The brass handle beneath Dream's fingertips is cool to the touch, gently leaving his hand as the door glides shut. The walls of the spare room shift in the edges of his vision. When he presses the back of his knuckles against the paint, shimmering ripples spread and bounce from corner to corner.
He tilts his head slowly to study it. Why did I come in here, again?
"It's cleaner than I expected," a voice emits from the other side of the room.
Dream takes a blind step towards the sound, and his toes connect with a dark, black suitcase lying on the white carpet.
"Well yeah, I'm not a bad host," he finds himself replying, words falling from his mouth without intention.
There's a familiar, gentle laugh. "I'll be the judge of that."
Dream looks up. "Come on, George. Have more faith in me."
George sits on the bed, bending down to untie his shoes. The fabric on the comforter beneath him is a trap of dappled stars and purple skydust.
"Did you vacuum before I got here?" George asks.
Dream's lips part to reply, but he's suddenly grasping empty into a dark void where memories escape him. Time folds absently behind his eyelids.
He stares at George. "When did you get here?"
"Hm?" George slips off his sneakers. "I flew in earlier."
Dream carefully steps over the suitcase, moving closer. "You did?"
George peers up at him. His hair is clean and dark, fine bristles so soft Dream wonders if it'd feel like feathers under his touch. The long sleeves pushed up to his forearms expose his pale wrists. In his lap, balancing lightly against his thigh, is a hunting knife braided with leather and iron.
"You didn't," Dream answers himself softly. He sinks to sit next to George, watching as the knife is tossed to the floor. "This...isn't real, is it?"
George's motions still for a moment, and he turns to face Dream with hesitance.
"It is if you want it to be," George says quietly.
Dream glances away, and carefully watches the subtly liquifying wall before them. He isn't sure what is paralyzing his limbs—the gap between where they're seated on the bed, his own inclining heart rate, or how he can barely stand to see George's eyes without crumbling.
"I don't think that's how it works," Dream mutters.
"What do you mean?"
A wry smile works its way onto his face. "I've wanted plenty of things that aren't real, in the past."
George rests a hand comfortingly on Dream's shoulder. "What about now?"
The touch trickles warmth through his t-shirt, spreading across his skin. "Oh, I've never wanted something like you."
"Something like me, huh?" George says, and Dream knows by the inflection of his voice that he's grinning.
"Yeah, you're smug," he teases lightly, hand reaching up to hold George's fingers, "and sneaky."
George squeezes Dream's palm in amusement. "How am I sneaky?"
Dream finally lifts his eyes to meet George, breath shallowing as he falls into the intimidating brown darkness. The edges of the room fade into absent blur. He can feel his heart beating in the walls.
"No matter what I do," Dream says, "you find me here."
George doesn't blink. His voice is slow, and thoughtful, "because you reach for me."
Dream's brows pinch together. "...Do I?" He lifts George's hand from his shoulder.
"All the time," George says.
The gravity lulling them into the creaking bed frame sways, for a moment.
"I can't keep bringing you in." Dream's steady wildfire of impulse raises George's fingers to his lips, and he murmurs a confession against them, "it's eating me alive."
George's touch brushes across Dream's mouth. In a sensitive symphony, Dream's light grasp relocates to hold George's wrist, as George gingerly cups the rigid tension of Dream's jaw.
"Then let it," George breathes.
Dream leans into the cool palm pressed to his cheek. "No."
He feels George's presence tangle into him with baneful beauty. The warm air that flows down his throat, the strange nebulas on the blanket beneath them, the hum between his skin and George's contact.
It is invigorating, and it hurts.
"What are you afraid of?" George asks.
Dream pulls their hands down from his face, letting George's fingers fall to the galaxied duvet. "You know my answer. We've been in my head before."
The smell of seashore and copper floats into the room with remembrance of palm forests. Dream wants to flick his eyes around rapidly, check the shadows for his reflection or their clothes for specks of blood.
George takes Dream's hand, and pulls it towards his chest. With gentle guidance, Dream splays his fingers across the dark fabric until he can know the thumping of George's heart against his palm.
"He's not here," George says softly.
A breath of shock leaves Dream's lungs. George's pulse flows with warm blood and honesty beneath his touch. He feels alive. He feels real.
George's fingertips travel down the exposed length of Dream's forearm, leaving a trail of firing nerves, before wrapping at the base of his bicep.
Dream's hand moves slowly across George's chest, thumb tracing his rigid collar bone. The shirt hem is soft where clothes give way to skin. He stops at the nape of George's neck, feeling how his shoulders rise and fall with each deepening inhale.
"No one else is here," Dream reiterates in quiet assurance. Their knees bump together.
George gently pulls Dream closer. "It's just us."
Dream's other hand unconsciously moves to George's waist. His grip tightens.
"Just us," Dream murmurs. George's breath is hot on his face, and his lidded eyes flutter.
George inclines his chin slightly. "Yeah."
"Alone." Dream leans close enough to let their foreheads touch.
George opens his mouth to utter a response, and the skin of his lips accidentally brush against Dream's with an electric tingle.
Dream bites back a sharp inhale. "How—how do I know," he forces out, "that we're safe?"
George brushes a thumb across Dream's forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his mouth where his mask used to be.
Dream's eyes shut.
"You're free," George says, and kisses him.
Dream's lips move timidly against George's, his brows pinched together in deep strain as he gently savors the passing seconds. It feels so familiar—the tender movements of George's mouth, the conflicted elation. The way his chest begins to ache because he's wanted this too much, for too long, and doesn't want to let it go.
With careful softness, George separates their lips and pulls centimeters away.
Dream can feel the heat radiating from George's cheeks, and the uneven breaths blowing across his chin. His eyelashes shudder.
His grasp on George's body locks fierce, fingers slowly curling into trembling muscle.
"Again," Dream says, "do that again."
George does.
The moment their lips reconnect, the stoked furnace of Dream's body roars to life; he kisses back with force, breath heavy, pulling George closer and closer to his chest with each arching motion of their mouths.
His hands dig into George, eliciting soft sounds that let his hunger burn bright.
George's nails leave pink scrapes as his hands slide into Dream's hair.
Dream pushes further, and George opens effortlessly. It tastes of gold honey and liquid fire on Dream's tongue. Wordless touches coax Dream forward, lean George down, communicating with hands on chests and mouths on skin until George is pinned to the pillows and sheets.
George's hands fall to Dream's belt, and a sudden tug pulls their hips and chests flush together.
Dream's lips graze George's neck. He stills.
His cheek tingles with warmth and earnest intimacy where it's pressed against George's face. He can smell his cologne, and feel his ribs breathing. So close, so human.
An unexpected wave of emotion floods his senses, splitting open his heart and rushing through his limbs with numb tranquility. George is here, in his hands, finally fulfilling the hurt he's been drowning in for so long that now he can nearly—
He snakes his hands under George's back, and pulls him into a tight embrace.
He doesn't fight the shame. He doesn't fight the way the hearth in his chest expands with golden warmth at the closeness of George's heart to his own.
He screws his eyes shut, and holds him.
A tentative moment of stunned silence stretches before them. Dream's mind hums with the gentle glow of cyan jellyfish, the soft night sand, the moon in George's throat and the burn on his lips. He's home, for once, clinging to the only person that has made him feel whole in eons.
Carefully, George wraps his arms around Dream's back, and holds him, too.
Dream wakes up devastated.
-
His hands are cold.
Dark shadows fill his room as he stares into nothingness, lying on his stomach, breathing against the mattress with deep-rooted emptiness that bounces off the walls of his skull.
George isn't here. The night is terrible. His hands are cold.
He clutches the pillow above his head as his eyes squeeze shut.
Please, he thinks, please. Take me back.
He pulls the soft bedding in his grip inward, rotating to his side. Maybe if he stumbles out of the covers, and flings open the spare bedroom door, he could prove that it was real—but the bed will be empty.
I just want to go back.
It's the second day, or second night, or third night George has been gone. They'd announced the trip to Florida on Twitter, then spent hours into the late night streaming and calling with friends. Dream had been desperate to play any game—Minecraft, Among Us, even CSGO—to keep George's radiant voice passing between his ears until dawn stole him away for good. Eventually, their voices faded and sleep crept in, and Dream had to let go.
When he woke, George was already on the road with his family. They texted up until the moment Dream's messages began to rebound with red errors and crushing disappointment.
He's been alone.
He tried to not let it consume him at first—cleaning his house, participating actively on social media, negotiating careful sections of his day where he'd allow himself to feel the appropriate amount of heartache for missing a friend.
Then, an accidental trip to his camera roll forced him to rediscover his screenshot of George's deceitful "goodnight." It didn't take much for him to start slipping.
Checking his phone all hours of the day, bitterly ignoring Sapnap's amicable texts, rereading old messages and letting himself sink. Falling asleep at seven in the afternoon because he no longer felt compelled to stay awake. Succumbing to the destruction of his dreams.
He curls into himself, and the night dries his throat. He'd felt him, he'd kissed him, and it was so close to his heart that he can't consume any emotion but sorrow. He hates himself for creating a trap of wants that may never happen, needs that may never be met.
His jaw clenches. He wants to text George, tell him everything. Tell him anything.
He blindly pulls his phone towards him from its discarded location on his bed. The bright screen makes him wince as he opens their last text thread.
Shoot, I think I'm about to lose service, George sent.
Please no, Dream typed.
Don't miss me too much.
Dream's next messages had never gone through: impossible, and, I miss u already, followed by a simple, fuck.
He feels stupid. He swipes away from the messages, and opens his notes app instead.
Against the white and yellow background, he types a black-lettered confession that he knows he can never send.
I had another dream where I got to see you, he writes, I'm beginning to think they're nightmares. I'm beginning to think you're haunting me. A heavy sigh leaves his lungs. This fucking sucks.
He shuts off his phone and tosses it to the carpeted floor with a thud.
Unmoving, he gazes into the abyss of his room until rosy dawn lifts the shadows from his walls. Day creeps in through the slats of his blinds. He listens faintly to the breeze, then the rare tires passing on his road, then the neighbors greeting mailmen across the street. His mind is silent, until a gentle chirping picks up outside his window.
His eyes widen.
The chattering grows, and he sits up sharply.
The birds survived the storm.
He scrambles to pull on the strings of the shades, a smile breaking out onto his face as sunshine and flashes of wings flutter through the clear glass. He can't help but feel a flicker of pride—the purple martins were young, and delicate, but bold enough to withstand the downpour.
The scale of hope in Dream's chest gently tips upward.
It's enough to make him leave his room, cook breakfast with something other than eggs and grease, and decide to start a stream.
It has been mildly hectic online since the announcement of Sapnap and George's plane tickets. They've been receiving numerous tags of theories, accusations, distrust, and abundant joy—but it doesn't weigh on Dream like he'd expected it would. He's going to see them, he's going to see George, and that's all that matters.
When he's several minutes into streaming his light-hearted speedrun, Sapnap joins the call.
"What the fuck is up, Dream?" He greets loudly.
A surprised smile leaps onto Dream's face. "I'm streaming, I'm streaming—"
"Oh, what? My bad," Sapnap says, "let me see it—I didn't think you would be because you never do."
"Yeah, okay, what does it look like I'm doing right now?" Dream asks, eyes flitting over the monitor where he's mining blocks.
"Missing iron, apparently," Sapnap says, "turn around. No, other way."
Dream locates and breaks the ore. "I saw that," he lies.
Sapnap chuckles. "You so did not. I think I'm better at this than you."
Dream glances at the chat. "The subs don't agree with you."
"The subs can kiss my ass."
"Sapnap."
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," Sapnap says, "I love them." He pauses, then adds, "so how come you're actually streaming today?"
Dream feels his brain stall at the subtle change in his tone. Worried. "I dunno, was bored, I guess."
"Just bored?" Sapnap asks.
Dream's eyes narrow. They aren't going to have this conversation on stream, Sapnap knows, but he always attempts to coax it out of Dream before he retreats to his desolate den of unanswered calls and vague excuses.
Dream opens his mouth, but a donated message saves him from a response.
Hi Dream thank you for streaming you make my day, it reads, are we going to get the whole Dream team today?
Dream digs his way out of gravel and dirt. "Um, no. Just me and Sapnap for now."
After a beat of silence, Sapnap inputs, "George isn't going to be online for a bit, and we'll let you know when he's back. We don't need him anyways."
Dream huffs. "Speak for yourself."
"Love me, Dream," Sapnap pleads, "play me back in eight-ball."
"No," he says with exasperation, "you take way too long and always lose. It's not even fun to win anymore."
"That is not true. You're so competitive."
Dream grins. "I've never been competitive in my life."
"Oh, please," Sapnap says.
When are Sapnap and George going to visit you, also today is my birthday ily, a dono reads into Dream's ears.
"Sarah, thank you for the dono, and happy birthday," Dream answers kindly, "when are they going to visit—um, I don't know, Sapnap, when are you visiting?"
"Never."
"In September," Dream fills in, bounding across a desert biome, "I'm thinking about placing a bet to see how long it takes you to get sunburned."
"I don't burn," Sapnap bites back, "I tan."
Dream giggles. "You never go outside."
Sapnap is quiet. "...I know you did not just say that to me."
Dream kills a rabbit running across the sand before him. He glances at the space where the timer normally resides out of habit—he hadn't included one in the stream today. It's calmer in the absence of ticking numbers to remind him how slow his world is moving.
"When was the last time you left your house?" Dream asks.
"Yesterday, I had dinner with my mom," Sapnap replies easily, "when was the last time you saw your mom, huh?"
"Who's competitive now," Dream mumbles. It has been a while. Even though Sapnap is only teasing, guilt slips into his conscience, "I should really go see her, I—I haven't been very present, lately."
"Oh," Sapnap's voice softens, "well that's okay. You've had a lot to deal with."
A weight settles on Dream's shoulders. "Yeah."
"With your broken house," Sapnap covers quickly, "electricity and all. Y'know, the weather."
The weather. "My A.C man said he's actually going to stop by tomorrow. I might marry him."
Sapnap laughs shortly. "Livestream it."
"Face reveal and a wedding at the same time," Dream says, "now that would break the internet."
He skims over the fast-moving messages on his other monitor, and frowns. They won't stop asking about George.
"George is busy, you guys," Dream addresses the viewers, carefully keeping his voice even, "I'm sorry he can't be here."
God. I wish he was.
"Hey," Sapnap says suddenly, "can I be your best man?"
A quizzical smile leads Dream away from his spiraling thoughts. "...What?"
"At your wedding. With the really, really good air conditioning."
He hums thoughtfully. "No, cause then I'd be missing a flower girl."
Sapnap laughs. "Please, don't do this to me—oh my god, they're spamming 'dressnap,' Dream."
"You wouldn't be too bad." Dream opens the crafting bench to create another axe. "Can you skip down the aisle?"
"Hey, hey, I'd be great," Sapnap defends, "I'll do fucking cartwheels."
"New sub goal," Dream says brightly, "if we reach it, Sapnap has to wear a dress I pick out for him—"
"Stop," Sapnap breathes.
They descend into a fit of contagious wheezing and warm laughter that floods Dream's headphones immediately. The chat erupts with emotes and comments that only push Dream to smile more—and it feels easy, to let refreshing happiness settle on his face, easier than the past few days have allowed.
Sapnap sighs, and huffs softly. Dream wipes the gleam from his eye.
He's needed this.
After recouping composure, they continue to chat and pass casual remarks as Dream plays. A dono suggests he let Sapnap call the shots once he's reached the nether. Fatally, it proves to be a mistake, and Dream burns to death after a series of poor directions and forgetting coordinates.
He starts over. The chat throws random seed suggestions, many involving lewd, dress-related jokes, and he cycles through several before Sapnap chooses one for Dream to settle for.
In the middle of exploring a new village, Sapnap asks curiously, "do you think you will get married, though? When you're older?"
Dream mindlessly breaks grass on his screen, and turns the idea over in his head a few times. "I don't know, to be honest. I'm definitely a romantic person, but," he frowns, "marriage has a strange stigma. Like it's unbreakable, which it's not."
He shoves the memory of his mother's laughter deep into his mind.
"I get that," Sapnap says, "but like, a life partner. I could see myself having one of those."
"A life partner," Dream echoes.
You reach for me, George's gentle voice ambushes him without warning.
He bites the inside of his cheek, hard. "No. That's not really my thing."
The second the words leave his lips, his stomach revolts with a painful ache that reeks bile and green. He tastes the acidic gas of his breakfast, and swallows thickly.
It shouldn't mean anything that he'd wanted to hold him more than kiss him senseless. The texts and calls shouldn't live in him; the absence shouldn't curl up and rot.
It shouldn't, but it does.
"I'm getting a little tired," Dream says weakly.
"How much sleep did you get last night?" Sapnap asks.
Dream winces. "Don't make me answer that."
"Okay."
He clicks around his screen absently. A light nudge presses against his calf, and he pauses the game to look down.
Patches tangles herself between his legs. He smiles softly, leaning his chair away from his desk so she can hop into his lap.
"Hi," he says. She settles on his thighs, and he chuckles. "My cat just got on top of me, guys, one sec." He mutes his mic, and runs a hand over her small spine.
Sapnap begins to speak to his stream, "okay, while Dream isn't talking, everybody subscribe to Sapnap..."
Dream lets him ramble while Patches begins to purr contentedly. His heart blooms with fondness, and she nuzzles into his chest.
"You know something, don't you," he says quietly, scratching her chin, "yeah. You're smart."
She mewls at him.
He pokes her nose. "Did you see that the birdies are okay?"
"Dream. Dream. I know he can still hear me," Sapnap says, "come back."
He quickly reboots his mic. "Sorry, sorry. She's distracting."
"Bad just joined the server and wants us to hop on."
He reads several messages in the chat, seeing a chorus of support. "Oh, okay." He carefully hunches over Patches, opening the search bar on Twitch. "Is he streaming? I might raid."
"You're not gonna stay on?" Sapnap asks.
Dream glances down at the curious, green eyes staring at him. "I don't know if I'm up for it. Who's online?"
"Let me check." He hears Sapnap's keyboard navigate to the server. "Looks like...Bad, Wilbur, and oh—Karl. We should go."
Dream hesitates. "Um, yeah. I don't—" want to be around you two right now. "Want to do something super energetic, so I think I'll just log off."
"Oh," Sapnap says, "okay. Well, text me, alright?"
"Yeah," Dream mumbles.
"Dream. I'm serious."
His face reddens. "Got it. Okay, stream, you guys know the drill..."
He gives his viewers a few departing messages, squeezing in last-minute donos and questions from the chat before going dark. The second his stream has ended, and BadBoyHalo's account takes its place, he sinks into his chair with relief.
He scoops Patches up and pulls her towards his chest. She rubs her face against his cheek.
"What are we gonna do, huh?" He murmurs into her soft fur.
His phone vibrates. He's slow to pick it up from the desk.
It was great to talk to you, Sapnap texted, sorry things aren't going so well right now. Can't even beat the dragon in 3 hours smh.
Dream huffs. Not trying to light myself on fire more than I already have. Thx tho.
He considers ditching the rectangular trap, but hesitates.
I think you were right, he finds himself texting unexpectedly, about it meaning more to me than just stupid dreams.
Sapnap responds, what.
Him not being here is worse than I thought. Dream chews his lip. You know how I get.
Sapnap's bubble appears, then hovers for a while, then blinks away.
Dream quickly types, sorry for being weird about this.
Don't be, Sapnap responds, there's something that I could bring up but I don't know if it's going to help you or not. It might be bad. Idk.
Dream frowns. What do you—he hits the backspace carefully. It's up to you if you want to tell me or not.
Alright, Sapnap says.
Dream doesn't receive another text for several, tense minutes. His heart rate begins to rise and fall on whim. He's never sure what Sapnap knows—he and George have spent plenty of secretive hours on Teamspeak together when Dream's been busy. He wonders if they talk about him. He wonders if he truly is perceived by others as a real person, not just a name or a smile.
Must be nice to know you exist, he thinks absently. He studies the grooves on his desk to avoid wandering back to their call from Miami.
His phone dings, and he grabs it immediately.
Sapnap sent him a paragraph.
Dream carefully passes over the words as they descend down his screen, and his eyes widen. His heart leaps into his throat as he reads, and rereads, and rereads.
His hands begin to shake.
He can't think. He can't breathe. Before he knows what he's doing, the notepad of confessions to George is open beneath his trembling fingers.
Sapnap told me what you said, he writes.
His vision blurs into gleaming light and distorted blobs of color.
I know what you said.
(NOT MY WORK CREDITS TO TBHYOURELAME ON AO3)