodded, "It seems so." He was looking around before spotting a painting, "The Birth of Venus," he said, "I didn't know you were a fan of art."
"That isn't something I bought," George corrected, "it came with the house actually, but it's quite cool that you know the name of it."
Wilbur turned toward him, "We used to have one in our old family house. My parents admire the artist."
They had sat down on the couch, and George had played a movie for them to watch. "So who's taking care of little Tommy?" George asked.
"My father and Dave initially, but Dave wanted to come with us here." Wilbur explained.
"He's welcome here, if he'd like." George suggested, "You can give him a call and invite him, the more the merrier."
George felt like he was getting carried away, but he had liked the idea of having friends. Even enough that his worries about the lack of a phone call from Dream for the night had subsided.
Niki opened the cider and pulled coasters and glasses out her purse she had brought herself, "Are you sure? I do hope we didn't interrupt you in anything."
George shook his head, "No worries." He assured her, "My plans got cancelled for the night so this is actually a good substitute."
Wilbur tilted his head, "What were your plans initially?" He questioned, accepting a glass of cider from Niki and taking a sip, being sure to put the coaster under his chin so he didn't spill anything in George's house.
George scratched the back of his head awkwardly, "I was going to talk to an old friend, but he turned out to have last minute plans." He tried his best to be truthful but not entirely.
Wilbur nodded slowly. He took another sip of cider and started clicking his pen frantically, patting his jackets for something.
"Dear," Niki touched his shoulder, "I saw you put it in your jeans pocket."
Wilbur checked his jean pocket and pulled out his notebook, "Whew, thought I had lost it."
George finally had the courage to ask, "What's in that notebook? You don't have to tell me, I just see you with it all the time."
Wilbur seemed to think about his answer for a second, "It's a planner. I think that's the best way to describe it."
George understood, "That makes sense. Sorry if it was an intrusive question."
"No no," Wilbur waved his hands, "I'd be curious as well. I never let it out of my sight."
Wilbur had seemed like a simple man. A father with a stable family and a seemingly good job, but deeper inside was a mysterious man that he felt hid something deeper. Everyone had that, of course, but Wilbur seemed to harness that energy the most out of everyone George knew. Then again he didn't know many people.
There was a knock on the door, "That must be Dave." Wilbur assumed, and George made his way to the door to open it. Techno stood there, with a trench coast and his usual boots and rings. He really was an intimidating person, and if he were Tommy he'd be scared of him as well.
He walked in, "Wil, Tommy's asleep. He fell asleep to dad telling him a story of his adventures, remember those?"
Wilbur looked reminiscently, "Yeah. We'd beg him for more stories and he'd tell us he wouldn't continue if we didn't sleep, then the next night he'd have the next part."
"Alright but some of them obviously weren't true." Dave said as he sat down, "Hello by the way, George."
"What's up Dave." George greeted, watching as Techno waved to Niki.
Wilbur scoffed, "Of course they were all true. He's not a very good actor or liar, and with the way he told those stories, I knew he lived through them."
Techno rolled his eyes, "Wilbur you believe those stories and you're an adult man." He shook his head, visibly disappointed, "I knew those were fiction when I was 6."
Wilbur looked to George, "He's just a big non-believer, you know." He whispered.
"I heard that, Harry Potter." He scolded Wilbur, and Niki and the rest of them laughed while Wilbur gave him a death stare and pushed his glasses up his face.
"What kind of stories were they?" George asked, not specifically to one of the two brothers, but to whoever would answer.
Techno held his hand up, counting his fingers, "There was one jumping a fence at the city zoo and petting the leopard, the one of him wrestling a gator he found in the sewers, and Wilbur you couldn't possibly believe the one about him c-"
Wilbur stopped him suddenly, "Alright," he laughed awkwardly, "Techno, we get it."
"I'm serious." Techno put his hands up, "Just saying it's absurd how you can be 36 and believe that story is true. Even Tommy could go to dad's face and tell him it's a fake, and he's 6."
George didn't want to ask too many questions, so he didn't ask about what the story was. Instead he tried to break the tension between the two brothers, "So Tommy is getting pretty close to him now, isn't he."
Wilbur nodded while giving a thumbs up, "Tommy loves him." He answered then he suddenly remembered something, "Oh Dave, imagine if he met dad's best friend, they would have all gotten along so well."
Dave looked down, an unfamiliar look of sadness on his face as he turned to George, "That friend our Dad used to teach us to fight with, he passed away a couple months ago. Dad called us absolutely devastated, they were really close. Tommy would have loved to bicker with him."
George took everything in. They seemed to have grown up so happily, around friends and family that made life fun enough to have stories to share around. George's fear was that they'd ask about his childhood, and he'd have nothing to respond with.
They had finished the movie, sharing a few more stories before Wilbur thought it would be a good idea for them all to go home. "It was a good night, George. Thank you for having us over when we basically came to your house uninvited."
"Oh no please don't start with that," George smiled, "it's nice to have some company after a while."
"Anytime." Wilbur grinned, before writing on a piece of his notebook and ripping it out, "Here's our phone number, if you ever want to all hang out again, just give us a call and we'll be here."
Techno walked toward George, his boots heavy against the hard floor, "Stay safe and cool, brother." He patted him on the shoulder before walking out.
Niki had kindly taken to cleaning up all the glasses and coasters (which didn't even make much of a mess, thanks to her), and bid George goodbye.
When George shut the door, he ran upstairs and checked the phone, but the small toy sitting atop the phone was still perfectly balanced atop it. It had been nearly midnight and thought it best to go to sleep and hope Dream would call the next day.
The absence of a distraction in the form of Wilbur and his family opened his mind to his endless thoughts he had been thinking earlier. He had once again played Flightless Bird, American Mouth on his headphones and fell asleep, occupied only with "what ifs" and "imagines" in his full head.