Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Playing House

𖤓 ☾

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As George's groggy consciousness slowly breaks the water surface of the outside world, he is greeted by a series of beeps. Not at all akin to the same thunderous volume of a fighter jet flying in two mach or anything, no no, absolutely not . Nor loud enough to jolt him awake with an acute sense of deja vu for some reason. Wow – freaky feeling, he thinks. George can't help but wonder if waking up to a symphony of alien crickets jamming in an intergalactic jazz club is how every morning begins; if it is, he’s leaving a scathing one star review on life and catapulting whoever is playing the horrid sound – into some grave in antarctica. Count your days. 

He can even picture the hole.

When he tries to open his weary eyes, his eyelids are surprisingly heavy. He’s blinking his eyes open like he’s lifting an ancient castle drawbridge, creaky and slow, yet he manages of course, strong as he is. Though it does leave him squinting through watery vision. He tries to physically rid himself of the throbbing headache that’s making him feel like his head is trapped in a vice grip – by rubbing his face against the rough sheets beneath him. Which – feels more like making out with sandpaper or a cat scratcher. 

Not that he’s ever done that, of course… 

He thinks. 

Suddenly, a sharp sting at his left temple forces a choked screech out of him, as if someone placed a beehive there for fun and filled it with tiny malevolent hornets. As he raises his hands to cradle his head and slowly begins to sit up, he discovers not only his left side but also his ass to be bruised. The kind of bruises like… like his coccyx could be broken, never able to sit straight again, got his back blown out – type of bruised, he thinks.

A five star review for whoever tried to fuck him to death.

Huh... The air has acquired an otherworldly fog wrapping around him like a straitjacket. Makes sense, there is a lot of air above him, it must be heavy. Though it does seem like Mother Nature sure is smoking some kind of cocktail. Maybe it’s a cloud. Great, he might have actually got fucked to death. He half expects a herd of friendly ghosts to float by, discussing the latest spectral gossip while sipping on… on some kind of ectoplasmic cocktails with umbrellas made of stardust.

The world’s sudden acceleration doesn't help matters either. 

It’s accelerating a lot, alarmingly so. 

Swaying and rotating more and more to the left to be exact. 

"Left, east, roof, north…” 

Yeah, left. 

… Probably.

Fantastic, now someone raised the floor to align with George’s whole side. 

“Peekaboo,” George mutters wryly. That’s lovely. 

Oh and yeah, it doesn’t hurt at all. A few less teeth is just what he needs. Thanks for the dental plan, big guy upstairs. George huffs derisively, if he happens to be listening in. Good one, God. You’ve got jokes, haven't you? No floods or heat waves in the planner today, might as well fuck around and find out. 

“Real kneeslapper,” he murmurs. 

Someone definitely hasn't played his ribs like a xylophone using a metal pole either, creating a symphony of screams, he thinks sarcastically. He always knew he had hidden musical talents inside of him. "Bravo," George mutters between gritted teeth. He’s really hit the high notes today. 

Maybe he’s the high one…

… No.

Oh… his fingers run along the squeaky petroleum by his face. This floor is much cleaner than at home, he muses.

Wait… Home.  

Where the heck is home? He tries to picture it, but all he can conjure up is the colour green.  

Wait… Green?

“G-reen?” He mutters with a confused pout. Sounds familiar.

What does that mean though? Green what? Does he live in a green painted house? A green car? Green smoothie? Sounds yummy. 

Wait, what was he thinking again? 

A giant green bean? Is he living inside a vegetable? A giant cucumber, perhaps? He could be the world's first cucumber influencer. ‘Hey, folks, today we're gonna talk about the benefits of photosynthesis and why chlorophyll is the ultimate fashion statement.’ 

Huh. There was some kind of purpose with this rambling, but he can’t recall what.

It's like his memory is playing hide and seek, and the clues are just out of reach. He doesn't have the energy to jump four blocks over the lava pool and chase the memory stealing bitch today. 

“Fuck off,” he slurs.

He can’t even see green.

Oh my god! The beeping just won’t stop and it tastes like TV-static, which is a funny tickly brain freeze feeling. 

As he glances up at the direction of the beeping, it turns out to be coming from a screen far far above his head. It's a murky shade – perhaps green, maybe yellow, who knows. 

No one. 

Despite all this watery fog and the fact that the world is either on a boat or the back of the world's fastest turtle, the grey-brownish wave he for some reason thinks is red, despite evidence of otherwise, is moving on the screen. It goes very high then very low and then very high again and also very quickly. The sight makes him feel like he's in some sci fi film, about to be beamed up to a spaceship and get anal probed or have his brain downloaded into a computer. 

OH… Maybe he’s been chosen for something and this is morse code.

Wait, hold your hoes... Why can’t he see green? 

Then what is green? 

A conspiracy? 

His attention is quickly diverted by something attached to his finger, pinching it. As he moves it up and floor, the line on the screen’s horizon stutters immediately in response.

George gasps at this newfound control he’s discovered. "Strange puppet show," he muses."Ah, look!” The line moves up high. “Make mountains or… water waves? Decisions, decisions. Wait …  cat ears! Yes! " He laughs heartily, biting his lip against a smile. It's like a videogame – and George takes to it like a child in an arcade, exploring the possibilities of this cosmic doodle pad he's stumbled upon with wonder.

He gets the feeling he really likes video games, like really – really. 

He can almost taste his love for videogames on the tip of his tongue, but before he can fully savour the thought, a man's rough voice startles him. 

"George! " the voice calls out somewhere behind the bed, dripping with urgency and concern. Oh oh, this George person is in trou-ble, he thinks. 

"Who?" George wonders, eyebrows drawing together. He’s trying to place the voice in this dizzying landscape. It's like hearing a song for the first time and instantly adding it to your playlist before the artist’s even begun singing. 

An epiphany.

"HE LEFT?" Another voice chimes in, shrill and persistent, like a nagging mosquito who’s just discovered that your earlobe is the coolest nightclub in town and it’s playing its absolute banger song: tsssssssss – in your ear. "He actually just walked out of here? No way!" This time, there's a peculiar undercurrent, like mosquito boy can’t imagine how this George person could commit such treachery as to leave his impeccable compa-

OH, George thinks. "Ah!" A spark of realisation ignites within. "I am George, aren't I?" he mutters with a chuckle. 

Well, that does make sense, doesn't it? 

“Sure does, inner George.” He’s a genius.

Before he can fully relish in this self-discovery, startling plastic like thuds echo in the air. It sounds like candy wrappers, a very familiar sound. He grabs for them – but thinks he might accidentally squirt whatever’s in it, out of it – when the warm touch of strong hands, big hands, veiny hands, pretty hands – encircle his jaw with startling intimate familiarity. 

George is practically auditioning for a roller coaster stuntman position, or one of those spinning plushies stuck on a baby-mobile so the face above him is floating and moving and vibrating – but … those glinting green eyes he sees clearly, a vision of yellow-ish gemstones twinkling in his mind's eye. 

But green, they're definitely green, he realises – knowing somehow that these eyes belong to someone he cherishes. 

He is George’s little conspiracy, isn't he?

What does that mean, inner George?

The stranger-danger is talking but George isn't sure it's words. It could be – ‘beep book beep book,’ for all he knows.

With eyes containing glints of light that could be mistaken for little fairies fluttering around a forest, the handsome man examines every patch of George's head, directing it with a gentle touch. George can't help but feel a strange sense of… interest, being controlled by this man and his intimate scrutiny. 

Not that he likes that or anything, he thinks. He’s definitely not preening almost like a cat being petted in just the right spot. No. False.

But much to his dismay, the fairies abruptly disappear like captain hook captured them all.

“No come back,” he whispers, but he’s not sure the words even come out. 

"Okay, no blood at least… What are you doing?! SAPNAP! Press the emergency button!" the man exclaims, suddenly panicking. 

Oh, now we're in an action film, he chuckles inwardly, raising his eyebrows playfully. George can't help but find the situation absurdly humorous, smiling brightly. 

"Yeah – yeah… Yeah ," the other man – Sacknap – stutters in response. His hurried footsteps echo like little mouse steps running to get the cheese. George might be imitating the nibbling of a mouse inner George provides a picture of. 

Oh, the fairies are back. But this time, they speak English, not gibberish. 

"George?" they call out, fluttering closer. 

"It's more like angels," George muses, finding a peculiar connection between the mysterious man and celestial beings. Or, you know…

Objectively – of course. 

"George? Why are you smiling? What the fuck? If this is... like a prank or whatever, it's so not fucking funny and you need to stop now, I'm serious," the angel man implores. "Or I swear, no joke, I'm making you homeless."

George can't help but shake his head, a hint of offence creeping into his expression he reckons. Angel-man thinks this is a joke? Tsk, I wouldn't play such a prank, George thinks with mock indignation. Yet – the idea of pulling a clever joke on the angel-man does sound pretty tempting. Hilarious. Know what? Yeah, yeah, he might just do that. 

Actually, he should slap him and then deny it – he muses, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. The idea is just floating in his mind, doing the backstroke in a pool of his thoughts when the angle screams all demanding and sexy.

“I told you we shouldn't have left him alone!”

“How could I have known he wanted to explore the floor? Is he like… fine? Did he fall off?”

“Well, I don’t think he teleported, Sapnap.”

“Dude… pf–" Sardine scrambles for words. "So not the time.”

The bickering between the two men only adds to George's amusement, like characters in a bad sitcom episode he’ll still finish only so he can complain about it. He looks to the corner where he thinks the camera is hidden. Ah, the classic case of 'I told you so' mixed with 'who could've known?’ George thinks, giving the camera a knowing look and silently revelling in the chaos. 

Amidst the banter, George feels big hands sneaking up his shirt, eyes widening. Oh, hello there! He thinks with playful intrigue. Join the party – mister hands. 

He wants to hold onto a single thought, but they slip through his fingers like grains of salt.

"Shit," the man hisses, noticing the swelling on George's side. 

Yes, I can feel that very well right about now, George quips inwardly. Especially when the angel presses down on it. So not cool.

He watches as a golden chain dangles in front of his face from the man’s defined Adam's apple, and for a moment, he's tempted to give it a rough tug. Another funny feeling. 

George chuckles, imagining the man's reaction to such a cheeky move. 

It looks expensive. Like… sugar daddy warning – expensive. 

His gaze wanders to the man's curly hair, soft and inviting like a fluffy cloud, George wants to touch that too. He wonders if his hand would go right through or stick to it like candy floss. 

He raises his hands to fuck around and figure out but they get extremely rudely swatted away.

Whoever did that will pay for it.

Does he like video games too? George wonders.

“Angel, did you see the cat ears I made?” George suddenly interjects, remembering the virtual doodling he was doing earlier, like a child seeking approval from a favourite playmate. Thinking, say my drawing is pretty or I’m putting stones in your rain-boots and ripping the friendship-bracelet off. 

As George watches the angel man's response, that is – the saucer-like size of his eyes and the alternating opening and closing motion of his mouth, he gets the feeling like a fish is trying to communicate with him through a series of flutters. Maybe the green pools really are lotus ponds. 

He tries to mimic it. 

George thinks he likes aquariums.

"What did he say? George?! Is he fucking with us? Is he seriously fucking with us? Dream?! Oh my god, what if he like hit his head and is like… neanderthal-brained," mouse man – Sapcrap – exclaims in a frenzy. 

“You’re a neanderthal,” George mutters as if he’s on autopilot, distracted, trying to defeat the pretty arms to tug that chain.

Dream.  

Very fitting name, George muses.

"He's so faking it."

“Shut up, Sapnap,” D-ream hisses. “George what-”

But before George can explore Dream’s new thread of thought, he's interrupted by the blue clad figures, not avatars – but nurses – who magically appear, taking over the situation. 

Swift rescue team, George thinks sarcastically. The floor has been raised for years now. Their hotline button must go through a server in Africa or something. 

The many nurses manoeuvre him carefully, as if he's a delicate vase that's just been unearthed from an ancient tomb. Which he is. Important cargo, a priceless artefact – in fact.

He’s not sure how they magically lowered the floor again or why everything beneath him got much softer, but he finds himself in the firm grasp of a giant's hand, of which he’s one hundred percent sure. In the midst of the concerned faces surrounding him, George decides to distract himself by running his fingers over the veins on top of the big hand, feeling the comforting presence of a large thumb. 

Well, isn't this a thumb-tastic discovery? He chuckles so loudly inwardly he can actually hear it. 

He likes the giant’s gay bracelet.

George leans back against the pillows, which feels like sinking into a cloud, albeit a cloud with a disco light show in his head. 

Wow, George muses, everyone does look plenty concerned. More worried than a politician caught in a lie. Which they should be, he reckons. The floor moving isn't exactly a common phenomenon, at least from what he can recall. 

Well he can't remember anything, but you get it.

WAIT, what the fuck? He tries to shake his head free of the smoke. Why can’t he remem-

“Mister Davidson?” An older woman inquires in his direction, prompting the giant angel, mouse mosquito boy and the vulcans to look at him expectantly.

After a few seconds, he hums, but only because she looks at him like he’s supposed to know something. 

Ah! The name game, he thinks, amused by this new identity he's been given. 

“Mh,” he giggles, biting his lip. “Mister Davidson, report for duty – at your service." 

“Okay …” The doctor stays deadpan, albeit tilting her head a bit, and for some reason, she ends the name-game by saying, “You have suffered a serious concussion. It was necessary to put you under so we could do a brain scan. Your IV-drip of general anaesthetics accidentally got detached.” She gestures to the needle attached to a tube in her hand and wow, that’s a dizzying sight. “I will now reattach it.”

Weird new game. 

Oh oh, wait a minute. Why is there also a tube sticking out of the crease in his arm? Did they make him part cyborg? 

Oh cool. 

One of the smurfs is putting up the little rails on the sides of his bed and he doesn't like that because it feels both like a hostage situation and like he’s going bowling with the guards up which is such a pussy thing to do. 

“You will go back to sleep for a while, just until we can determine if you need further procedures and nothing is seriously damaged, okay mister Davidson?” She speaks loudly and tries to meet his eyes, to which he moves back and forth, because she follows him like a slinky. 

When he doesn't answer, she nods imploringly. 

What did she say again? 

Ah, sleep. George can't help but nod back at the prospect. That sounds pretty good. Sleep. He is sleepy. 

"Sleepy-boy," he hears himself say, a slip of the tongue that causes Starved-rat to respond with a loud snort. "Mh," he confirms to the doctor.

Meanwhile, something rustles to his right, he looks and the doctor is injecting the tube in his arm with the needle-tube in her hand and squeezes out clear liquid too thick to be water. He feels himself start to panic, yet he doesn't have time to question it as he turns back abruptly, suddenly too occupied by the sensation of the big hand engulfing his own squeezing tightly. 

And then, like a sudden wave, the world shakes – earthquake like. He thinks his body is auditioning for a jitterbug championship. Someone should check on that too, he muses. 

He hears the angel’s concerned voice rising in volume, feels the big hands pressing his chest down, anchoring his body, and suddenly George doesn't want to go to sleep anymore. He frowns, feeling a warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the hospital blankets. 

He thinks it might be magic or a bad infection. 

No energy is left to say this, there’s only just enough to furrow his brow. The beeping of the machines take on a slow melodic quality, like a soothing lullaby rocking him into slumber. He feels light, he’s a leaf carried by the wind. Everything is blurry, then the curtain in his mind falls and darkness envelops him once more.

𖤓 ☾

The second time George wakes, the world seems to have untangled itself. It now makes much more sense, thankfully. 

Or not. 

As George squints up at the distant heart rate monitor to the left, he realises he's lying on what appears to be a hospital bed, something that somehow had escaped his awareness until now.

He thinks, oh… great, just what he needed – a holiday in the healthcare system. How drunk did he get, what the fuck? Why are the guards up? What did he do exactly? Oh my god, is he under arrest? He checks his arms, but neither are chained to the bed, a good indicator. Well… at least in this particular instance.

"Oh my god, everything hurts!" George wails, his voice echoing in the room. "Sooo badly!" 

"What hurts?" a gruff voice responds mere centimetres from his bedside, causing George to jump slightly in surprise. 

"Ouch, bad idea," he winces, the sudden movement sending twinges of pain through his body. 

Stranger danger… 

But as George stares, he realises this Dream-guy looks like he’s getting ready to fight invisible ninjas surrounding George so… he figures it’s at least safe to complain a tad. 

"Everything!” he accentuates. “My head, Dream!" 

George reaches up, feeling the bandage wrapped around his head like a makeshift crown. Ugh. He must look really ugly in front of the Dreamy man right now, he thinks. 

“And my side!” He adds, completely aware that it's not as painful as he’s making it out to be. It’s annoying and will probably bruise badly, but it’s as of now – manageable. It honestly feels like he’s sore – two days after what was a very excessive work-out. Dream doesnt know that though. Why miss an opportunity to milk some sympathy? 

As George attempts to sit up, he winces again, feeling the lingering soreness in his backside like earlier. 

"Sitting up is difficult," he grumbles, feeling like a newborn trying to master the art of sitting without toppling over. Fantastic. “And my as- ah – just… my everything … Dream! Make it sto-op! … pleeeeease! ” he pouts, popping the Ps and trying to elicit some sympathy from his rescuer.

"Dude… Oh my – god! Will they beat the allegations today?” Sparkass speaks in a radio-reporter voice from the window seat, chewing on something. “The answer is… wait for it… no chance in hell! ” He laughs in George’s direction. “Actually – the first thing you do is beg – freaking beg George – for Dream's attention, like what? Like always." His voice is dripping with sarcasm and his head will soon be dripping with blood like George’s if he keeps that up. "Even when waking up from reverse-biting the curb, your ass just scrambles right back up-” he gestures with his hands like an idiot. “-so you can bend over for him!" 

George can't help but smirk, this man wants to argue? Let’s argue bitch-boy. 

And reverse-biting the curb? That's a creative way to describe a fall. So… George fell. That’s a better scenario than he was imagining. He must have fallen from the eiffel tower, judging by his absolutely pitiful state, he thinks. 

"Dream, you're not falling for this, right?" The voice continues but Dream just throws his hands up innocently from the chair by George’s side, smiling. "I mean-” Stupid-man scrambles to find any dirt on perfect poor George. “Look at his eyelashes fluttering, feet wiggling, hair twirling right now! Look!” George does his best to look innocently deer-eyed when Dream looks and smirks at Strapback when he looks away. “Look!” He points again. “You know what you’re doing Georgie! You’re like… like a maiden!"  

“You’re a maiden,” George spits back, once again on auto-pilot.

"I am literally not," Sapnap retorts with a self satisfied chortle. "Says the one stupid enough to roll backward on rollerskates when he can't even roller-skate. Noob. You suck so bad you actually almost died. That’s like a new level of stupid." 

“Yeah – I agree with that one,” Dream injects. George has lost the court, a tragedy. The treachery, the audacity.

George is utterly bewildered though, has not one single idea plopping up of the roller-skate incident they're referring to, inner George is looking through the file cabinets, all empty. No info beyond having gotten hurt by it. Yet for some reason, he can’t stand losing an argument against this Sapsnack man. And he kinda just… really likes the banter. It’s comforting.

And why does everyone have such weird names? Dream? Sapnap? 

What’s the doctor's name? Booboo aoochie-remedier?

"You said it, I almost died , you see this head wound? No – this battlescar!" George points out, tapping the bandage for emphasis and bringing his lower lip out. "You know what that means, right? Sappy Snackie, you-” He points towards the man, shaking his head derisively. “Have to be nice to me now. Right Dream? It's the law." 

“Kinda yeah.” And George has the court ensnared once more.

"Yeah yeah. Sure – I'll be nice," Sapnap acquiesces, hands up in surrender and his tone playful. Then he bites his lips with a smirk for exactly three tense seconds before imitating George mockingly like he can’t help it, “Did you see the cat ears I made, Angel?” He flutters his eyelashes and taps his cheek whilst speaking and George hopes the ceiling fan above him drops and cuts his head clean off. “What even was that?" 

George huffs derisively, "I'd like to see you handle this much pain medication," he teases, feeling an indignant spark within him. "Dream, get me a bat – or no – a gun," he quips, half joking, fully serious. 

“It’s not even pain-medication! It’s stop-being-a-fuzzy-child-lay-still-juice. It’s embarrassing.”

“Okay okay, like that’s important right now,” Dream interjects before George can can draw a pentagon with the blood from his temple and hex the minion. "Eh... so I got you snacks," he says, scooting his chair loudly – closer to the bed – and bringing a bag George hadn't noticed into his lap. "Not the vending machine stuff,” Dream speaks quickly like he’s expecting George to protest. “American chocolate tastes like vomit, yeah yeah, I know. We went home, I brought the English chocolate you like – that I ordered… and I packed some stuff, just like incase you need to stay, I don’t think so but you know-" 

George blinks at him as he rambles. He is not touched by the thoughtfulness, and his heart does not swell with warmth. 

He’s having an allergic reaction to air. Alternatively, it is all white-hot hatred for Sacktrap.

“-and your laptop too, if you get bored. To like – watch something – because I know you’re not about to edit one of the seventeen million videos we’ve recorded for absolutely nothing.” 

Oh my god… what kind of videos? George thinks, freezing, sure looking sheepish and eyes squinting. 

“I don’t think you have to stay another night but like again – incase-”

Hold on a second... George's mind grinds to a halt. Did he hear that correctly? They all live together? Like… all three of them? Dream ordered him chocolate? They’re in what? America? Judging by the accents. Weird. For some reason, it's weird.

“Oh," George breathes softly, abruptly putting a stop to the rambling whilst looking through the assortment of snacks on the white sheets that Dream has picked out of his bag. He feels like a child looking through his treasures during summer break. These are familiar. Childhood. It's like Dream knew exactly what to do to make George more comfortable. 

No, scratch that. This is freaky mind-reading. 

George didn't even know he wanted this, he thinks with amazement, though still not touched by Dream's thoughtfulness. 

"Yeah, I might’ve dropped them before because I was carrying them when we got here and you know, you were on the floor so they might be like a little battered, which is also partly your fault, but-" 

“Thank you,” George interrupts with a genuine smile, picking up the – twinkies – the packaging says, tearing the plastic open and stuffing one into his mouth. He has an epiphany because wow that’s top tier goodness. 

Well done Dream.

"Did he just say thank you? Oh, he's sick for real! What did you do with the real George?" Strapass interjects with mock surprise. "You're never getting out of here, dude. They're putting you in the loony bin-” He feigns pressing an ear-piece like he’s working the president's security. Though George thinks he might be communicating with his home planet. “Like actually. I’ve just been informed."

“HA HA!” George screams, not at all way too loud. Like the loony bin people would even get him – when he seems to have his own personal Dream bodyguard. Come to think of it, maybe George is the prime minister's son or something. “Real funny. When life gives you lemons, squeeze them into your wounds Sacknap.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I’m into that. You don’t know.”

“Ugh.” George turns away from him, throwing a dirty side eye. “Dream, what did the doctor say?”

“Eh. Right!” He straightens up. “Sorry. So the doctor – she says you’ve got a concussion,” Dream explains, his voice tinted with real concern. “Which is the worst of it, because it might – like make you really dizzy and sick like before or affect sleep or memory and other things… eh – I don't remember the exact details,” he admits over George’s loud chewing. “You’ll have to ask her yourself, but no brain bleeding, so yay!”

George continues to munch on the Twinkies, trying to absorb Dream's words amidst the delightful distraction. 

Dizzy, ill, memory issues – not issues – no no no – memory death. 

It wiped him clean. He fell and hit the reboot button. Well… at least he’s got a lot more storage now… right? It’s not all bad, he muses. He can work with this. This is fine. He’s fine.

“You hit your head like – really freaking hard, dude. I heard the smack through fifty people screaming around us.” Sapnap demonstrates with a dramatic hand clap, as if trying to visually emphasise the impact like George is either a child or deaf.

“You scared me-” Dream shakes his head quickly. “I mean us – half to death George,” he confesses, clearly frustrated. Like George can help falling. Hello? “And you don’t even seem to care, so…” 

He makes this motion like he wants to strangle George but stops short after the brunette stops chewing to lick chocolate off his fingers. George smirks mischievously, finding satisfaction in the playful reaction. Why does that disturb him? Does he think it’s gross?

“I– it– it was like– ehm-” Dream shuts his eyes tightly but he doesn't look disgusted… inch-resting…”-like I saw it in slow motion and could do nothing. I told you to be careful like five times! ‘No I don’t need a helmet. No I don’t need kneepads,’ actually, fuck you George. I thought you were joking at first and then I heard the crack and like oh my good, your skull! It could seriously be cracked! You understand that, right?” Dream waves his hands around in frustration like a windmill and his voice cracks with… something. Well, George cracked his head, so he wins automatically. 

Huh… who knew twinkies were this good? George thinks, clutching the box to his chest.

“The head-scrape is at least fine, like… what did she say Sapnap?” Dream turns towards the window seat, seeking confirmation with furrowed brows. 

“Superficial, which is pretty freaking ironic if you ask me.”

“I didn't,” George quips, munching on his snack with an unapologetic open mouth in the man’s direction. Stinkass just chews right back.

“Right,” Dream agrees, with George, not Sapnap – surely. “And the bruises from when you went down – like when you hit your side mainly – are apparently pretty bad-”

“Because you have a bony ass,” Sapnap mutters.

“Who asked?” George repeats.

“-but you’ll get painkillers and some kind of magic cream so they’ll go away, well – with some time anyways. Oh and I filled out your information and stuff. Talked to your sister too.” Dream leans back in his chair, bringing his folded leg up and placing a veiny hand and forearm on it. Slut. “Oh, and nothing’s actually broken, if you couldn't feel that.”

“Except his sanity,” Sapnap interjects.

“Not today, Sapnap. I’m too tired to mediate,” Dream sighs.

“It's part of the friendship contract.”

George looks him over, licking his fingers again. Dream truly does look like he hasn't slept. Well… George slept against his own will, beat that pretty boy, he thinks.

“You’re tired?” George huffs in Dream-man’s direction, offended. “Well don’t let us disturb you, your highness. But also, yes. Shut up Senap!"

“What the fuck did you call me?” Sapnap’s playful demeanour suddenly takes a competitive turn and he straightens in the window seat like a folding chair. “Do you want war, huh? I don’t care you took a goofy ass tumble, I will fuck you up. I will rip you a new asshole.” He grimaces, quickly backtracking, "Ah – okay, no-”

“WHAT?” Like George would let that slide. Oh Sappie Nappie, royal fuck up. George bursts into laughter, unable to contain it though it hurts, fuck. It’s quickly being joined by Dream’s chuckle and that somehow alleviates some of the pain. Curious. Even Sapnap can't help but chuckle, smiling warmly at George.

In that moment, George can see how this back and forth banter is Sapnap's way of showing affection. He's like a sassy teddy bear, George thinks, finding himself already fond of this quirky character. 

Wait, no he doesn't. Back up… he’s so annoying.

"I brought you the Dream hoodie," Dream says, flashing a warm smile as he takes out a big black hoodie – way too big for George – with a white smiley-face on it. "I thought it would be cosy. And you know, bonus is you’ll rip the merch to all the nurses and I already signed like two doctors robes." 

The merch? The what? He did what?

George is not touched by the gesture, not touched at all. Virginal, in fact, from what he can remember. 

He can't help but raise an eyebrow at the sight of the hoodie though. Dream went home, where George also lives, and still brought George his hoodie? Dream's hoodie? That's... peculiar, he thinks. 

Cosy… maybe he’s right. There's a ridiculously strong air-conditioner in here. How did Dream even know he’d be cold? George wonders, slipping his arms through the soft sleeves of the hoodie. The fabric smells like detergent, fresh and comforting. Dream helps him manoeuvre it without ripping his ribs apart. George takes a moment to bask in the cosiness of the hoodie, feeling a little cocooned like the beautiful butterfly he is. 

Glancing around the room, his eyes land on the big windows, revealing a cityscape that looks brighter, warmer, and more sleek sky-scrapy than the outside world should look. Where’s the ornate stuff? It's like he's stepped into a parallel universe, a city where everything feels both familiar and alien. 

And it's not raining. That’s wrong. Just plain wrong.

Now, it could have been whatever put him under, but the thought to tell his fellow musketeers he can't remember anything only just hits George at this exact point. 

But Sapsack is right. Well – not right, never right. The point is – he might actually be put in the looney bin if he tells them, or at least kept in the hospital and probed and he just doesn't have time for that. It sounds taxing. Maybe they'll put him in a brochure; ‘Come experience the joys of mystery bruises today! At the low price of – all of your memories. Yay!’

George's nonchalance about the situation surprises even himself, but he can't help but approach it with a mix of curiosity and amusement. What are the doctors going to do, anyways? he thinks. There’s no magic memory juice. He just needs to rehabilitate. Yes. It will solve itself. 

And to be honest, most people would probably be freaking out and call him crazy – but it's kinda fun to put together the puzzle pieces of your own life. You know? This is fine. This is fun. He realises he's on a quest to rediscover his own identity, to get to know his quirks and passions again. This time – entirely objective. It’s like he’s in on a secret no one else knows and he wants to see how long he can get away with it until they realise. As George lets out a little huff of humour, his friends exchange questioning looks, most likely sensing that something is brewing in his thoughts. They look apprehensive, like George’s ideas are somehow absurd or something.

"Nothing," he finally chuckles, shaking his head playfully, not ready to reveal his inner musings just yet. It’s a game.

But inner George reminds him that the secret in all likelihood won't remain hidden for long. With Dream and Sapnap by his side – close – conjoined triplets kind of close, he gets the feeling that they're bound to figure him out sooner or later. 

He’s starting to see what Dream meant with the possible – falling on the floor dying prank. 

This isn't that far though. 

This isn't too far, George muses. 

He’s seen the line and it is in front of him.

And also, Dream is admittedly kind of sweet to him, and he would most likely be… disappointed, sad  probably – maybe – if he thought George didn't remember him, didn't know him. 

The nausea tugs at George's heartstrings completely unprompted. 

“Your new phone Dream got you like last week is cracked now, by the way, bozo. Enjoy that half green screen.” Strapnap interrupts, drawing George's attention back to the present moment. “Your streaming camera is somehow fine. I swear I saw you go try and save it and cracked your head open instead. The most idiot thing I’ve ever–” 

A phone… Inner George almost screams. He hadn't even considered that. Why didn't he think of that? It’s so obvious. His phone probably has like an embarrassing amount of personal information on it, he thinks. 

“Stream freaked! Dude! It’s all over twitter as well. I’ve seen you fall in every speed imaginable. It’s crazy. They think you're dead, by the way. RIP. And the DNF:ers are having a field-day with the way he-” He points to Dream. “Literally threw people aside and carried you like a princess. Be happy if you don’t get a lawsuit out of that one. Oh, and also – I stepped on your sunglasses. Sorry… actually I’m not sorry.” He shrugs. “You scared the crap out of me.”

As Sapnap continues, mentioning Twitter and BNF and all else, George's mind swirls with more questions. How many friends does he have? What the fuck is BNF? he wonders, trying to piece together the fragments of his apparent online life. 

"I can't believe you managed to roll over, and say 'I'm fine' before passing out," Dream remarks, playing with his rings distractedly and leering at the pitiful sickling whilst recounting the chaotic events. "That was not very reassuring as you thought. ‘I’m fine,’" Dream mocks in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like George.

“Where is it?”

“What?”

“My phone?” George shakes his head like… duh?!

“Oh.” As Dream pulls out the cracked iPhone from his hoodie pocket, George's eyes widen. It's new. It must be. A new, expensive phone – too expensive, he thinks. 

"Don't cut yourself," Dream warns. 

It’s going to cost a fortune to repair, fuck.

"Right," George agrees, suddenly realising he needs the phone's passcode to access it. But before he can utter a word, the phone miraculously opens with the ease of face-ID recognition. Oh right, God’s best creation. Inner George is throwing a party, he chuckles internally, finding solace in this little blessing amid the chaos. 

"You should probably tweet something because I've been dead-silent," Dream suggests, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture. "I remember how pissed you were last time I told that story on stream." 

Yes, the story George definitely remembers and is very pissed about. Grrrr. He would bare his teeth if he wasn't on his best behaviour.

“That will never not be funny,” Slapass retorts. "I already talked to Karl, by the way. He’s worried, you should call him. Like now." 

Dream nods. "I've also talked to like…” He looks up towards the ceiling in thought, displaying his throat and that chain. SLUT. “Hannah, Bad, Sylvee and ehm–" he pauses, trying to remember, "Some others. I can't remember, but you should probably also confirm to everyone that you're like... alive and well." 

“I feel pretty dead though. Skull emoji.” 

“Lame.”

Ignoring Sapnap, George is absorbing the warming fact that his other friends are genuinely concerned about his well being. “What should I tweet then, Maxipad?” 

“You know what? Just for that – make your own damn content.”

George smirks inwardly, already formulating a mischievous plan. Okay... you'll regret that one, Backpack, he thinks, opening Twitter with determination. Without overthinking it, he taps on the little plus sign, letting his thoughts flow onto the virtual canvas though the little green square and cracks are annoying. Then, he presses ‘tweet.’ 

Immediately, something vibrates loudly on the little side table and Dream suddenly looks down at his own phone resting on it, and his laughter bursts out like a joyous eruption of champagne bottles being opened followed by the weezing of an old train. 

It’s okay, George supposes. Beautiful. No, inner George – cross that last one out. 

"Oh my god. What is wrong with you?" the man beside him exclaims at George’s genius.  

“What?” George feigns innocence, secretly revelling in Dream's reaction.

Dora’s friend snorts as well, “That’s well… appreciate it for the art that it is Dream. You wouldn't get it.” 

“At least you’ve got taste,” George relents to Sapnap, maybe he’ll finally earn his real name in George’s head-space if he keeps that up. A little worship goes a long way. 

See, George is already learning who he is. This is fine. This is fun.

“I may have hit the pavement but I hit your mom harder last night?” The words on the screen Dream shows him read, like George didn't write them. It was literally sent out to the world with George's signature wit. 

“It’s still better than the slut smp thing,” Sapnap chimes in, just casually dropping a bombshell. 

George blinks slowly, head tilting like a doll. The what? 

“On your main account?” Dream drawls, one eyebrow raised.“Really? For four million followers? I don’t know whether to call you bold or a fucking idiot.”

Hello? His what? Say what?... 

FOUR MILLION?!?!?! HOW?! HOW EVEN?! HOW THE HELL?!  

George can't even comprehend the magnitude of that number. That would take months to count, years.

He just told four million people he fucked their mom? 

THAT’S A LOT OF MOMS.

“Damn, George is in his wild arc.”

He stays shock-still and then chokes on nothing and tries to play it off as coughing – but that shit hurts, like he swallowed a red scorching iron rod. “Ehm…” he winces in pain. “I- ehm – I’m thirsty,” he doesn't stammer at all, just reevaluates the sentence whilst staring at his friends in expectant half-demand, half not -please-but-something-akin-maybe-please. 

Needing a moment alone to process this newfound information is an understatement. 

“Nah, I need to pee, make your errand boy do it,” Sapnap retorts, already making his way to George's bathroom. 

Dick. Clever as ever, well – presumably.

“Actually,” he says, making his way back to George’s bed and sneaking a sneaky peck on his friend's cheek, ruffeling his head until George grapples with his hands because what the fuck? He’s injured. He goes to say this, many many times, and loudly, when Sapnap says, “I’m not – not – glad you're still alive,” with relief in his tone as the latter watches dumbfounded at the switch in atmosfear between them. “Let's go back to ganging up on Dream from now on, okay?”

“Right…” Like George will give up his new shiny butler anytime soon.

Dream protests in a scoff somewhere behind them.

“Great,” Sapnap says, skipping to the bathroom with a truly evil look. George doesn't trust him.

“Okay, first of all – he didn't do shit when you were out, it was all me talking to the doctors and your sister and stuff. And second of all… just water? Are you sure? Like I’ll get it for you but don’t you want like – sugar, like always? Cola? Fucking… red bull? Whatever?” Dream offers. 

Ever the thoughtful sugar-provider.

Wait – no.  

“Sure.” George swallows nervously.

"...Which one, idiot?”

George's mind is still racing, trying to catch up with reality, and he sarcastically replies, “I don’t know. Just get me one of each drink they have.”

“Okay, thirsty boy,” Dream agrees mockingly, taking the request in stride as if it's the most ordinary thing in the universe. He grabs his phone and takes big strides, ready to fulfil George's unusual wish, before turning back with determination. “Stay there, in bed, or I swear to God, George.” 

George just smiles sarcastically back in response.

Swear to god what, though? What would he do? And he just relents when George demands crazy stuff? How far? How far is too far? How much would he give, buy? He ponders, tongue coming out his smirking mouth in planning – no, he means thinking.

Shaking his head to snap out of it, George is drawn back to his phone like a moth is to your ear whenever you’re trying to sleep – great, that he remembers. He opens Twitter again, refreshes the page in anticipation and is greeted by thousands of likes on the tweet he just sent. 

OH! Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck him. 

George closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing. Inhale, exhale, repeat. That kind of stuff. Yes. He can hear the muffled sounds of the hospital around him – the distant chatter of staff, the occasional beep of a machine, the traffic outside and the soft hum of life happening all around. 

He’s so in over his head, he’s going to ruin his own online reputation somehow during this. Like… legal suit regarding defamation of character against himself – when he gets back to normal – level of bad. 

Fuck. Oh fuck no.

George's fingers dance across the glowing screen. 

He’s for some reason verified and there really are four million followers. That’s like the population of some countries. Now he’s really freaking out. There’s a youtube handle in his bio, and so he opens the youtube app and faces a channel page – his channel – and finds ten million followers. 

That’s all of Sweden. 

And… seemingly, they’re all watching minecraft. Well, thank fuck he remembers what minecraft is. Because of course he does, not his name, not his friends, but minecraft yes. That’s important. 

Amidst the panic, an unwitting flicker of excitement lights up George's mind. Actually, he can work with this. This could be fun… right? Right inner George?... Hello?

Returning to Twitter, he embarks on a quest to unravel the mysteries of his identity. But God’s still pissed and seems to have conspired against him, for all he finds are clips of him falling brutally. How does he get that permanently deleted? He wishes his condition was contagious so they’d all forget too. He needs to speak to Elon Musk promptly. Oh great, he remembers Elon Musk. Boomb-tastic.

He also finds mesmerising, slowed down moments between him and Dream. What? No crucial information. 

George's phone reminds him of its dwindling energy by a pop-up, urging him to replenish its life force like a hungry bitch. 

He reaches into the bag Dream brought to retrieve a charger. Yet, he gets distracted by the other things, like a packed toiletry bag, the laptop, comfortable clothes, every type of over the counter drug and so on. Like Dream thinks George is taking a week long holiday in this crazy town.

The phone is vibrating like crazy and the notifications are obscured by the green square. Well, Sapnap said it was green, but can he really trust that? He checks his messages. George is met with a flood of concern and instantly get overwhelmed by all the messages asking if he’s okay because he can’t remember who the fuck they are. Who he is. And he’s definitely not okay.

He enables the ‘do not disturb’ mode.

There wouldn't be personal info on his socials anyway, probably, he realises.

So – new strategy. With messages temporarily silenced, George navigates his photo gallery, hoping to glean more insights into his life. He is met by a bunch of various photos of George with his apparently many friends, or family maybe. Most of them include Dream and Spankman. 

Scrutinising them, George realises – he looks at home. During autumn, eating at cafes, during Christmas, baking, during spring, taking road trips. He looks happy. He looks delighted. 

He looks… 

He’s always looking at Dream for some reason. Like they’re tuned into the same wavelength. Or a gravitational pull. 

Further up, there are screenshots of business things he can’t even begin to decipher, it’s overwhelming, so he goes to try and google himself when he accidentally presses ‘albums’ instead.

As he stumbles upon a locked album, named only with a yellow... Green? heart emoji, George's curiosity is captured by that gravitational force, pulling him closer. 

With face-ID, the album opens like the doors to Narnia. That is, because he’s instantly thrown into a war. Except, it’s with himself.

George's heart races like a drumbeat in his chest as he scrolls through the intriguing yet borderline creepy photos. The images are like glimpses of a clandestine safari, with Dream as the elusive creature and George, the intrepid photographer trying not to be detected. Like he’s hunting bigfoot, well… bighand. 

Suddenly, he feels like a thief, a criminal, and paranoid that someone will walk back into the room. This feels illegal. He breathes in sharply, realising how strange a thing this is to do. Why would he do that? "I'm like a secret paparazzi," he muttered to himself.

But then – he sees it – the photo. 

And it’s a revelation. 

It steals every oxygen molecule inside his lungs. His brain too.

It’s a bolt of realisation, a lightning strike illuminating the darkest corners of his mind. 

He feels so dumb. He’s an idiot.

It's a picture of him and Dream, next to each other… in bed. 

Well, George is on top of Dream in bed. 

And they’re kissing.  

With such tenderness, he knows it’s not just a kiss immediately upon seeing it.

He thinks back to every interaction he’s had with Dream since waking and thinks: of fucking course, George. 

The puzzle is started. Two pieces have fit together. It’s blatantly obvious. 

"How did I not see it before?" he mused aloud, feeling embarrassed. 

Before he can fully process his newfound revelation, the doctor from before enters the room and he fumbles with his phone to not drop it again, startled. She stops in her tracks momentarily and God only knows what kind of secrets she thinks George is looking at on his phone, smiling sheepishly right at her. 

“Look at who is awake.” She smiles, grabbing a rolling chair and settling herself closer to George. The stethoscope around her neck clink loudly against the name-plate on her robe. It’s not doctor aoochie-remover. Good. He was beginning to think he woke up in an alternative universe, judging by the names. 

George finally set his phone aside on the bed, feeling a bit flustered under her watchful gaze.

“How are we feeling?” The calm and caring demeanour she adopts are neither of those things. 

At war with himself, that’s how he’s feeling.

“Ehm… fine,” he settles on after seconds of suspended silence.

He has just woken up, found out he’s somehow – still not really sure why – famous and he has a boyfriend.  

He feels like that should feel less fitting than it does, that at some point long ago he would have been angry about it, taken it as an accusation even; ‘What do you mean I kissed a boy? No I didn't.’ He imagines himself saying it, but even the tip of his tongue knows there’s no denying this. No reason to. 

The silence says everything. Because it’s Dream. 

As husband material comes… Well from what George has seen so far… you know. It kind of makes sense that George would snag one out of the S-tier, he ponders with a smirk. Suddenly, inner George is conjuring up images of waking next to him in bed, kids’s little feet smacking against the hardwood floors and screaming, coffee ready somewhere. 

Yeah. It's really super totally amusing how his mind drifts from confusion to contemplating marriage in an instant. Bombarding him with images. 

“Sit up please,” she instructs, and George complies, wondering what medical examination might come next. The doctor's hands lift his shirt for the examination. 

The touch feels foreign, everything feels foreign – but this is something off kilter – and he can't help but squirm a little at the discomfort. 

A moment later, the cool stethoscope presses against his back, making him shiver involuntarily. “Breath in.” He takes deep breaths as instructed. His heart races, and he clutches at his throat, almost instinctively, as if to check if he can still breathe, if his windpipe is maybe experiencing implosion. 

To his surprise, he feels the delicate touch of a thin metal chain resting against his manubrium. George's fingers dance across the surface of the necklace, his inspection furtive yet fascinated. It's… heavy. Expensive. Pretty and petite and somehow still flashy. An exquisite piece, he imagines.

“Your heart rate is elevated. You seem spaced out.”

No shit. You don’t say? Formula 1 car at full throttle.

“I’m… a little anxious.”

“About?” She asks kindly, rolling around her chair to meet his eyes.

“Hm? Ehm… the healing period, I guess.” George hesitates. “Getting back to normal,” he mutters.

He saw – no he knows for a fact – that just short of Dream’s collar bones – rests a very similar chain. George's eyes inadvertently recall the sight of Dream's defined Adam's apple over him, chain dangling, suspended above him and glinting, slightly bigger than George’s. 

Dream is bigger so it fits. Perfectly… Or something. 

Did George pick it for him? Did Dream pick this? Probably, he loves it.

The doctor's voice brings him back to reality. "Well, in all honesty, it is a mean bruise you have on your side, yet it could have been much worse. I hope we have learned our lesson about using transport devices without protective gear. The next few days will be rough. It will heal fairly quickly nonetheless," she says with a hint of practised reassurance. "Your head is the most concerning. Your brain has taken a round-a-go in there, I am afraid. How is the pain on a scale from one to five?"

“Two… three.” 

As he glances around the room, George notices the bag. Dream seems to have an uncanny ability to anticipate George's needs and desires. Packed all of George’s stuff, knew what he wanted, knew where it all was located, said they’re living together, bought George his phone, snacks, drinks… house? 

Dream aims to satisfy his every whim so far.

And the touching, Sapnap’s comments, the twitter clips, the picture, the gravity, the matching chains. 

It all points to a connection that goes beyond words. A materialised one. Symbolism is not foreign to George, but he doesn't think rings have ever really been his style, fingers bare. Commitments etched in metal seem cringey. But the thin metal chain around his neck feels different somehow.

“Okay,” The doctor slings the stethoscope back around her shoulders. “I think I can discharge you today, I will prescribe you painkillers and a healing cream.” She’s writing down clear gibberish in her notepad. “I want you to try walking around, test your limits and at least stay until lunch time. After that, take the time you need to pack up. Doctor’s orders-” She looks up at him like she’s a chiding mother. “-At the very least – two days of bedrest, followed by two weeks – preferably a month – of no excessive movements. The smallest amount of queasiness or disorientation, I would like you to seek medical attention. It could be fatal. Your friends need to keep an eye on you, okay?”

“Mh,” George nods, his fingers unconsciously stroking the chain on his sternum, feeling the delicate weight. Gold? White gold?

It's starting to click. He gets it. He’s not bare. He has something. There’s something in those filing cabinets, a certificate. He smiles.

Dream called his sister. That means something, he doesn't know what, but he knows it does. He knows she does. He filled in George’s information upon arrival, so then… he’s George's next of kin. 

They’re not only dating. 

No no no, nope. Inner George pops the p. No way, hoe say.

The evidence is irrefutable.

“At least it’s not a shot in the buttcheek like last time, right?” the doctor remarks with a teasing grin.

George's eyes widen in surprise, staring for a moment before letting out a too loud – awkward laugh. 

What?! Butt- that happened last time? What does she mean last time? How often do George get brain damage? 

He swears he’s in some Indian soap-opera and he can’t keep up with the script and now someone's cheating on someone with someone else’s daughter who's married to… help. He wants to scream. He will, very loudly – into his pillow once she leaves, he thinks.

The gravity of his situation dawns on him. A sinking feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. He has maybe fucked up, hasn’t he? Should have probably told them. At least him. George is so in over his head. Too late. He’s already committed. 

The web of secrets seems to tighten around him, constricting. What is normal for the spider is misery for the fly. And none of this is normal.

As the thought hits, he surprisingly gets a message from Dream, the bell-like sound pierces the air in the room. It goes through the ‘do not disturb’ mode. It’s a picture of various drinks, and the text reads: ‘pick five tops. can’t carry all’.

Soon, another comes in, bell ringing, ‘want to eat smth? I’ll drive to burger king and everything’

Right now, George is completely sure of only three things. 

One: He likes twinkies. 

Two: Backpack will argue with him on anything and lose every time. 

And three: Dream is his husband. 

Naturally.

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

"Why the fuck would you tell them we’re at this hospital?" Dream literally hisses at him, his voice reaching a pitch only audible to dogs for absolutely no reason whatsoever. He’s got one arm carefully anchored on George’s lower back to guide him forward along the arrows painted on the floor through the labyrinthine hospital corridors and out into the chilly, artificially lit underground car park. 

Dream apparently got a thorough scolding from the hospital security.

Really, it was somewhat of a social experiment posting a picture from his hospital bed. How many people give a fuck about him? The question wasn't – who on God's green earth would care about him enough to track him down? He got the shocking answer nonetheless: abysmally more than George ever could have thought. How could he have known the post was geotagged? Really, that’s Twitter's fault. 

But the upside is undeniable: having his own personal bodyguard husband is pretty sweet. He’s not angry about it. Dream very much is. Just maybe… George likes that… objectively.

As they settle into Dream's flashy red Tesla, George is somewhat miffed; he needs an ass pillow, and still feels pain radiate up his spine like it’s trying to send out SOS-signals. George's mind oscillates between amusement and utter annoyance as Sapnap's endless, relentless teasing continues to plague him the whole way home. It's becoming a theme with that guy, no doubt about it. If George ever had doubts about his matrimonial status with Dream, those doubts have vanished into thin air now, courtesy of Sapnap's next comment.

"Wha-? ‘Dream’s passenger princess?’ Seriously, Sapnap?" George mutters under his breath, snorting loudly because that’s preposterous. He’s definitely not biting back a jubilant smile whilst shooting his best friend in the back of the car with a soul piercing look. 

"What? He said it first." Sapnap makes some kind of jerking gesture towards George's husband, who’s sitting in the driver's seat with an all-too proud expression. "Bro practically dropped it with freaking…" he flounders for the next word. "-flair! Like he was at a family dinner sitting in front of homophobic uncle Ron and wanted to prove a point. You should have just posted the sex tape, Dream."

The who? The what? The what now?

Dream snorts and just agrees like the whole ordeal is an ordinary dinner topic, "Funny thing is, he totally would be named Ron too." 

"Right?" Sapnap adds with a smirk.

George, thoroughly confused, raises an eyebrow cynically. "What? " 

Which uncle? Who’s uncle? What sex tape?

Sapnap brings out his phone like he’s bored. "Man, the curb sure knocked the fun out of you."

Dream huffs out a laugh-sigh hybrid sound at George’s expense, prompting the brunette to glare at him unamused. George wonders if Dream thinks he’s Snapback's personal chauffeur and needs to cater to the impish gremlin, because otherwise: inexcusable. 

The drive home is excruciatingly slow, surely defying the laws of time as if they were stuck in syrup. That would have been so much more fun. Even a nimble footed elderly woman walking with a damn walker on the pavement beside them manages to catch up. 

At. every. street. corner. 

George exchanges a knowing, conspiring look with her, silently acknowledging the utter absurdity of their snail paced journey. ‘Yes I know lady, he thinks he's helping, can you believe that?’ 

Sapnap is equally as annoyed as Goerge, "Oh come on, dude," who is annoyed at the doctor for telling Dream to drive him home at a sluggish pace, no sharp turns.  He wants to rip the bandaid off his temple and dig the wound back open with his fingernails in frustration because it feels like they're stuck in a never ending parade with the way people are honking, waving, and pointing as they pass. He feels like they’re on safari, except they’re the animals. However, he knows that if he were to act on his impulses, Dream would probably stop the car to check on him. That's the last thing he wants.

"There’s literally a roadblock. What do you want me to do? Tell me."

Technicalities. 

Instead of maiming himself, George chooses to vent his frustration verbally. "Dream! The granny with the chair is gaining on us! Quick! Holy shit, she's using a blue shell!"

"Yeah, Dream! Time to show the old lady who's boss! You should run her over for coins!" Sapnap adds.

"This is like ‘the slow and the insanely stupid,’ get it? Because it’s the opposite of ‘the fast and the furious’?" George feigns a loud, obnoxious laugh.

Dream shoots them icy looks, looking ready to justify himself once again. "Yeah? Yeah , George? Really? Since when is insanely stupid the opposite of fur-" 

George rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips unwittingly as he talks over Dream’s nonsense, "You think we should befriend the elderly lady Sapnap? Make a secret society of slow moving… I don't know… tea drinkers?" he asks, turning towards the backseat. 

"Dude, not tea.”

“All old people drink tea.”

“No, you British idiot. Eh… how about epic sandwich enjoyers?"

"That's like building a club of people who need to drink water. Everyone."

Sapnap chuckles. "True, true. Actually, speak for your own plump ass. I exclusively used to drink monsters."

"What do you think is the main ingredient in monsters, asshat?"

"Yeah yeah. I bet you her name is like… Barbara."

"Deal." George rolls down the window as they inch along.

𖤓 ☾

He learns he has a kitty. 

In the sprawling, messy mansion they somehow call home, George finds himself lounging on the opulent sofa, sipping ice tea from a glass that he nagged Dream about until his husband relented. The ice is clinking, perspiration dripping down his fingers like drops of rain in a parched desert – because it’s victory ice. That is, ice that he made Dream go back in the kitchen for, just to see if he would. 

And he did, George thinks proudly.

He’s cradling Patches in his arms. She’s more his than theirs because she clearly likes him best. The fluffy feline purrs like a contented engine on his chest. He quickly got corrected that she’s really Dream’s, which is stupid. Maybe on paper. But then again, everything that’s Dream’s is now George’s, presumably. 

Which is neat, because apparently his husband is rich as fuck. 

"You're my girl, aren't you, Patches?" he coos, stroking her velvety fur. 

But their moment of feline bonding is interrupted as Dream walks into the room, a playful grin on his face. "You got dirty paws all over you…"

George cups his hands over her ears and gasps. "Who are you calling dir-"

"Don’t you Patches?" Dream coos, walking over and scratching her neck playfully.

"Uh huh," George drawls, pretending not to be amused. "That’s so clever, Dream. You're like… the Shakespeare of our time. So mature. So complex. You win joke of the year too. Congratulations, idiot." He takes another annoyingly loud sip of iced tea, tastes the sugary cold victory and feels the icy liquid quench his thirst. 

Dream looks up at the sound. Suck on that asshat, George thinks. I've got you under my boot, just watch and hear the ice clink like the bell around your throat.

The sun is bright outside the massive windows, casting beams of sunlight over the chaos of their living room. As he glances around the vast, George can't help but marvel at the sheer size of their new home. Boxes are scattered haphazardly, filled with all sorts of gadgets and tech stuff – because apparently – people just send them free stuff. He could open his own shop, 'Dream's Gadgets and George's Gizmos,’ has a ring to it.  Not that he wants to. He’s content being a stay at home husband if this is how they live, really. He might escape to Rio one day if this whole thing goes sour, but for now he's good. Really good.

George has got this sneaking suspicion that a laughing track will start booming from the sky and someone will announce he’s in the Truman show. He’s starting to think revealing his lapse of memories might jinx this stroke of luck. That it might reveal that Dream is actually in crippling debt and out for George’s prime minister dad’s money. But deep down, for some reason, maybe something akin to muscle memory, something just knows that Dream is genuine. He trusts his husband – or at least, he thinks he trusts him. Maybe this is all some elaborate prank and he's about to be punked by Ashton Kutcher.

Maybe he died. 

Actually…. Maybe he ended up in an alternate reality. Maybe everyone has – like a tail or something, an extra toe… Two dicks like a snake. Imagine if he's the only solo dicker, how unfortunate.

"You know," Dream scratches the soft skin of his own neck, stretching all slutty. "You should probably go live explaining what happened and showing fans you’re like – fine or whatever. Just like – like last time. Be your usual snarky ass and they’ll probably drop it."

George's heart skips a beat. That sounds like an awful idea… not scary because he's not scared but like… overwhelming, yeah totally. He's not even sure he can get into his computer, let alone navigate a stream successfully. Yet, the curious cat in him is beginning to purr with intrigue, much like Patches is. He does want to know more about this mysterious job he supposedly excels at. 

"Sure. Later – maybe," George replies hesitantly. Maybe.

What’s the worst that can happen? He’s sure it’s like riding a bike, one that’s not on fire and has two wheels as intended and preferably breaks that work… yeah.

George looks forlornly down at the glass screen of his cracked phone and sighs. It has locked him out by now. It started demanding a password like a little traitorous gatekeeping bitch. He can practically hear it saying, "Sorry, mate, you're not on the list." He can’t access the magical world of google, so he’s at a loss about how he even ended up in this house, with his best friend slash nemesis and spouse. It has been relentlessly pestering him, like a dog with a favourite squeaky toy. He’s contemplating stealing one of those free gadgets. The laptops, they’re tempting him like a siren’s call with their smooth metal surface and delectable apple logo. Will Dream be upset if he ‘borrows’ one? It's not like he can hack into some secret government database or accidentally launch a missile, right? But then he has to figure out the wifi password and… ugh. 

The more he finds out, the more questions pop up. What’s Dream's real name? He refuses to believe it says ‘Dream’ on their marriage licence. It's like having a pet cat and naming it ‘Fish.’ When did they get married? How? Where? 

Here or in London?  

He tries to look for answers in his mind but it’s a dirty one way mirror.

Does Alexa have search history? He ponders. Can he ask Alexa if she has search history or will that also show up in the search history? Ugh.

OH. Suddenly, a spark of memory ignites in his mind – London! Right. Yes, he's from London! The realisation brings a sense of relief, a tiny glimmer of clarity in the fog of his very casual amnesia. Maybe he can piece together his past after all. 

Cool, cool. It’s coming back. Great. Nothing to worry about… like at all.

"You’re not going to pack that up?" Dream's voice snaps him back to the present, and George glances at the opened duffel bag lying on the floor, things from it scattered around haphazardly. He can tell that Dream is maybe a little irritated at its presence, and part of him wants to push back just for the sake of it – maybe all of him, so he does.

"You're the one who packed unnecessary stuff, shouldn't you?" George retorts, feeling a surge of confidence. He may not remember everything, but he's not about to let Dream boss him around… that easily. 

In the living room at least.

"Well, dude, he’s got you there," Sapnap screams from the kitchen.

George rolls his eyes at the comment, but there's a playful glint in his eyes as he wobbles – no, hops up – from the couch. "Right," he relents, because of his charitable personality and not just because he’s curious about this space that supposedly holds cherished memories of their relationship. The prospect of taking a nap in their bed, cocooned in Dream's hoodie doesn't appeal to him at all… or you know… other activities they might engage in there.

Oh, well sue him. He married the dude and his cock. Either the sex is amazing or the sex is more than amazing, words won’t do it justice kind of amazing. He doesn't settle; he’s too pretty for mediocrity.

With a sense of determination – no, actually – with the elegance of a seasoned backpacker conquering Everest, he gathers all belongings into the bag and grabs the heavy thing, effortlessly slinging it over his shoulder. He’s not helpless, he does not struggle to heave it over his shoulder because he forgot about the bruise on his side that does not protest against the sudden movement. The bag doesn't send him sprawling back onto the couch, not at all. He’s not catching himself on the top of it whilst Patches – in a frenzy scurries under it right in front of his strong husband. That would be so embarrassing.

"Careful! No excessive movements. Don’t blame us if you get permanent brain damage," Dream's voice carries just a note of concern and a whole song of reprimand.

Unfazed, George shoots back with a playful grin, "Okay, carry me then," as he playfully extends his arms in the air. It's part mischievous, part to stabilise himself as the world around him did get sort of – well maybe – spinny, vertigo-ish and might have gotten back its taste of brain freeze. 

Dream's reaction strikes him as a mix of disbelief and amusement. "Wha- what? Are you serious?" he stammers.

"Huh? Yes. Why not? Are you that weak?" George teases back, the corners of his lips lifting into a mischievous smile. 

Like George would marry a man that can’t press him into the mattress until he asphyxiates.

Oh … that’s a funny unprompted thought. 

In the absence of any immediate response, George's arms remain outstretched, looking rather lonely in the air. Maybe Dream suffers from some peculiar ailment that George, in his amnesiac state, can't remember. Did he just give himself away?

"Right, I’ll just..." George trails off, gesturing back towards the staircase. He takes a few steps backward, his playful demeanour suddenly shifting into a – not-sprint-just-quick-walk – up the stairs.

Once alone up there, he runs his fingers along the slight contours of the white plaster walls and explores the house, trying to piece together more fragments of his life. 

There are three bedrooms on the second floor that actually looked lived in, each one holding clues to the lives that have intertwined within these walls. The first room is clearly Sapnap's. The evidence? Well… George doesn't like pokemon to an obsessive level, scattered across shelves and floor level, and wouldn't regularly fuck a pokemon-head. Nor an avid collector of dust for that matter. He quickly retreats, sparing a thought for the poor dust covered Pokemon figures. 

The second room is a bit bare – and he wonders if it's simply used for storage. A sense of familiarity washes over him, one that piques his curiosity. Despite it – he really doesn't like the bareness and any further details lay out of reach. Maybe if it’s just George’s own private space when he needs it. 

A healthy marriage. We love to see it.

He makes a mental note to explore this room more thoroughly later.  

The last room on the second floor is undeniably George’s and Dream’s shared sanctuary. It's the biggest and seems to hold the most intimate traces of their life together. The wardrobe is filled with an array of oversized hoodies. George can't help but feel a sense of nervousness as he realises he must have spent countless hours snuggled up with Dream, wrapped in these very hoodies. 

Feeling a little out of place but determined to make himself at home, George unpacks his toothbrush and toiletries in the adjoined bathroom. He's surprisingly meticulous as he arranges his belongings, a part of him relishing the simple act of organising. It just looks right like this, he thinks, as if it anchors him in this new reality. Two toothbrushes, two razors, two face washes. Two, dual. Pairs.

Looking into the mirror, the big ass bandaid on his temple stands out. It’s still better than the whole bandaid; at least now he doesn't look as stupid.

The clothes once again find their place in the wardrobe. Well.. the wardrobe floor to be exact. Although he can't shake the feeling that Dream will likely tidy up the mess later, or maybe someone is hired to do so… like a king delegating tasks to his servants. 

No, stop it inner Gerroge, Dream is not a king or anything, just a regular guy... Well, maybe not entirely regular. 

A God. No.

Soon, he’s plugging his phone into the outlet by the left bedside table. George silently hopes that it's his side of the bed. Taking a seat on it, he tests its elasticity by bouncing lightly. The mattress is indeed comfortable, and allows for mobility. 

Yes, he's certain this is their bed alright. 

It looks much fancier than the one in the boring bare bedroom as well. As he settles onto the sheets, his fingers run over the fabrics like a pianist caressing the keys of a grand piano. Soft, like his hoodie. Like Dream is. 

George can't resist bringing the duvet up to his nose, inhaling the scent that lingers in it. Very slight, teasing sandalwood, he thinks. 

Feeling the fatigue of the day's events catching up to him, George decides he really deserves a nap since he fought fate so valiantly. He rushes to bring down the blinds, shutting the blinding sun out, and shuts the door as well, sealing himself away from the outside world entirely. Finally, he crawls into his side of the bed. The sheets feel welcoming like only your own bed can, he thinks. Pulling the covers up to his jaw with his palms, George releases a contented sigh, feeling his body shape the mattress as effortlessly as scorching glass moves – being formed.

Sleep's warm embrace wraps around George in the silence. With his eyes closed and mind on the precipice of consciousness, suddenly the house feels empty and made of plaster. Like if he’d scream, it would echo for miles and the walls would fall down upon him. It smells like wood varnish and earl grey tea and something like… like nail polish. Suddenly, the memory loss feels sacrificial. As if he’d gripped the tomb and the temple fell because of it. As if it was a monument of history and never could it be rebuilt and mean the same. Never could he be reborn the same. 

The house around him begins to fade away, and he's just on the verge of surrendering to dreamland when a sudden squeaking sound jerks him back to semi consciousness, someone’s knocking on the front door of the house in his mind, making the other locked doors in the house rattle loudly whilst the lion knocker makes this eerie, empty metal sound. Then, the front door is springing open, slowly, squeaky, loudly.

He's catapulted into full consciousness as he hears the loud, question filled, entitled voice.

"Ehm… Hey? Hello? George? What the hell are you doing? What’s going on now ?" Dream's voice turns almost careful, hesitant towards the end.

Through half lidded eyes, George rolls around in bed and spots Dream standing in the doorway, backlit by a strip of limelight that turns him into an ethereal figure, or a really creepy shadow person, George hasn't decided yet. He blinks groggily, trying to process the interruption – and finally – the words register in his drowsy mind. 

"Training to die, what does it look like, Dream?" he sarcastically responds with a stretch so elegant, definitely not reminiscent of a shabby cat with a series of awkward bends and twists, no ma'am.

"That’s- You absolutely know that’s not what I meant-" Dream seems for some reason taken aback. "I... I thought you were just going to – like – pack up?" he stammers.

George smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Well, so what if I decided to explore the bed instead? I almost died today. What, am I not allowed to nap without a babysitter now?"

"Firstly, yeah, really? Keep playing the ‘ I almost died ’ card. I actually dare you, keep going with that, see what I do about it. Watch me shred your shit. Secondly, why my-"

"Dream! Why are you so loud? Stop talking! I just almost died! Died! What don’t you understand? I’m trying to sleep, obviously." George interrupts with exasperation, huffing and rubbing his eyes as if to emphasise his sleepiness. Look!

Dream blinks rapidly, his eyebrows raised in confusion, and George can't help but notice the McDonald's-like arch of those expressive brows. He wonders if he's on the wrong side of the bed; it was a fifty fifty chance, after all. Shit, he totally is. It's suspicious, isn't it? Oh well, it's too late to worry about that now. 

"You're impossible," Dream mutters, shaking his head.

"You love it," George says with a cheeky wink. Squinting against the sudden light flooding the room, he mumbles, "My head is pounding. Get out or get in the bed, either way – shut the door, idiot."

Dream seems to have an epiphany, judging by the glint that enters his eyes. "Ah," he breathes with a knowing smile and little laugh, "Right, right. Okay, that’s – that's smart, like actually." 

George raises an eyebrow, not quite sure what Dream is getting at. "To shut the door? Yes I know! Genius!… So do it?!"

"No, oh – shut up. I mean… The doctor – she like – she told us too, you know. How someone needs to keep an eye on you and everything so that nothing happens or you behave weird or something, like I get it." 

"Dream, shut up ." So annoying. What does the word sleep mean in this alternate reality?

"Here’s the thing George – so ehm… well you could have like – asked – though, before – you know." He gestures towards George. "Like a normal human being would do. Like it’s okay, of course. It’s not something to be ashamed of, or afraid. You can just ask me to he-"

Asked? "Please shut the door?" George interrupts, hoping to get him to stop rambling without having to get on his knees.

"Oh my god. You're such a little fucker. I’m trying to actually seriously talk to you. I’m not joking," Dream insists, but George is too tired to deal with it right now.

"I feel like I took a day-long circuit in the washing machine like that mouse in that kid’s film and I’m trying to sleep Dream, please … Dream please."

Dream breathes in audibly, a stuttering, harsh such. "Right." He slowly closes the door, but instead of leaving, he stands there awkwardly, seemingly unsure of what to do next before tip-toeing around annoyingly like he’s a Sims 3 thief.

After a few seconds, George hisses, "What are you doing?" slapping his hands in exasperation against the mattress and sitting up – like a grumpy cat swatting at an annoying fly. No no no, inner George, like a dragon batting its wings.

"Ehm, going to the closet?" 

"Why? Are you deaf?! Get in the bed!" he retorts, not in the mood for Dream's indecisiveness.

"Excuse me?" From what little he can see, Dream looks genuinely taken aback, and George can't help but smirk at his husband's baffled expression, huffing.

"Okay, suit yourself, go plan outfits or whatever ken doll," George teases. He can hear the figure shuffling towards the wardrobe, rustling around in clothes like a dog building a damn nest. 

Then again, Dream does sound like a dog, and looks like a dog and he kind of is a dog. Hopefully, a loyal one.

He thinks he’ll have to fall asleep pitiful and alone, a neglected 1950’s housewife like the one in Ernest Hemingway’s ‘the cat’. Oh great, that he remembers, of course. That’s important. Funny how some things stick in your memory even when others fade away, like your wedding. 

But then – Dream returns. Only to stand around awkwardly again. 

"Just get in the bed," George repeats, his voice softened now. Despite his annoyance, there's something comforting about having Dream by his side, even if he can't remember their past. Like a shield against the world outside this darkness, outside their bed. 

Dream hesitates for a moment, so careful. It’s af if he thinks just sleeping next to his husband will make his ailment worse somehow. 

"Alright," he says. "But only because you gravelled at my feet, kissed my boots and literally begged me to." 

George feels the duvet being lifted behind him, yet with only a hint of the warmth of a body he was expecting to fit against his, he turns around to see his husband balancing on the edge of the mattress. Is he trying to be funny? Does he think Goerge is that fat? What the fuck? Does Dream think a concussion is actually contagious?

"Ken doll, really?" He asks as George fully turns around.

"You look like one," George remarks, unable to hold back his judgy tone. Thanks to the strimmers of light shifting  through the blinds, he observes Dream balancing on the edge and has half a mind to leave him like that. Dream has changed clothes, he notes. In a T-shirt and sweats, his arms are exposed. Obviously. That’s how it works. It’s not a breathless revelation to George or anything. "Get in the bed properly!" George insists, pulling at Dream's arm to try and get him closer. It's a futile attempt, really. His husband does not move one bit – but it gets the point across. The fact that he can’t move him doesn't turn George on or anything. Nope. "You’re going to fall off like that and hit your head against the bedside table. I’m not going back to the hospital today, babe. Get in!"

"Bae-…? Yeah – okay okay. You’re right, we don’t need a repeat of that."

A repeat? What on earth is Dream talking about now? His memory lapses are becoming more and more apparent and it's starting to really fry his last neuron.

It’s whatever. He plays along – because Dream does shuffle farther in.

"You’re calling me weird, but you’re the one who can’t even remember the movie name ‘Littlest Stuart,’" Dream retorts and George can't help but chuckle at the irony of the situation. 

It's true; he can’t remember shit, George thinks.

"Shut up. I’ll kick you on the floor." 

"Yeah? I’ll throw you out of the bedroom. Door or window?"

"Dumbass."

George tries his best to disintegrate any unfirmility or awkwardness as he scabbles back to fit his back against his husband's front. He intertwines their fingers and brings their hands up to under his chin so Dream can’t run. No no no – wait – because it's expected he does so, surely. He's mirroring the hand holding Dream did for him at the hospital. It feels familiar, and yet strange at the same time.  

Safe. No – stop it inner George. 

But then, Dream tenses behind him. 

Is there something he's missing? Did they have a fight before George gracefully fought the clutches of the pavement's truly evil hands? Is he not behaving like his usual self? It’s more than possible. Can Dream feel he’s sort of… awkward with the touches, exploring in a sense? Is he more affectionate usually?… Less? He feels like he's tiptoeing around Dream, trying to figure out how to act, how to be the husband he thinks he wants him to be and this might just be pushing it.

Is he waiting for a good night kiss? It’s not even night. It’s like… fourteen o'clock, tops.

It takes a while, but Dream eventually lets go of the notion that George is fragile like a porcelain doll and relaxes into the mattress. His warm breath tickles George's ear as he sighs contentedly. George can feel his husband’s stubble grazing against his head, and it accidentally rubs across the place that hit the pavement, thus he winces. Then Dream carefully squeezes him tighter to fit them closer slightly, almost apologetically, so George doesn't even care. The whole righteous monologue he was dispositioning in his head fades away. It’s kind of… nice. Objectively. Of course. It really does feel familiar.  

He drifts off to sleep in no time, practically melts like wax over an open fire into the softness below him. Suddenly, the house  in his mind doesn't feel so empty anymore. There’s something… something beneath white sheets in the master bedroom that he thinks might have been there before the house was even built. Something that might be giving the wood life.

This is a stranger, his mind reminds him. But in that vulnerability, there's also a profound sense of intimacy and trust. He has surrendered himself to this enigmatic man, and he knows, deep down – somehow – that he is in safe hands.

Upon the last final moments of consciousness, a fleeting thought crosses his mind. He would have known this embrace – Dream’s touch – if he felt it upon the very moment he first opened his eyes in the hospital, if he was blind, by touch or by that slight sandalwood smell, by whispers in the air, in life or in death… in the next existence. 

In the dining room of his mind, Dream’s name is etched across the splintered wooden surface of the dining table with something ragged and there’s sap seeping out of every letter. In his bloodstream swims a recognition of incomprehensible magnitude.

It leaves his soul naked, wet and throbbing. 

George throws a velvet tablecloth over it and succumbs to sleep.

Carried away by the wild riptides of his dreams, fragments of memories bob like debris in a vast, turbulent ocean. Then bam , the water starts vibrating and slowly drains away. George stirs in his sleep, the echoes of his subconscious adventure floating into the distance. As he gradually wakes up, the familiar beeping sound penetrates his consciousness once more, and he can't help but sigh in annoyance. This beeping was becoming stalkerish, the clingy ex of alarms – tracking his every move.

He groans, rubbing his eyes, only to wince as the nail on his little finger digs into the bandaid over the scrape by his temple. "Dream," he drawls, his voice laced with irritation and sleepiness. He feels like he's drowning in sweat inside this giant hoodie, swaddled by his giant husband, wrapped in a giant duvet. Everything is just giant, except his patience, which seems to be wearing thin.

Through the – not quite – blackout curtains, a stream of midday light invades the room like an uninvited guest, snatching away his precious eyesight. Faint traffic and kids playing, suburban sounds – can be heard from the open window. 

"This needs to change," he mutters to himself, making a mental note to get proper blackout curtains that would make a vampire proud, like any sensible human being. How does he sleep like this every day? 

The thing he’s going to flush down the loo later keeps beeping and now it’s vibrating the whole mattress. And not even in a fun way.

"DREAM!" He calls out, but his voice gets muffled as Dream's hand covers his mouth. "Mm!-dhwem!" He's squirming like a mermaid on land now, trying to break free from his husband's sleep-induced bear hug to deliver a well deserved slap across the face. He finally grapples the hand away by digging his nails in hard. "Wake up, you… you lazy butt!" 

In response, Dream groans, clearly not thrilled to be disturbed from his slumber. With a sleepy drawl, he mutters, "Shh, up." 

Just when he thought things couldn't get worse, Dream's hand inadvertently squeezes over his bruised side, and he lets out a full on scream that could shatter glass and kicks with all his might, hoping to send a clear message that this is a totally normal and acceptable response to mild pain. 

The unexpected scream sends Dream into a whirlwind of panic. He squirrels up in bed, looking at George as if he's being stabbed by a ghost. 

"Wha-" he starts to say, but George's pained expression cuts him off faster than a librarian's glare.

"You hurt me, you idiot." He cradles his side, trying to ease the discomfort. He’s starting to understand why Dream was hesitant to get in if this is how rough he normally is in bed. Not that George per say is crying rivers over that little fact.

"Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm sorry, shit-" Dream stammers, his face flushed white with guilt. "I didn't know. Or – like – of course I knew, but I wasn't- like I didn't think-" 

"Then stop talking. I’ll give you something to be sorry about if you don’t fix the vibrating mattress."

Dream's face contorts with confusion. "The vibrating…?" But just as he's about to ask, the damn thing starts vibrating again, and his mouth opens as it dawns on him. "Ah – fuck, sorry," he scrambles for his phone, which seems to have disappeared somewhere between the rumpled sheets. "To be fair, I only put notifications on because I thought the hospital might call when we were gone." 

"Great. It’s my fault. Woo!" George is far from amused, pulling the duvet up over his head in an attempt to escape the annoying light beam and the absolute unwarranted accusation. He turns away from Dream, seeking refuge in a cocoon of darkness and silence. Hibernation sounds good. A month or two. Might solve the memory issue, he thinks, half-jokingly. 

"It's the girls, you know how Hannah is," Dream explains, hoping to ease the tension with a touch of humour which is the stupidest thing he’s done since George woke. He might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water on their bed.

ITS THE WHAT?! Ex-fucking-scuse him? 

George's mind is racing, full throttle – firing all cylinders. One thing's for sure – he's wide awake now.

The girls? As in like… their girls? KIDS!? Where the fuck are they?

George's panic is palpable as he flies back up, turning into a sitting position. The duvet pools around his hips as he stares at a taken aback Dream in horror. 

Two seconds of confused silence between them is promptly interrupted by George lunging at Dream, attempting to snatch his phone away. But Dream reacts quickly, holding the device high above his head like it’s a damn basketball he’s about to dunk, just to avoid George's grasping fingers. Before he knows it, Dream’s other hand brings the smaller man back down by gripping his thigh and trapping him in his husband’s lap when he tries to climb him like a monkey, protesting loudly. He’s squirming, swearing and digging his nails into the stupid big hand.

"What in the fuck is wrong with you? You’re like – acting crazy! George! "

"Give. it. to. me !"

"Can you stop? What are you even doing? Honestly? Just grab your own phone!"

"What’s the issue, huh, Dreamy? Got some secret phone business you’re hiding from me? Huh?" George's frustration and panic drive him to attempt a futile jump, trying to snatch the phone from Dream's grip. But he's no match for his husband's strength. Damn himself and his strong husband kink shit, George thinks. He should have married some skinny twink – wet noodle boy – instead. Shit. What does he mean ‘the girls’? "What are you hiding? Are you hiding any more kids I should be concerned about?" 

"Wha- What? What kids? What even is this conversation? What is going on right now?! Sapnap was one hundred percent spot-on-"

"Don’t you ever dare say that again!" George bares his teeth in a mock threatening manner, but his eyes must betray his genuine anger. 

Dream glances up at his phone, which dangles tantalisingly above them, and suddenly casts a spotlight on their intertwined forms like they’re on a centre stage. "It’s literally just a message asking if ‘gogy is still groggy or if you’re strongy,’ which – to be honest, no clue how to respond to that." In this moment, George becomes acutely aware that he's resting his palms on Dream's chest, straddling him, trapped and swallowing against the burning sensation travelling up his spine and side. 

That’s not hot. Blah blah blah, can’t hear you inner george. It’s disgusting, revolting – is what it is. 

"It’s literally just Hannah and Sylvee," Dream reassures him, but George's reaction is far from comforting. His eyes widen, and his mind comes to a screeching halt. 

Eh… record scratching. Hit the breaks and back the fuck up. Did he hear that right?

HE LET DREAM NAME THEIR KID SILVER? 

Seriously? George can feel his disbelief turning into sheer panic as he stares up at the phone, which displays two profile pictures of what appears to be two completely grown, adult women.

Oh. This might not actually be their kids, just regular – well at least random – girls. Women, actually. 

Ha ha… ha shit.

"George like actually-" Dream begins, but before he can finish his sentence, George feels a gentle yet firm grip on his chin, tilting his head away from the phone to meet Dream's maybe concerned, maybe bewildered gaze. "-you’re scaring me. What’s wrong? Something’s wrong, isn't it? You’re… off somehow. I don’t know."

Well… deluxe master plan of distraction activated, George thinks to himself, deciding that now is just about the perfect time to divert Dream's attention. 

He twists the fabric of Dream’s T-shirt, pulling him forwards whilst arching his back in a way that’s pressing himself ever closer to his husband's form, and leans down to simply brush his lips, light and fleetingly, against Dream's parted, slightly chapped ones. He follows the movement with his eyes before meeting his husband’s shocked pools of now mostly black to gauge his reaction. 

And just like that, a phone drops on George's unsuspecting head. 

The impact creates a resounding smack, and George's mouth opens wide, releasing a colourful string of English profanities – every one he can think of. The phone misses the spot he banged into the pavement, just south of it, but still – he's pretty sure he can even taste the metallic tang of the phone, what it’s made of. 

"Aluminium," George mutters.

"Oh my god, dude," Dream panics, pulling George’s head down to lay his forehead on his chest so he can inspect the back of his head for any potential damage. "What the fuck were you thinking? No, what are you thinking? Why would you do that? What the fuck is even happening?! Oh my god, George, there’s a dent. I’m pretty sure."

"Dude," George mocks in a perfect american accent. "What did you expect, a tickle?" he grumbles, feeling both annoyed and slightly dizzy from the unexpected blow. He gets yanked up again as Dream continues to worry over him. "Stop yanking me around!" He doesn't like that, he swears.

"Your pupils are dilated," Dream observes, concern etched all over his face.

For no ehm… no particular reason. Nope. 

"They’re always like that. They do that sometimes," he mumbles.

"That’s such bullshit," Dream retorts in a ‘what the fuck are you playing at’ tone, great. "What are you feeling, is it – like… nausea? Vertigo? Headache?... Major thought process slash decision making problems? Regret? Existential crisis-level life choices?"

That's oddly specific. George raises an eyebrow, trying to figure out what prompted Dream to come across that particular query. 

"No. Just like I suffered domestic abuse. I’m not sure if I’ll survive. You might have to mourn me for eternity." He sighs dramatically. "I'll come back to haunt you." Not just because he died, but because he's self absorbed and won't stand for being the 'first' husband.

"Don’t say it like that," Dream pleads, his voice controlled though concern evident in the way his fingers twist in the hoodie and anchors George to his body.

"Like what?"

Dream takes a deep breath and George can feel the rise and fall of his chest against his own – moving with it like they’re a buoy on water, like they're shipwreck survivors clinging to a lifeboat in a stormy sea, like they're connected.  

"Like what, Dream?" George insists, his heart pounding in his chest as he peers into the dimly lit room, a stage for their raw vulnerability. In the faint light, he can barely make out Dream's face, just contours and shadows. With tender movements, George's hands glide from the space between their bodies to rest on Dream's shoulders, then down his arm, down veiny forearms, savouring the contact all the way to the tips of his fingers, like a painter's brush on a canvas. Never breaking eye-contact. 

A whisper breaks the tension, and Dream's words hit George like a tidal wave. "When Sapnap stepped on your glasses, it sounded like-” He pauses. “I thought your skull cracked." He says it like his lungs are full of water and with such intensity you’d think it was an imperial secret aiming to daggerly pierce George's heart. Like it’s been plaguing him since Eve ate the apple and damned mankind. "You went so still," Dream continues, his vulnerability on full display. 

A solitary tear glistens in the light, falling from Dream's eye like a crystalline gem. George is captivated by the sight. He knows this tear is meant for him alone. He doesn't even have the pretence to pretend his pride isn't soaking it up.

Unable to resist the urge, George leans in even closer, so close, their faces mere inches apart. With tenderness, he directs Dream’s face to wipe that tear away with his thumb, hoping to absorb it, have it seep into his own skin, his very being. Forget sacrificing virgins, he thinks this might vitalize him forever.

He shakes his head playfully. "I'll never be still again," George promises, his voice playful yet resolute, as if making a solemn vow. 

Dream's wet laughter echoes startlingly in the room. He pulls George closer by his hips, though stills quickly. He seems almost surprised by his own actions. 

Well, George is no postbride to his knowledge, Dream can’t post him back to London. No refunds, no exchanging. No takesies backsies. So, he traces fingers along a path up his husband’s spine, neck, and scalp, scratches skin deep into uncharted terrain and revels in the shiver it evokes. 

This is a reassuring gesture, he tells himself. No – Yes it is, shut up! Keep the tea in the cup, inner George.

Dream swallows audibly and surely imprints finger shaped, white indents that won’t stay longer than a few seconds once they leave George’s hips, and that’s sad. Dream is all of a sudden staying as still as George promised not to when the smaller gets swept up in the waves they move, turning it into some ancestor to grinding, rubbing their noses together, resting their foreheads together. Sharing breaths and gasps. Dream's hesitation is evident, and George wonders if it's due to caution related to his brain injury or some other reason. 

George knows what he wants – even wiped clean of terabytes of storage, he knows exactly what he wants. Even if he can’t say it or admit to it.

"I don’t want to take advantage," Dream croaks out.

But George doesn't hesitate to respond, huffing amused. "I do," he quips, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. And maybe it's less playful, more sadistic.

He’s the one with brain damage, least Dream can do is fuck him. Maybe that will trigger a reboot.

Time seems to warp, speeding up and slowing down simultaneously and it’s so cliche but raw in every meaning of the word. The pumping of blood fills his ears like a drumbeat. 

He gets the feeling that this is more important than it should be. George can't remember ever kissing anyone, he's pure as a dove as far as he's concerned, nuns would preach about him and his untouched ass, but surely Dream has an arsenal of experiences relating to what George sounds and looks like with his legs over his shoulder. So why is Dream hesitant? Because of the brain thing? He thinks he's going to kiss George dizzy? He had no problem dropping his stupid brick phone head-smackingly bullseye. That's presumptuous.

His fingers jump as if experiencing caffeine induced jitters and he’s not sure why. George breathes in shakingly, harshly – and Dream mirrors him as if it’s subconscious. It moves them like full on waves lapping against the shore. Suddenly, there’s this whole, rough grinding motion, an instinctual rhythm that seems to arise from the depths of something unspoken, and he can't help but surrender to it. It's intoxicating, overwhelming in the best possible way.  

It's so good. Too good. 

And oh. It's big. 

Oh shit, George really is dizzy, needles pricking the insides of his nose bridge, clutching at Dream’s shoulders, neck, back. 

He knows he’s in for it when Dream moans, open mouthed and he feels the vibration between their mingling air which immediately prompts him to breathe in through clenched teeth and pull on his husband’s hair – and subsequently – his whole head back. With Dream’s throat bared, he understands why it’s called an Adam’s apple, it’s forbidden, it's sinful. 

Dream stills them for a moment, eyes closed. Eyes that George never noticed closing but he can physically feel the weight of those eyelids. Of this moment. He watches as a too dexterous tongue press against the inside of Dream’s cheek, before his eyes open once again. 

The anticipation between them is palpable, like a coiled spring ready to release. Their gazes lock, there are seconds – years maybe – kilometres – the distance of an entire ocean of looks bouncing between them like flashing camera stills switching between their faces and lips. Everything rushes. Thought, hearts, the blood in his ears, the air. 

The doubts, the uncertainty, the fear. 

He decides it doesn't matter. It never did. It can all fuck off.

With a surge of determination, George throws caution to the wind. 

It is quick, demanding, and almost a little clumsy, it cracks their teeth together audibly and he’s wincing as his nose gets crushed – but it's nothing short of otherworldly when Dream meets him halfway in a frenzy. 

Their lips press together to a bruising point, there are big palms pressing his back forward, into his husband who moves their hips, rocking in sync. He follows without hesitation when George leans backwards to fit them together better. 

They are lunatics on saltwater. It's not perfect but it is. 

And the concept of kissing is weird because why? But how Dream keeps slotting his lips against his and moves around his nose to change the angle is so fucking natural he believes wars are fought for this.

The moans he receives, accompanied by a deep guttural, "George," now that is vibrating in a good way, great way. The encouragement spurs him on, urging him to explore the depths of his husband's mouth, body… being. He bites Dream’s lower lip, punishing him every time he dares to pull back. He doesn't need air.

"Oh fuck." 

All these sounds get stored away in the bedroom in his mind, blasting on repeat from the megaphone. 

Dream's thumb glides into the warmth of George's mouth, a gesture both guiding and coaxing, a gentle dominance as he deftly hooks and tugs him forward, only to keep his head still completely with a demanding hold. A marionette masterfully orchestrating his puppet. His thumb exerts a subtle pressure against George's tongue, folding it, swirling in spit – commanding yet tender, while those words, "be still, be good," fall from his lips like a whispered spell. 

Suddenly, there’s this whirlwind in his stomach threatening to swallow him whole. George is flying apart again, or maybe melting into the bed. He keeps his mouth open and loose, a willing vessel for any sensation Dream wants to bestow upon him, eager to take in anything he has to offer. The less than gentle thrusts of their hips against each other is a reward, he doesn't know how he knows but he does. A reward for good behaviour that he responds to with a whispered, "Dream, oh my god," that comes out so much more desperate than imagined.

But it’s true. He is desperate. George wants to fit his mouth around him so badly, do what Dream is imitating with his fingers for real. 

Saliva pools and drips down a thick forearm, his chin, chest, thighs, everything, the tides of desire spilling over, mingling with their shared fervour. Still, Dream pulls his jaw open further.  His breath is coming in shallow pants. Then there’s a tongue licking into George’s mouth lapping him up, he responds with equal fervour, licking back as Dream is smearing their combined passion all over George's face with his thumb. Permeating it into his skin. 

"You are dripping for me," he hears close to his neck, mumbling, feeling the breath and kiss being placed there.

The response is immediate, "I could be. I would."

Their movements are wild after that, frantic, and utterly uninhibited. George's hands pull at Dream's T-shirt until he thinks – hopes – it will rip. Dream’s mouth opens every time like George holds the key and he takes it for the opportunity of control it is – pulling his husband's hair and licking into his mouth in just the right angle, sucking his lips until they are sure to be purple, filthy. Licking a wipe stripe over his tongue, tracing the contours with a sense of abandon. The marks his nails leave on Dream's shoulders are like moon shaped tattoos of this, proof that it happened.

Suddenly, Dream’s hands are under his ass, eliciting sharp prickles of pain George does his best to keep inside. When he gets lifted, the smaller yelps into his husband’s mouth in surprise and tries to anchor himself with an even tighter grip. And then those strong arms are manoeuvring them incredibly slowly, bearing – balancing – both their weights in a tight hold above the mattress before dropping George in a gentle motion, cradling the back of his head like he’s actually a baby, even though his head is literally landing on a mattress, by the edge of their bed. So careful. George hates it.

George's hoodie got bunched up somewhere along the way and he gasps at the tantalising sliver of skin he feels pressing against his lower stomach, just above their sweats. The craving for more consumes him, drives him to pull Dream's shirt up to his armpits until it gets irritatingly stuck, wanting to feel their sweaty skin pressed together. He wants more, always more, so he pulls his body down hard, wrapping around him like an octopus whilst meeting Dream’s tongue. 

Bruise be damned, coccyx get fucked even more than before – because those thoughts are swirling somewhere close to mars, so far, they don’t matter when there’s that good – that big – of a dick pressing against his ass.

Foreheads pressed together, they catch their breaths. Those pants of his husband are prono-fucking-graphic.

There's a trail of spit connecting their lips when George pushes to get Dream's stupid shirt the fuck off. The taller one has the nerve to play it up, sits back and makes a damn show of throwing it over his head whilst leaving George’s skin cold and lonely . But before George can articulate why exactly this might be torture, probably because Dream has taken his dick with him — he descends back down. 

He's hovering above George, knees still supporting his weight, and George can't stand the distance. He doesn’t care if it hurts. He clings to Dream's hips like a koala, pulling him down with a sense of urgency. The weight is crushing and hurts sharply and everything he needs if he's not allowed to crawl into Dream’s ribcage. 

There's something very hard and very big poking his stomach and George is a genius for marrying this man. 

The thought enters the back of his mind when Dream bites down on his collarbone hard, mark-leaving, and George both aches and arches in response. If Dream doesn't come out of this looking like he’s grappled with a tiger, George will be very disappointed – because the hiss Dream lets out when he digs nails into that back, the way the muscles jump – is addicting and he’s about to gamble away his life savings and drink himself out onto the streets.

One palm grips the duvet by his head so tight some of his hair gets ripped out but he doesn't even complain. He’s so forgiving, so good, so chivalrous because soon there are hands pulling down his trousers and George eagerly helps kick them off. Soon, he traps Dream in his mousetrap of legs again, gripping the sheets by his hips for leverage to dry-hump this man to hell and back.

The sheets rip. 

The sound is loud enough to make them both freeze for a moment, just breathing. He doesn't know if Dream can see him bite his lips against a feral grin because that’s not his problem.

There are damp tendrils of saliva clinging to his face and neck that he can feel air drying and leaves a tingling sensation in its wake every damn time Dream puffs out air over them. The sweat by his husband’s hairline is glistening and the wet strands stick to both of their skin. 

He can imagine it. The whole scene pictured, even though the darkness steals away most of it. Dream’s nostrils flaring in arousal. It’s like his memory is plaguing him; he can't remember this, this side of their marriage, the marital one. It’s torturous. 

There’s still one pair of ridiculously baggy sweats between them. He hopes Dream never wears skinny jeans, partly because it’s unfashionable but mostly because can't help but imagine how difficult it must be to smuggle that impressive dick around and not get arrested for public indecency. 

Maybe it’s not ideal that all the blood carrying his oxygen around his body floods to one place when that's like the only organ that doesn't feel battered, that needs it, but this takes priority. There is only one organ that counts right now.

He's going to die if he doesn't get Dream inside him. 

Objectively.

"Dream… fuck- fuck me – now," George hisses. 

But then, to George's surprise, Dream hesitates, resisting his request. "No," he responds firmly, strung as if there are twinkies right in front of his nose he can’t take a single bite of.

The fuck? The audacity. It’s not even close to being a funny joke.

"Yes," he insists, a demanding edge to his voice. Dream wants him, clearly. He wants Dream and he wants him now. He reaches out, his nails digging into Dream's skin with a punishing grip, and a wicked smile tugs at his lips when he feels Dream's hips stutter in response.

"No, shut the fuck up – be quiet," he mutters. Like George gives a fuck about if Syrup hears them. He hopes he does. Just for good measure, George smirks and throws his head as far back as it goes, looks at the slivers of light escaping the cracks in the door behind him and lets out an exaggerated, pornographic moan. 

Faster than George has ever seen him move, Dream quickly covers almost his entire face with his hand, suppressing the giggles that are threatening to escape. His reaction only fuels George's amusement. 

A panicky – biting – whisper tickles his ear as Dream chastises him, "What is wrong with you?" Yet, despite the reprimand, the large hand retreats, reaching out to stroke along George’s knee, pushing it outwards for Dream’s form to slot better – wholly – between his legs. The hand settles across half of his thigh, exerting a rough squeeze. If George could see it, he’s sure there would be visible supple pillowness where they dig into his flesh, like the most intricate, expensive marble statues. Like they’re art.

It’s dizzying. It’s everything.

"I’m not going to fuck you. And definitely not after that. A month of no excessive movements, did you conveniently forget? You’ll get – like – baby shake syndrome and fucking die."

George's eyes widen in disbelief. "So?" 

Then he’ll die.

Actually, he’ll kill Dream instead. George is going to spend the rest of his life behind bars. It’s always the spouse – they’ll figure him out. Because he’s so hard, because… a month?! 

He's literally on bedrest, crying out loud! What else is he supposed to do in bed? What else do you have a bed with these expensive springs for? What else do you have a husband for?

"Awe… Did you just call me baby?" George asks derisively. He’s so pissed and he hates how Dream can instantly read it. He’s going to pull out all of Dream’s wires, tangle them with fucking shibari knots and blame Patches. 

Dream's expression remains deadpan as he reiterates, "I’m only going to say this once, this shit is serious, George."

He’s not joking. Holy fuck.

"Yeah yeah, you won’t fuck me because I’m being a baby, right?" Scrap that – he’s going to cut all his cables to pieces and make him buy new ones. 

"You’re actually so stupid-" George rolls his eyes. "-no actually ," Dream insists. George is going to flush his stupid car keys that look like a little toy.

"No actually," George mocks in his best awful husband voice.

"Well now you’re being a baby." He’s going to put a padlock on the fridge and slowly starve Dream like he’s starving George from cock.

"You’re scared you're dick’s going to kill me?" George scoffs. "You’re way too confident. Fuck me like we’re old then, go on."

"Maybe that's not how I want to fuck you," Dream shoots back, his voice low and suggestive and unfair beyond measure.

"Well, maybe – you get what you deserve, bitch," George whispers scathingly. He’s still so hard, still trying to grind up in small movements as well as he can, his head thrown back because fuck it.

"Yeah… Exactly." Dream is scowling, going completely still and throwing his husband's words back in his face like the grinch.

George lets out a feigned little sob, playing up the baby act to rile up his husband, because if Dream wants him to act like a baby, sure . But instead of annoying him, Dream's hips stutter in response, and George can feel his dick twitching through three layers of clothing. 

And isn't that… interesting? 

Because Dream needs to learn a very valuable lesson, George has to concentrate on making his eyes huge and watery, mouth pouty and the hardest part – not shout hurrah and announce, ‘yeah – we got him America,’ when he hears his breath catch very loudly, hips stuttering. 

"Please. Dream, please." He seems to like George helpless, begging.

Dream pulls back sharply and in an instance George’s legs are tight around him and he’s biting his lip in concentration because there’s not a chance he’s letting him escape this bed. But there’s no need to worry, because – like there’s no helping it, his husband snaps. He is manhandling him, grabbing a tight hold of one of his thighs, bends it to angle their dicks together, rub down his under George’s balls, down to exactly where he wants him and then up again whilst splaying the other hand on George’s sternum to keep his upper body still and slides forwards again and again and again, hard. The bed creaks and he doesn’t give a fuck if it splinters and crashes, doesn’t think he’d notice. 

He revels in his husband's little grimace of frustration, the look of promised death being thrown, when George on every inhale allows his breath to catch on a new sob. Dream knows exactly what George is getting at and is still helpless about the way it controls him. 

George tries to slither a long due hand into his husband's pants but it gets quickly trapped by his head against the mattress and it has him instantly mourning the pressure that was pushing his upper body into the mattress.

"Stop. Stop." Sorry. What’s that? That’s not in George’s vocabulary.

Suddenly there’s a hand gripping him through his pants, stroking, and that’s the friction George has been begging for, scratching for. The very hard dick rubbing against his ass is equally stimulating. When Dream comes back down only to bite and grunt along his collarbones, George’s eyes roll back and he immediately grabs the strained forearm bracketing him and uses the grip to grind himself upwards into the hand repeatedly. Nothing else matters.

His mouth opens but there are no sounds coming out. 

"You come like this or not at all, okay George?" 

His husband sucks. Well no, that's the conundrum. 

George bares his teeth at him and has half a mind not to bite back.

"Don’t look-” A moan escapes. “So- so annoyed." 

"This isn't my annoyed face, this is my-” Dream grips him harder, “ This- this is my you're- you’re being a tot-” He strokes faster and George has to bite his lip not to shout. “-a total dick – face. Fuck, yes. Keep-."

Before George can even finish the sentence, Dream stops and George doesn't cry, doesn't mewl, does not trash like he’s electrified, he swears, just… maybe squirms a little bit. It’s a crime, anyways – edging your husband like this. "I guess I’m leaving, then. If you don’t think this is good enough, if you can’t manage to come like this…? I’ve got like laundry a-" 

George interrupts him, teeth grinding. "Of course I can." 

Dickhead. Dumbass … Laundry? LAUNDRY? Thinking about laundry with George underneath him?! 

INSANE. RIDICULOUS. DERANGED.

Dream is back to stroking, and it’s heaven, but as soon as George starts even slightly thrashing head back and forth across the linen from the stimulation, he stops again. It’s maddening. He presses one hand over George’s sternum so the smaller can’t move his upper body and thus his summersalting brain. He’s staring. Frustratingly, Dream stills all of George’s movement as well, is able to with just one hand over his hip.

And so he has no choice but to keep his head still, angrily, and sniffles little sobs that aren't real, they’re not, that's not true. He feels the cool metal at his neck jump when he swallows, where the proof of their marriage lies, as George grinds up erratically. "Dream, Dream, Please," he cries.

Dream’s gaze narrows in on his face, glazed, raking over his sex flushed face and body like he's a tiny moth pinned to a board. And he’s not actually crying, that’s false. There’s no snot running down his nose. If Dream says ever so, it’s a lie.

George’s thighs are burning and he’s panting and he’s close, so fucking close from just grinding against Dream and even though it moves his head, Dream lets him and that’s a small victory. He’s close because he can feel his husband's God blessed big dick rubbing against his thigh when he moves but now he’s shaking from exhaustion. 

Dream is supposed to be helping. Helping is not the term that George would use. Only when George can’t move anymore does Dream remember he can. 

That he can wrap his arms around George under him against the mattress, bury his face in his husband's neck to keep his head still and claw his ass to bring them together, grunting. 

"Dream, so good, so good, yours … fuck, yours, yours to fuck. Faster."

"No. Be good." Teeth clamp down in the same place before, breaking skin. But it’s not teeth, can’t be. It’s a fucking taser based on the trashing it envokes.

In the midst of it, a wide tongue licks from his throat up his jaw, his cheek, lapping at the salty wetness there. George is not sure what's happening beside the friction. George’s brain short circuits when his husband whispers, "’Yours .’ That’s a dangerous thing to say, George. Maybe I’ll take it seriously. Maybe if I get inside you, I’m never going to leave. You’ll have to sit in on my meetings and cock warm me."

And, yes yes yes – that’s it.

For some unknown reason, the duvet by his head is soaking wet, different wet from the slippery sweat between them. 

That’s the last sensation he feels before his orgasm is wrenched out of him by the roots of his soul. Dream has casually pulled up the tree it’s anchored to, he hears the wood creaking and snapping. He twists and cries breathlessly, hitching, and contorts his whole body, has no idea what to do with his hands so they just kind of curl and pull Dream’s hair. His come splatters into his pants but the best part of it is when Dreams’s hand slithers up from his sternum to his throat and just holds it to steady himself as George sees from the corner of his eyes how Dream chokes out a open mouthed stuttering growl and his whole body trembles and he’s breathing out moans in the afterglow before collapsing next to George, chest moving erratically when George turns his head to grin at him.

It is the best orgasm of his life – and sure – he can’t remember the others but it is. It just is.

Never before has he had his strings cut like this, like a marionette dropping to the floor. All tension has seeped out, he’s not sure he’s capable of movement, he’s floating somewhere above the bed.

It's as though a long-lingering wound, tended to with care for years, has finally scarred over and the days of dripping blood are no more.

Like all the dry stems in his mind's garden had rebloomed, the trees regrown their apples, domesday had finally arrived and paradise was to be reinstalled.

Dream is fucking crazy if he thinks George is waiting two whole weeks to a month for the real thing. 

Seducing your own husband sounds like an easy game anyways.

Chapter Text

      𖤓 ☾

Being bedridden sucks half of the time, the half he’s awake to be exact. Except for that one midday rendezvous between the sheets; a delicious diversion from the monotony, a stolen moment of respite, a dalliance he savours like a secret affair – but oh! 

Leave it to his husband to mess it all up.

George woke up thinking, ‘But wait, what's this? A magician's trick, a sleight of reality?,’ not because he lost his memories, nope, but because Dream apparated somewhere when George literally just blinked for a few… minutes – a mere catnap, half an hour maybe. For all his talk about not wanting to take advantage – Dream, that incorrigible conjurer, has somehow managed to whisk himself away to another realm during the mere span of George's languid blink, which is so incredibly rude of his husband. Bad bedside manners. Sleep ninja bullshit. 

But then, just as he’s thought it, George spots a minuscule, utterly inconsequential smudge of blood on the duvet, prompting him to raid the closet for a quick change. Maybe it's for the best, he thinks, ridding the duvet of its cover. It's just another thing his husband doesn't need to know about; otherwise, Dream will start panicking for absolutely no reason and George will be getting nothing for the next month. 

Thus, throwing the evidence into the neighbour's garden is very much justified. It catches on a tree branch and it’s nowhere close to halloween so that might be just a tad suspicious, but what is he supposed to do? Tell the truth?... Yeah right. 

With a huff of mock indignation, George goes back to bed and attempts to tame his insurmountable boredom. 

His electronic companions, the phone and laptop that he’s sure usually offer a portal to endless realms of entertainment, now taunt him with their inaccessible allure. He can’t get into either. He eyes the clock on his broken state of the art Iphone with a theatrical sigh, currently – it's nothing more than the world's most expensive brick. Tragic.

He deems himself sufficiently healed after what feels like an eternity that rivals the geological ageing of rocks – a generous three hours give or take. 

His exploratory spirit a.k.a his boredom – not nosiness – leads him on a meandering journey through the corridors of his humble abode. And so it is almost inevitable that he finds himself in the sanctum of his creative musings, his office… studio? Whatever. 

Lucky him, he’s bad at security. The computer has no lock code. The computer presents no challenge, and with a triumphant "Ta-da!" from George, he's right inside the OBS program. 

Ah, streaming, he thinks. That once cherished endeavour, or so legends go. He recants his previous statements about it. What, indeed, is the worst that could happen? A minor miscalculation, a trifling fumble with the accoutrements of his digital domain – child's play, surely, his mind supplies in a very posh voice. 

Except, of course, that the grandeur of regular George's technological aspirations has intertwined his digital realm into a Gordian knot of not one – not two – but three interconnected monitors, a million buttons, and oh! More buttons on weird boards. A labyrinth that, when manoeuvred with the grace of a streaming amateur, would blare the announcement: "Oh, oh, look here millions of people! Behold, ye masses! I have the memory of a gold-fish! My brain is new-born!" 

But no, tipping ten million people off on the fact that he does have memory issues is not the worst of it. It's the potential mockery. They'll think he's an absolute dunderhead when he keeps triggering sounds and random pop-ups all the time. That or epileptic… or they'll assume he's had one too many adult beverages. Perhaps he should intentionally act tipsy – that's the perfect cover!

For a whole hour, he toys with it, trying to figure out how the fuck to switch between his facecam and gameplay, chat and brb-screen on O.B.S for like an hour. Everything is black. An hour of befuddlement wasted – only to discover the truth: his camera, that ever-watchful eye, had dared to absent itself from the proceedings. Push-brain-voice supplies.

It was plugged out.

What freaky shit has he and Dream been doing in here to render his camera a fugitive? That’s a very distracting riddle left to stew within the corridors, crooks and crannies of his bemused mind.

He suddenly feels too tired to stream and it’s too complicated. He hasn’t even had time to watch some of his previous streams to dissect his prior top of the litter performances. He’d planned to find out how he even acts on stream, to google a lot of his many questions. He's done absolutely zilch. Everything is so confusing. He has been thwarted by the relentless march of time. He has been denied even the solace of self-examination, to scrutinise the nuances of his on-screen persona. 

He should shower too, like – really should. A hasty shuffle through discarded floor-garments yielded a semblance of attire; sweats and a blue haven for comfort, a.k.a  a generously proportioned shirt bearing a jubilant white smiley face on the front. 

But that only hides the smell of dry cum for so long. 

The amount of discord messages he’s flooding in are overwhelming and having to search up who every person is and what relation he has to them, just to respond accordingly, even more so. Each ping, a clamour for attention, an invitation to decipher the enigmatic web of relationships that entwines him. He doesn’t think he’s a very good dancer, so social choreography… well fuck this.

He finds himself bombarded with inquiries about streaming, merch and video stuff from some random named Ken? As if George possesses a crystal ball for predicting such things. He's tempted to respond, "If I knew, don't you think I'd be streaming right now?" Actually, if he knew how to get into his bank account, he’d be on a yacht right now.

He finally embarks on an expedition across his digital dominion, traversing the vast expanses of his Twitterverse. Yet, like a casual stroller skimming the surface of a bottomless lake, he only manages to graze the tip of his online persona. 

Amid this digital exploration, an unexpected discovery reveals itself – a TikTok! It’s a video George apparently made, chronicling Dream's evolution from George’s dear comrade to cherished husband. Like a pokemon. 

And no, there’s no evidence that a telltale flutter of embarrassment appears in him, no rosy hue that graces his cheeks at the sight of a simple drawing of an affectionate lip-lock. 

Sylvee and Hannah are lovely, he smiles reading their teasing but affectionate get better soon messages. And luckily, neither are George’s kids. He does not think he’s ready for that. Imagine a mini George. He can’t even stop himself from doing… questionable things. What a handful.

 And then there’s Karl – his friend Sapnap is embarrassingly obsessed with, as he’s learnt. Unrelenting in his endeavours to entertain or perhaps exasperate. The impish scoundrel is sending George an unstoppable loop of him almost falling to his death, in black and white and at several speeds.

Karl 17.08

George retired from life 😭 

May he rest in pest 

He will be kissed 

May he find cheese 🐀

He died at the age of elderly, surrounded by the florida sidewalk he loved and took a peaceful summer salt into concrete haven🙏

He has been pronounced dead which is not even close to his name :(

As George is on the brink of closing the tab, ready to succumb to the call of sustenance and a refreshing shower, an image materialises. It depicts a tombstone adorned with the labels 'miner, crafter, professional sugar baby.' Beneath it reads, 'he had a Dream,' a cheeky creation courtesy of Karl.

With a symphony of clinking keystrokes, his fingers come alive on the keyboard. 

George  17.19

karl your creativity shines!  

loco loco! going to show sueño 😍

making it my new wallpaper 

a masterpiece

not to be hidden

embrace your artistic flair

let it bloom! 🥰 

Karl 17.20 

I'm allowed to share it???

Okay. Don't regret this

You shouldn't have said that George

I thought you’d learnt by now 

OH! How are you doing btw?

Don't know, he thinks. He’s ignoring it.

George 17.21

im shitting sunshine 😻🌞 

thanks for asking

Karl 17.21

Wow, you’re a miracle

Wanna call? :)

George 17.22

you asked

later maybe

Karl 17.22

WOW 

Well well well. 

Okay go make out with Dream 

George 17.22

maybe I will

Karl 17.22

???

gogy gone delerioury?

George 17.23

BYE KARL

He powers down his computer, rises from his seat, not at all wincing at a hint of discomfort. He’s just getting old, if Dream asks – that’s it. The culinary quest he had in mind is paused as he notices Sapnap's office slightly ajar and Dream's conspicuously shut. He’s not about to cook for himself, so he rips the door wide open with determination.

Dream's head swivels, caught in the act of scrutinising his webcam setup. He’s got stupid – way too bright – lights on that George squints at. A curiously oversized screen commands George's attention, evoking an inner chuckle. He stifles to maintain a casual façade. He wants to laugh at it so badly he’s turning blue and hiding his face but can’t because he has to act like he’s familiar with it, like Dream didn't smuggle the screen from Times Square into his house.

"George," he warns, his voice laced with… trepidation maybe, panic flickering in his eyes. A fleeting glance passes over George's form, as though he forgot to put clothes on or sizing him up for battle like he’d accidentally called Dream’s mother a whore or something. What’s going on? George is taken aback. 

Then, with the finesse of an adept performer, Dream turns back to the camera, a rehearsed smile adorning his face. "Well… Ladies and gentlemen, meet the rebel who defies the doctor's orders for bedrest. Let's give him a warm welcome! As in like, please scream at him for being such an idiot. George, care to give an update?" 

"Are you live?"

"Yeah? Did you not know? Didn't you check?" 

He says it like it's out of character, so George gives the age old excuse: "Nope," popping the p, "I’m tired."  

Whilst studying the chat, a whirlwind of messages darting like quicksilver – unreadable – he rests his chin atop the back of Dream’s chair. Why the frenzy? Are they wrestling with concern over his gracious fall, their collective pulse racing in digital panic? He doesn't like the disconnect. He wants to be able to read what they write. Each username is a person worth just as much as any other. He wants to talk to every single one of them.

He circumnavigates the chair, lowering himself onto Dream’s armrest. Not one single flinch of pain leaves him, absolutely no little squirrel noise. Not even if his posterior protests as Dream jolts ever so slightly like he’s surprised about something, like George is invisible. George pins him with a glare, a stabilising arm casually draped over the chair's crown. He bends forward, showcasing the bandage snugly wrapped around his head. 

"Florida gave me a concussion, and look at this battlescar!" The b pops, because he likes to do that, sue him. A dramatic flourish gets thrown toward the bandage, no… gruesome wound, his expression a parody of shock. "Don’t pass out guys! I know it’s crazy, it’s vile, it’s brutal! Such a big bandaid, Twitch would ban Dream if I took it off and showed you how Florida is trying to kill me!"

Dream interjects, "It’s a scrape. Don’t worry guys, it’s the concussion that’s serious."

"Oh, but of course, dear Dreeeeam." George adopts an air of revelation, gesturing to the injury as if exposing a hidden dimension. "It’s a hole! It goes straight through to the back of my head, you would be able to see the door! No, actually, it’s like a portal to the nether. Shhh, don’t tell the government I told you."

"Oh my god, stop," Dream pleads, thrusting a finger into George’s side, met with retaliatory talons as George captures the invader within his grasp as a punishment and not at all because he lost balance. 

Amidst the textual maelstrom the chat is, certain phrases now materialise: ‘bedrest,’ 'back to bed,' 'doctor,' 'shot,' 'butt,' 'boyfriend,' 'hoodie?'; particularly: 'Dream's hoodie' — 'sitting,' 'lap,' 'that shirt?' The 'smile shirt?' 'DNF. DNF is real.' '💚💙' 

Huh? 

They are conversing in hieroglyphics, he swears. Of course their fans are little geniuses, makes sense.

He figures his best bet is to ignore all of it for now. The enigma of 'dnf' demands his attention; he really needs to google that. There’s a baffling fuss over him wearing Dream’s shirt. Why are they freaking out about him wearing his husband’s shirt? If it’s Dream’s, It’s Georges anyway until someone physically shows George a prenup and he tries to rip it to shreds.

It’s not like there's cum on the shirt, that’s why he changed in the first place.

"Aoch," Dream snaps, wringing his hand out of Geroge’s punishing claws. "Did you need something?"

"I’m hungry," George asserts. 

"... So? Cook? Order something?"

"No." Is he stupid? Shouldn't this be evident? "Feed me." 

Dream's derisive little laugh falters into a choked amusement, moisture glistening in his eyes as he holds it back. "Chat, you heard that right? Wow. You get to witness George entering his baby-bird arc. What? Do you need me to chew it too?" 

"Wha- Wh-What does that even mean? Dream! Disgusting," he bites out at Dream, squaring his jaw.

It doesn't sound so bad actually.

"Well, guys – I guess I have to go and feed George," Dream declares with a shrug. "I’ll tell you about that song another time… probably. Blame the British boy for ignoring bedrest." 

Said boy wants to stay and chat to chat but is also so hungry he will die. There's also a special kind of power in knowing Dream will abandon anything to feed George. He smiles at the camera vindictively, thinking, ‘That’s right. My husband. Mine. What are you going to do about it? Nothing. You can do nothing. Take it-’

Wait, what song?

"What the heck are you two doing? Canoodling? You’ve been doing some lovey-dovey nonsense lately," Sapnap's voice chimes in. Dream swivels the chair to include him in the frame, prompting George to shuffle his feet in mini steps and hold on to keep pace all embarrassingly.

George exhales audibly, then deftly positions his thumb between his forefinger and middle finger. "Oh, look who's here, Slutnap! It’s your long lost nose!  I found it in my business! How did it end up there?" 

Sapnap strides over, gripping George’s thumb with less than gentle intent. It hurts. "AOUCH! Domestic abuse! I’m on bedrest! I’m on bedrest, idiot! Bedrest, you moron!" George roars inches from Sapnap's face. "I’m on BEDREST! I'm supposed to be resting!" 

"Oh yeah? Well, where’s your bed then? Should have thought about that before – before you… were acting all stupid and shit." 

Getting Snapman to see reason feels like trying to teach calculus to a particularly dense platypus.

"Believe me, I wish I could-" George gasps, grappling with Sapnap's efforts to shove him backward with a sardonic smirk aimed at his aggressor and little giggles treacherously escaping him as he tries to look mean. "I wish I could-" As Sapnap's vigour wanes slightly, George offers a derisive shake of his head right in the other’s face.  "-but I don't want to." Sapnap thrusts him forcefully into Dream, and although his stone-made husband doesn't budge, because George only gets the best quality, it does elicit a wince from George as he feels the sting in his side, a burgeoning constellation of bruises. 

Opting for Plan B, George seizes Dream's shoulders and spins the chair like he's in a high-stakes game of musical chairs, his toes anchoring him to the ground as if his life depended on it. The chair becomes a barrier between himself and the ferocious threat, his husband caught in the crossfire of domestic dispute. 

"BEDREST! Dreeeeam, save me!" A shriek escapes George's lips, surely audible to the neighbours, who might soon mistake it for a house cat in distress. Sapnap, undeterred by George’s antics, attempts to hoist George's leg. "Save me!" George wails again. Yet, his husband proves as traitorous as when he went up in flames after he made George cum, pushing him upward in a struggle. 

"Nick," Dream interrupts, stalling the fight.

Nick what?

Dream covers his own mouth with his hand, leaning away from George and stage-whispering, "I’m on your side but like…” He throws a thumb up in George’s direction. “-he’s got a concussion." 

Oh… he’s Nick. Of course this gremlin’s name would mean ‘steal.’

"Duh! That’s why he’s doing all this shit, going haywire channelling his inner villain – because he’s all of a sudden evil and he thinks he can get away with it."

Dream continues his damn pep talk. "You can evoke any revenge you want in like… a month. Listen – You'll have a full month to just plot your revenge."

"Oh you best believe I’m making a fucking epic list. Count your days George!"

George nonchalantly shrugs."Fine by me." Dream is tricking the imp, surely.

With a gentle push, Dream assists George back onto his feet, his palms clapping theatrically in front of the camera once George is off him. "Alright chat, that's a wrap for today's thrilling episode of domestic catfights," he declares, wrapping up the livestream. 

"BYE STREAM!” George screams. “BYE!” Then when he’s sure Dream has ended it, he turns to his husband. “That was lame," he huffs.

"Couldn't agree more," Sapnap nods on his way to the door, as if he's exiting a theatre they put on just for him, disappointed by the dull play.

"Actually, you know what? I changed my mind. It is the single most genius line of comedy I’ve ever-”

"Oh shut up!" Sapnap holds his fist out in the air all threateningly like George doesn't have a personal bodyguard at his convenience. George smiles, revealing teeth like a Cheshire cat… cat who got the cream, waiting for ‘Nick’ to fuck up. But sure enough, he lowers it when Dream comes around the corner. "Why the fuck are you wearing Dream’s hoodie by the way?"He huffs out in utter defeat.

"Eh, why not?" It's the most casual thing. Snapcap acts like he didn't do that before too – the black one. 

"Oh, we’re stealing each other's clothes now? Okay. Guess laundry day will come less often."

"I dare you to reach your grubby little hands into our basket, then they’re free game… and I am armed, I have two."

Strapon doesn't even laugh at George’s genius joke. "What basket? What does that mean? Dream?" 

"Yes, Dream," George turns around in a flourish, reaching for his beloved. "You’ve promised me food. Chop Chop," he demands, clapping his hands and playfully directing Dream towards the kitchen. "Time's a-ticking, let’s go."

“You're the one who usually cooks,” Dream says.

“Don’t feel like it.” Can’t remember how.

"Ou-Oh," Sapnap mocks, weird sound – but okay. "I’m George. Dream – bow down at my feet and kiss my ass."

Jokes on him, George would love that.

𖤓 ☾

Replete and content, George's day has involved a satisfying amount of nagging directed at his husband. He’s just gotten out of his office, having exchanged discord messages with someone named badboyhalo, who, by the way, is the least bad-boyish bad boy George has ever had the pleasure of speaking to. Meaning – super cute and have some expert husband advice up his sleeves despite Geroge barely cluing him into the situation. He tells George about Skeppy, who George assumes is Bad’s husband. He talks about how the little things matter, about communication and expectations and it’s actually helpful. George was originally going to ask him how to get his husband to fuck him but that might just ruin the vibe.

Of course, his memory is as slippery as a bar of soap in a kiddie pool, and it's particularly frustrating when he can't recall the people he's formed connections with.  The girls, Sylvee and Hannah, sometimes also someone named puffy – are so sweet, funny and easy to talk to, that George feels bad for the first time. He’s ashamed he can’t remember them because they’re worth remembering.

Currently, he's lounging on the sofa, seemingly entrapped by a Netflix show that – while once maybe was comprehensible – the characters could just as well only be repeating the line ‘what the fuck,’ and it would be just as comprehensible. Actually, that would be more entertaining. He thinks he’s got the gist of it, then someone says some weird shit and he’s more lost than when Columbus searched for India. He confides in his feline companion Patches, stroking her soft fur as she cosily occupies his stomach. A shared understanding passes between them, evident in her gentle purring. 

George decides to change the show, planning to free himself from the bewildering narrative. However, his intentions are thwarted by the unexpected intrusion of Dream.

"Why is absolutely everyone and their grandma texting me, including Wilbur and your sister, asking why you’re ignoring them? Why is Ken saying you told him to ‘figure it out himself’ when he asked for some account details?" Dream questions, casting a quick critical eye at his device, suddenly buzzing as if it heard what Dream said. Creepy. "Why is your sister calling me?"

“DON’T ANSWER!” 

It scares Dream, evidently. He’s standing shock-still in the middle of the living room. George clears his throat and adopts a nonchalant tone, replying, "Uhmm… I don't know where it is – Dream." . The Netflix show suddenly gets enrapturing, eye-catching.

Dream's eyebrows arches in incredulity, disappearing under that mop of hair like they’re trying to touch the ceiling. "You're telling me your phone managed to disappear without you noticing? That you don’t know where your phone is? What, are you playing hide and seek? Are you sure you’re not braindead? Like, who is operating you?"

George shoots him a deadpan look. “HAHA. Nope.” The 'p' pops. “Indeed, that's precisely what I'm saying. Taking a phone holiday, baby," he affirms with a cheeky emphasis on the last syllable. "Digital detox."

Dream's scepticism remains evident. "Ba-? Hm?” He shakes his head and raises his eyebrows even further to levels previously uncharted by mankind. "Right after being in the hospital? Really? That's an interesting timing choice, George."

"Really. It’s all about perspective, Dreamy." George drawls, luxuriously stretching out on the couch as if the furniture itself were his throne. His fingers absently graze the nape of his neck as he contemplates his explanation. "Social media is so toxic for the minds of young adults today. I read this brochure at the hospital and it opened my eyes Dream. I’ve been opened."

Dream's sceptical expression remains unchanged despite the hilarious comment. "This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous." 

George's calm veneer shatters when his husband suddenly disappears at a brisk pace, unsettling Patches from her peaceful repose. 

Oh, pickle juice. Fuck, well this is it. Dread envelops George, the moment of reckoning has arrived. 

He frantically rummages through his mental filing cabinet for a plausible excuse to account for his password memory lapse, knowing full well that any explanation will come across as suspicious, let’s be honest here. 

He's acutely aware of the footsteps drawing near again, loud, quick, elephant-ish, heralding the impending confrontation. 

And then, his phone is unceremoniously tossed onto his chest, prompting an involuntary grunt of surprise. "Aoch." The sofa itself quivers and sinks as Dream's considerable form joins him, causing George to slide perilously closer to his husband's side.

With an air of finality, Dream declares, "C’mon. I’ve had enough of this."

George retrieves the phone with measured deliberation, pressing the power button, knowing it’s as futile as climbing into any wardrobe and seeking access to Narnia. The device vibrates with a hint of superiority, like a bouncer at a VIP-club. Which sucks because he probably would have gotten in at a VIP-club.

"Face-id doesn't work," he mutters in mild frustration, nonchalantly tossing the device back onto Dream's lap. In a swift, almost acrobatic motion, Dream intercepts the airborne gadget from the jaws of gravity, sparing it from an unintended rendezvous with the floor or the cryptic recesses beneath the couch.

"... So use the code, idiot?"

George heaves a theatrical sigh, his tone dripping with exaggerated reluctance.  "Ugh … too much work. And it’s all like-" He gestures to the broken screen. “Spider-web-ish. I could hurt myself, you know? You said so yourself at the hospital. Do you want to hurt me?”

"You’re insane," Dream exclaims. Seizing the phone, he proceeds to input a series of numbers – 373260, 373260, 373260 – a sequence that triggers a dramatic widening of George's eyes. Dream's outstretched arm offers the unlocked device back to its rightful owner, accompanied by a bemused proclamation. "Here, princess." 

George stares. 373260. 

Naturally, his husband possesses that intimate knowledge of his phone code. Of course. George feels… not stupid, he’s never ever been stupid, just a little ignorant, like a smidge. He hopes Dream remembers all their bank codes as well because George sure as hell doesn't. 373260.

He goes to answer his mom’s messages whilst Dream watches, if it's so damn important. An unshakeable sense of being under scrutiny looms over him, an invisible gaze he suspects Dream casts in the name of concern but George doesn't like it – regardless.

He taps the conversation with his mom. There's just one message. It says to answer his sister. 

Mom 20.08

Pick up your sister’s calls

There is no prior conversation. Huh. Well… the phone is new, isn't it? Even if it's shred to shit. He goes to check his sister's messages instead.

There's a silent plea in his heart, an entreaty that his mother doesn't call him now because she’d know, wouldn't she? 

A mother would know for a mother just knows.

A realisation clings to George's thoughts. How would he even react if his mom suddenly saw right through him? What course would his actions chart, what script would he follow if she did? He doesn't know what he’d do, how he’d act- 

And then the flashes hit like yarn unreeling before his eyes, rolling down out under the spring in the door and down the stairs from the locked attic.

Moving images, memories – he supposes. They’re swirling like wind around a tree, raising dirt and orange ratty leaves alike. The swings in the garden move back and forth, chains groaning – though he can’t remember the last time they were used, little less oiled. His return to the couch follows the descent of images, echoed by the soft whisper of leaves returning to the earth. 

The flashes pass within seconds.

And as unfair as it is, what happens in seconds - can change your perspective on everything.

He remembers… somewhat. 

To a certain age. 

Not all, most likely not even most, but enough to know some things. He thinks childhood is more a feeling than it is memories anyways.

And he feels enough to know he’s been shaped by certain experiences to just know that not all kinds of love are simple and pure. Being loved is wonderful, a human need even. But there’s a stark difference to knowing you are loved compared to being tucked into bed every night with a kiss by your hairline, feeling it in your bone marrow and every cell that it creates – that you are loved. 

It's not like it was inherently bad either. 

It's a different kind of love, one that's complicated and intricate.

It's not hate, the house isn't burning. 

But it is empty.

It's a sort of waiting. 

A sort of sitting at the bus stop anticipating affection to come. And buses do stop, somewhere down the road, they come and go. You see other people get on and off but the bus you're waiting for never shows up. Sometimes, you see it in the distance. Sometimes it drives by and you think – this time, this time it'll comfort you from the freezing rain and you won't have to walk to where you're going by yourself, to school, to that soccer practise you really want to go to. You'll be helped. It's just enough to keep the hope simmering, but it always passes you by. 

He'd rather it never drove by. 

But hey – if it never did, you wouldn't have the bus stop to shelter you for a moment on your walk from the rain. Maybe the bus driver thinks that's enough. 

Maybe that's how she grew up.

She wore pencil skirts tighter than her skin. There was no skirt fortress he could hide behind, to keep him close and safe and sheltered. She’s never there. Yet contradictory, she also always is because she’s still that voice in the back of his head. Every impromptu thought, every warning, every piece of criticism he doesn't want to acknowledge.

Maybe that’s how she experienced love – growing up. 

But it starved him, and you bite the hand that starves you. Don’t you?

And if you've been starved and are suddenly offered unhealthy food in merit, spread out from end to end of the dining table like a banquet – you don’t pause to question – is this good for me? Should I eat it? If George tries to keep it there, to indulge in something that seems too good to be true, will it eventually rot and leave marks in the wood forever, long after the feast is over. 

She robbed him of life in a sense. He could have been human.

In the garden of his mind, the tree isn't one with its roots deep in nourishing soil, drawing substance from minerals and motherly love. Instead, its roots emerge from a dark river, winding through the mossy clay cliffs that envelop it. The tree is a product of its environment.

And fuck the farmer that birthed it but bless the apples that now grows from it and the birds it houses.

The gravity of his amnesia weighs on him. This time, it’s unlike the overwhelm associated with his online persona or the anxious excitement Dream incites. 

This time it is closer akin to fear. 

He wants to erase the word immediately when it strikes his thoughts because it’s true. And then he wants to erase that too. He knows he's standing on the precipice of a profound journey of self-discovery. 

And maybe he wasn't a monster, just sixteen and cornered. He didn't mean to be cruel, but that doesn't mean he was kind either.

He just never considered that there might be things about himself – he didn't want to know.

Things a mother would not know.

Little less his. 

373260.

He sends his sister a curt 'I'm fine, you don’t have to call’ and immediately quiets the conversation. The lid he shuts upon it is almost as heavy as the guilt he carries for her.

𖤓 ☾

Just like that very same afternoon, the night of George's departure from the hospital once more finds him succumbing to slumber within the comforting cradle of Dream's arms. This time, the journey involves redirecting his nocturnal husband from his late-night studio escapades to the haven of their bed, which means he rolled Dream’s chair through the hallways into their bedroom when he’d finally had enough of the waiting. A transition that takes place around two in the morning. 

Oh, the joys of slumber, the dance of dreams, the snuggle of warmth... or at least that's how George imagined it would be. With the arrival of the next day – however – George's awakening is greeted not by the dawn's gentle light but by a persistent scratching at the door. A grim sense of foreboding washes over him. This is it, he muses, a sombre thought weaving through his groggy consciousness – the sun is shining through the blinds again and the demons have come to drag him down to hell. 

In retrospect, this should have been the initial sign. A red flag the size of a mediaeval battle standard. His mind's eye knew the torture awating him. The absolute suffering that would soon befall him.

When he eventually comprehends that the source of the disturbance is none other than an angel – Patches, the cat's pitiable meows amplifying his own internal discomfort, George endeavours to extricate himself from the captive embrace his giant husband's giant arms have unwittingly formed. However, any semblance of relief is swiftly obliterated. He gets absolutely fucked. 

No, not in the way he wants to.

The bruising that had been subtly manifesting the previous day has now fully matured into an intricate tapestry of purples and blacks. Even the slightest movement rips his insides to tatters, and let's not even discuss the ordeal of attempting to sit. He is maybe… just maybe – starting to understand the whole ‘bedrest needed’ mandate thingy.

Alright, perhaps he's slightly melodramatic in his assessment. Maybe every once in a blue moon – he has a flair for exaggerating.

Just as the thought hits, he stumbles over some piece of clothing, tensing to regain balance.

Correction – he's most certainly dying. Unequivocally meeting his end. A verdict he entertains as he undertakes a series of mouse-like steps towards the door, grimacing with each inch gained. The door's creaking yawl heralds his entrance, allowing baby-girl to make her triumphant return. George and the door synchronise a duet of whines. Once again, his hidden musical talent shines through.

A trip to the bathroom reveals the full extent of his plight. The light is glaring and sudden, an interrogation spotlight, after the little click of the lightswitch announces it. But even more glaring is the reflection of his wounded side in the toothpaste-spattered mirror. It exhibits a grotesque circular-ish pattern, tinged with deep hues of black. Picasso would love it, he thinks. 

His eyes flicker towards sudden movement, but George has no time to lower his shirt before he’s watching through the dirty mirror how Dream walks into the bathroom, rubbing the tousled slumber off of his face with messy hair George desperately wants to make messier. 

Dream pauses abruptly, hands falling from his face. 

It’s enough to jolt Dream awake, eyes widen, a fleeting spark of concern more instant than noodles. A shot of espresso through his veins, warring a sharp inhale. The bruise is a harrowing visual, George told his husband how he fought vigilantly the day before, battlescar and all, he didn't believe him, his fault. The reaction serves him right. 

"You’re staying in bed today," Dream declares. The dirty-talk potential of that order is saddening but alas, the worrying tone ruins it.

"Make me," George counters, because he can. 

"I will," Dream responds, his tone carrying more of a scolding note than a seductive one. There's a certain tinge of tragedy in that fact.

With a gentle touch, Dream aids in applying the doctor-recommended cream, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across George's ribs as the latter holds his shirt up. The atmosphere – it’s silent and intimate and comfortable. Is this what it’s like, being married?

True to his words, Dream follows through on his declaration, ensuring that George remains practically bound to the bed – again, the potential for other endeavours, inner George is crying! Dream makes him stay there for not just two days, no no no, because leave his husband to be excessive as hell and the neighbour a sheet-tattling little bitch, so nearly five days… and a half! 

Yet, the experience isn't as terrible as one might expect. Together, they share moments of leisure, indulging in Netflix and youtube binges, the cream application ritual, and timely reminders for painkillers.Dream is a diligent caregiver, attending to George's needs with unwavering dedication. He delivers meals, alternating between heat pads and cold compresses. He even fetches ice for his cola without hesitation, unlike last time. He displays tenderness in stroking back George's hair while tending to the bandage on his temple, his fingers tracing a soothing path down his spine, punctuated by a tender kiss on his shoulder when he believes George to be asleep. George pretends to sleep a lot … for completely unrelated… reasons. He only really protests when having to rise so Dream can make the bed in the morning. 

Cloaked in their hoodies, George immerses himself in the warmth of their bed, savouring cups of hot chocolate lovingly prepared by his butler, ahem – attentive partner. He learns things, well relearns them, he presumes. They embark on a journey of reminiscence, with Dream recounting tales of his childhood while George unearths fragments of his own. Some match, some really don’t.

It’s weird. They’ll be lounging in bed, window open, with fresh, yet windy and surprisingly heavy cold air coming through like it will start to rain, and just as George is thinking about the weather, Dream will drop an anecdote and all of a sudden George is acutely aware of the fact that he’s not just George’s husband. He’s this whole complex person. He took his first steps one day, ate waffles for the first time and probably played a lot in those – admittedly a little dangerous – MC-donalds playgrounds. Dream has a relationship with his siblings just the same as George has one with his sister, as long and intricate. Dream has picked out the colour of his childhood bedroom. He’s been with other people before George – and all of a sudden he needs to barf. 

He learns things about his husband though, so he can’t really complain. Like how Dream used to say goodnight to the moon. George always loved basking in the sun, like a cat. Loved summer and burnt sugar. He hated winter, he thinks, from what he can see through the springs in the attic of his mind. Those very few memories. In a strange twist, George finds himself more captivated by Dream's narrative than his own. He wants to watch the videos Dream have of his childhood, skip to the next one rather than say whatever he got a glimpse of through the attic door, so he keeps quiet.

Dream leans back against the pillows behind them and hums, looking at the ceiling like he’s thinking hard before saying, “Being an older sibling is like… like they’ve never known a life without me, you know? That’s so weird,” Dream says, looking over the old videos of his childhood.

George scoffs, that took him a whole five seconds to figure out? “Wow, did you just figure out how time works?” He laughs, biting down on his lip when Dream gives him a deadpan look, shifting across the sheets to skip to the next video when Dream grabs his hand. Somehow, by some miracle, George’s husband has figured out the way to trap him in time is to just hold his hand.

“Shut up. I mean like… things my parents did with me, they didn’t do those with my younger siblings because they learnt somehow and it should make me bitter, but I’m grateful. I’m grateful they didn't get yelled at or shamed as much, even if I do love my parents, don’t get me wrong, it just takes time and effort to be gentle. And now… if something happened to our parents, my siblings wouldn't have to worry, you know – I’ve got them. Financially at least.”

“That’s nice.” 

With that heart, Dream would sink in water.

“Yeah,” he sighs and smiles to himself whilst George just… looks at his side-profile lit by the cold lighting from outside. The only sound to currently be heard is the bird-chitter and there’s a thumb stroking over his palm. “My sister almost fell when she was like three – from the top of the stairs and I know she doesn't remember it but I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.” 

With that heart, Dream will pull them both down to the middle of the earth. 

“They’re your siblings, of course you love them.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know the name of any of their friends, haven't even met them. I don’t know their favourite colours anymore. Shouldn't I?” Dream turns to look at George floundering – patiently, with a little sadistic smile.

“I… I don’t think that’s the important part, no . I think that if what you do feel for them is pure and real and your conversations and actions towards each other have meaning , you don’t have to know those things. Sometimes, when you love someone, the best thing to do is step away, even.”

“I guess…” He looks like he’s thinking about it. “Thanks.”

Some day later, Dream strokes a lock of hair behind George’s head and says, “You know, when we first met I think I had both a god-complex and was so enraptured by you, you turned into this pedestal-placed thing I couldn't reach.” 

It’s said like a joke, like it’s supposed to be funny but George doesn't find it funny. When his eyes fly open he can’t see Dream but he swears if there was a smile on his face when he said it, he would have heard the octave change.

“What does that make me? A super-god? A god of gods?”

“I guess, yeah.”

Sleep eludes George that day.

One afternoon, they’re once again lounging in bed. A day when Dream finally isn't so extremely busy as he always is. God, people are trying to steal his husband, George swears. It’s like they haven't gotten the memo. He is taking full advantage of it, keeping him captured with his limbs, breathing in his scent and dictating where his free arm should lay across George’s hip, stroking Dream’s necklace. It’s a nice reminder, he thinks. People should take note, bring out their pen and scribble down ‘this one’s married,’ and scurry along. 

Dream is looking at something on his laptop. George glances down… twitter apparently, and whatever it is makes him sigh heavily. 

“I… I’m just trying to do a good thing and some people spin the narrative – whatever it is I do – and then dream-twitter focuses on the negativity, trying to fight it but it just brings it right back to my timeline and it’s just so discouraging. Like – some things I can ignore, some I can’t and I don’t know which… you know what I mean. I never know if I should acknowledge it or not, because whatever I do, it's always wrong. I don’t know how to be famous, I swear. They should – like – have classes you can take for this shit. And then you have people on reddit like-” 

He’s rambling, so George pushes the laptop onto the floor flippantly with one hand, nothing at all like how a cat might swat a glass of the sofa table or anything.

“George! What the fuck?! I’m getting really tired of that.”

"Yeah? Do something about it. Oh wait, you won't. I'm a baby, remember?"

Before Dream can reach down onto the floor to pick it back up, George dictates his husband’s head to lay on his lap and strokes his hair back. He starts massaging his scalp, which seems to be where the ‘stop the unwarranted accusations' button is located, because he completely melts, like a dog being scratched behind the ear. George files away that little fact in one of the filing cabinets for later.

“Keep talking… if you want. I’m listening.”

He’s not really sure what Dream keeps talking about, what happened or anything, just that it’s important, that it’s plaguing him. That the ordeal warrants tears, though Dream doesn't seem at all ashamed of them, like crying is normal. It’s… surprising. 

George wants to give good advice, but context matters and it’s frustrating, so he settles on what he can offer. “Do you want me to tweet something? Like a ‘your mom’ joke? Distract them for a while?”

Dream looks at him all puppy teary eyed and is smiling like George offered him a place in paradise.

After a few seconds of silence and just looking at each other, Dream mutters, “I don’t know how to deal with the disappointment from people I don’t really know. I used to try and make up for it – with my parents I mean – when they were disappointed – by like… pursuing what I was good at, doing little side-quests basically, getting certificates and doing my best but now… I’m- I’m genuinely scared, George and it’s fucking me up.” 

George trails fingernails down his scalp, down his nape and out onto the back of his arms before repeating the movement. He’s not sure which of them he’s trying to console. He feels lost.

It takes minutes before Dream continues, “I’m so afraid, so paranoid that something from my past – something I no longer am – will come back and bite me in the ass and ruin everything .” 

George freezes, fingers twitching along the locks, shut eyes flying open – because that’s too close to home. He strokes fingers back down Dream’s arms, feeling the hairs, hoping the gesture will get him to stop talking. Willing his hasty nervous fingers to slow down. It does neither.

“Like… some random thing that I said when I was barely a teenager and wanted so badly to fit in. How do I explain that stuff to my family, if it goes public? I’m so pissed that that is how this kind of online fame works. There are people in our kind of business literally streaming when they trick homeless people. They stream antifeminist, racist propaganda and they live on that, on being literal scum and their names are well known, let's be honest. I take one wrong step and I never live it down. It’s… taxing, having to be perfect all the time and then turning around and telling fans they’re perfect as they are. That’s lying.” 

“It’s not lying,” George asserts. “It’s not. I- Listen… I don’t really know how to help. But some people just like the show, they will laugh at your crowning and they will laugh at your beheading. They don’t know you, they don’t care to, Dream.” He tries to lighten the mood, saying, “They are NPC's, filthy little rats. They don’t matter because they can’t think for themself. They will just go with the biggest mass. They’re programmed like that,” with that voice reserved for streaming.

Dream doesn't take the bait.

“But like- my actual fans. I don’t know- like I don’t think people love me for me, I think people love the version of me I’ve spun for them, the part that’s easygoing, that’s easy to love, but there are ugly parts too, they exist, you know them.” 

No, not really. Not anymore. Not yet.

“You don’t have to be any of what you said, perfect or whatever, nothing, you don’t have to be anything with me, just you. I don’t care .”

“I know… I know. Thank you…” Dream turns to lay a kiss on George’s knee and suddenly he feels like a child, because Dream is confessing his fears and George is the one getting frustrated, getting comforted. 

Dream lets George watch him talk to his accountant about taxes and bank-notes with the laptop screen illuminating his face, whilst listening to the rain hitting the windows outside.  He casually shows his husband the not so little numbers beside his account number and George isn't sure which is which, thus has to stifle a choking fit. Jump scare. He lets George watch him fold laundry, send emails, plan trips, videos, music and other projects in bed. Just work, really, George surmises. Except when he helped George transfer stuff to his new… newer phone.

It’s domestic.

Laughter becomes a currency. George has been avidly mastering the art of eliciting hearty wheezes from Dream. Their gazes lock in these moments, because George chases the eye contact, smiling brightly. He doesn't want to miss a single crease beneath Dream’s eyes. Surely – his husband must know that that is his favourite sound. It even makes up for Sapnap’s mosquito voice. 

Well, Sapnap isn't so bad either. It pains him to say, but the scoundrel has good taste in music and Tv-shows and happily watches them with George, making it a mission to get George to laugh. It is turning very hard to remember why he shouldn't, why he didn't trust Sapnap when he comes every day offering different candy as peace treaties. Especially when he tells George embarrassing stories about Dream. When he tells George Dream's real name, by accident mind you, but it still gained Sapnap some points. It’s like they’re having little sleepover, gossiping with sheets over their heads and caramel-pops in their mouths.

Clay.  

It feels weird to think of Dream with that name, weirder to say.

Dream is so honest, eyes like circled mirrors, displaying every part of his soul and it is bottomless and scary. He shares his anxious worries with George and really has no qualms shedding tears. He gives them away freely like they’re not worth gold. 

When the bruise has passed purple and started turning green at the edges, Dream breaks into the bedroom, making George throw his pop-tart into the wall, which he’s about to complain about, loudly, when he sees the panic on his husband’s face.

“What is it?” 

“Fuck, I never should have made the man hunts so meticulously, I’ll never top that concept. I’m over.”

What the fuck is a manhunt?! What married man hunts other men? George would have asked if Dream wasn't hysteric.

He waves his arms to get Dream’s attention because he looks like he’s contemplating jumping out the window. He pulls on his sweatpants when his husband comes withing clawing distance. 

“Look at me!” He demands. “Listen… you’re not done.” Dream looks like he’ll protest, so George raises his voice. “Are you stupid? You have like thirty million subscribers. You’ll never be done. And if you need some brainstorming for new concepts… you have me and I have a very vivid imagination that… sometimes gives me actually good stuff. We’ll figure it out, one day at a time.” 

That’s been working for George, hasn't it?

“Yeah. You’re right,” he slowly admits, arms coming down from trying to rip his hair out. “You’re always right, aren't you?”

“Well, a wise man once said so.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

There’s this nook – inside the house in George’s mind. It’s in the basement, where feelings like that reside. Things that are raw and brutal and splintered, things that evoke that kind of panic. It’s in a pile with a stick-it note on top, things not to burden Dream with, it says. 

Occasionally, George leans in for a kiss, tender, grateful pecks. Thank you – they say – because those words are difficult to articulate. However, he's become attuned to Dream's hesitance, the way his husband accepts the gesture but refrains from returning it in kind. It's as though George is made out brimming hot and cracking porcelain and Dream is scared to death he’ll get burnt. 

Physically – he stays frustratingly elusive.  

George yearns to lay beneath Dream’s body, crushed into the mattress and ensconced in safety. But the path to such rightness is paved with pain, a diversion that would only slow his healing. Yet, even if he were to tread that path, a nagging doubt persists – a suspicion that even that might fall short of satiating his hunger. He envisions a scenario where he could press their forms so tightly that he could crawl into Dream's ribcage, chaining himself in with an unbreakable padlock. 

This is not the type of feelings he was expecting waking at the hospital, finding out he’s married. 

It’s turning kind of aggressive, kind of obsessive, kind of possessive and brutally beautiful in its honesty.

It skins him.

It’s as if these flower seeds were planted in the garden of his mind the second he saw Dream, waking up. Each one is blooming. Yet, despite how they make life in that haunted house bearable, George has started coughing up petals. Delicate and agonising, they hurt making their way up and they hurt making their way down. 

Still, he swallows them back down. 

He doesn't care if they don't belong in his lunges. They are meant for that symbolic flower bed in the garden. For the slender vase gracing his bedside. For the one sitting on that table where Dream’s name is roughly engraved, where George waits patiently. 

In all its intensity, in its complexity and yearning... it’s still everything.

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

He has survived almost a week of bedrest, and one fine morning thereafter, George decides to try his hand at meditation, aiming to unlock the treasure trove of memories that might be lurking in the dark corners of his mind. He is on a quest to pry open the sealed shut doors in the hopes of unlocking memories locked away, armed with nothing but a candle and a cushion. He is ready to negotiate a peace treaty with his own neurons.

Predictably, it doesn't work. 

He only gets mocked for his effort. 

He's sitting cross-legged – attempting inner peace – when in strolls Sapnap, grinning like the cat that got the cream, and blurts out, "Namaste?" in the most idiotic tone conceivable, as if he’s auditioning for the role of ‘Enlightened Surfer Dude.’ 

Sapnap joins him for breakfast. Their banter flows as it has any other ordinary Tuesday morning, flows like the monsters they drink. Well, George has thus far only lived one Tuesday he can actually remember so Snapmap is still somewhat of a mystery to be a little wary of. He could attack at any point.

They banter like it is a sport, but George is right now not at all interested in Sapnap’s disgusting debate on who can burp the alphabet the fastest. Stretched out on the floor before the TV, both George and Patches roll around in cathair, which he’s occasionally spluttering out of his mouth as he engages in a screaming match with Sapnap. That idiot must know he’ll never win. 

Baby-girl hunts his hand once he finds a little toy-mouse under the table that he flails around wildly. Meanwhile, Patches turns into a feline ninja, stalking it under the table and making dashes like she is in an intense sword fight, sizing up her prey before making her daring leaps over George’s form. Occasionally, George will rise from his comfortable spot to snag a piece of toast from the sofa table, perhaps dropping a crumb or two for Patches, maybe big crumbs, but not if Dream asks.

"Are you gonna irl-stream in Paris?" 

He’s going to do what and where? Paris?... George was momentarily baffled, trying to recall any involvement he had in planning a trip to Paris. 

Well, he did catch a glimpse of Dream emailing some accountant about booking a trip and navigating hotel websites with practised ease. But mostly, inner George must add, he saw his big fingers moving so fast and elegantly across those keys, dancing expertly. 

He glances at Sapnap, his response carefully measured.… "Yes?" he replies, satisfied with the nod he receives. He thinks he passed an exam he didn't study for. "When’s the flight again?"

Sapnap gave him a clueless shrug that could rival a scarecrow's indifference. There’s a certain resemblance to one as well, and it would certainly explain the stick up his ass. 

"I dunno, ask Dream." 

Of course, perfect. Sapnap's reply is so enlightening that George feels like he's been handed a life-changing revelation by the Oracle of Delphi. Truly, Sapnap should get his own Ted-talk. Whenever he asks anything about Dream or their history he either replies 'shouldn't you know?’ and George is forced to justify his inquiry, or he just goes ‘find out for yourself, what am I, your slave?’ A perfect example of how informative his best friend can be. Walking book of all white pages.

"What's the thing you're most looking forward to in Paris?" he queries, though in his mind, it translates to 'What the fuck are we going to do there?' 

Sapnap squints like he's trying to decipher an alien language. George wonders what the gremlin’s home planet is called. 

"What are you? One of those cringe movie interviewers? I don’t fucking know – meeting our friends and fans, like always. Same old."

George huffs in frustration. "Well what do you know?"

"Definitely more than you." 

True… Unless Sapnap was born within the last seven days, which is entirely debatable.

With an exhale, George shifts his attention to his companion, Patches, whose eyes seem to convey this look like ‘get a load of this guy.’ I know right? He thinks. George wholeheartedly agrees.

“You know – you can sleep in my bed too, if you need someone to look over you, I mean.”

“Why would I ever do that?” George questions.

“Wow, you’re still such a bitch.”

The bruise on his side has turned purple, fading in green-yellows at the corners. The pain at his temple has subsided, which prompted him to carefully peel away the last bandage a morning some days ago. He absentmindedly inspects the healing scab with his fingertips and determines they’re healing well.

Sapnap's voice interrupts his thoughts, dripping with a teasing edge. "You’re such a fucking liar dude, battlescar ? Nether portal , really? It’s a scratch, it’s – like  – barely visible. Like the ones I get from Patches. Definitely won’t go down in any history book. Maybe Guinness world records for stupidest man on rollerskates."

George grins vindictively and turns towards the cat, cupping her face and cooing. "Did you hear something, patches? It’s like there’s this tiny person trying to talk to me in this really high frequency."

A chuckle escapes Sapnap's lips. "Oh – you wanna open this debate again? Yeah? We both know I’m taller than you dude. I don’t even know why you're bringing it up again. It’s like you want to hear you're smaller. Do you have a size-kink? Are you a size-king? Are the truthers right, huh?" 

George pouts his lips in a ‘none of your business manner’ and stares him down. No way this scoundrel is taller than George. 

"Look at me-" Nick says, using two fingers to motion an ‘I'm watching you’ gesture. "-and know George… three weeks left. Twenty one days, less – until I evict my grand revenge."

"Oh no, I'm trembling in my mismatched socks. I’m so scared, I’m shivering timbers. I’m so scared, I’m shivering like a Chihuahua, Sacktrap. What are you going to do?" he huffs. "Use a toothpick as a sword? A fork? Are you tall enough to lift it? It’s like this giant trident next to you. Oh my god – King Neptune, is that you?" 

His words are cut off by an unexpected slimy impact on his arm. 

"WHAT THE! WA-! SAPNAP! WHAT!? DREAM! I’M BEING ATTACKED!" He contorts his arm, feeling like a dog chasing its own tail whilst attempting to catch a glimpse of the culprit, only to be greeted by a most disgusting sight.

"YOU THREW TURKISH YOGHOURT AT ME?"

"It’s Greek, bitch baguette."

“Wha-?”

It’s thick and seeping into his T-shirt and Patches is trying to partake in the mess, jumping up at him to lick it off and cat-hair is getting stuck like he’s made of velcro and it’s sooo gross. 

Deciding to channel his inner maturity, he settles on an action that any responsible adult would take.

He quickly clenches the toast on his plate with a vise-like grip, melted butter oozing between his fingers as he surges to his feet with lightning-Mcqueen speed. 

And oh… There it is, there’s that fear George revels in, dancing in Sapnap’s eyes. That – ready to bolt – activated sympathetic nervous system – tenseness in his limbs.

"You wouldn’t fucking dare." Sapnap warns, his voice a low growl.

George takes a step closer and it looks like the dumbass is going to try and flee, scrambling upright, tensed and poised. But instead of bolting, Sapnap snatches up a handful from the bowl of yoghurt, his fingers curling around the creamy concoction, ready to launch it like the world's creamiest, most disgusting snowball.

" You wouldn't dare," George repeats.

"I think we both know-" 

His taunt barely escapes his lips before George springs into action. Seizing the initiative while Sapnap is caught up in words, wasting energy talking – he launches his attack. 

"AAAHH!" he screams.

He grabs Sapnap's yoghurt-hand, attempting to twist it away while thrusting the butter-drenched toast towards his opponent's face. But the little ant proves agile, retreating into the couch cushions and using a knee as a makeshift barrier, thwarting George’s advance… Which only makes sense since ants can carry way above their body-weight, and obviously, this guy is part ant, part yoghourt-slinger.

"OKAY! George peace, dude. Dream will kill me if I hurt you. Peace! Peace, dude – Switzerland, okay?" 

"Okay… yeah," George feigns agreement, a wry nod punctuating his words, only to execute a masterful bait-and-switch manoeuvre. Swiftly, he seizes Sapnap's knee, manipulating it to create an opening, then smears the buttery toast across Sapnap’s face and thus also turning him and the sofa alike into a buttery work of art. "SIKE!" 

"Motherfudger!" 

George’s move must not have been as surprising as he planned, since it's very swiftly followed by a retaliatory slap. A wet, yoghurt covered hand collides with George’s face. Like a pancake landing on a hot griddle.  

"How do you like that, huh?" Sapnap jeers, his laughter mirroring the victorious twinkle in his eyes as George steps back to wipe his own eyes dry with the back of his hands. 

"What the fuck? What the hell is wrong with you?" Dream's voice pierces the yoghurt-butter-scented battlefield as he stands in the doorway.

"He started it!" Sapnap’s unprovoked accusation echoes through the room, a finger jabbing in George's direction. What a treacherous move, throwing blame like a grenade… What a fucking slithery snake.

"He THREW yoghurt at me!" George explains, entirely justified and expecting a dramatic gasp and swift rescue.

"Okay?" Dream's response is nothing short of nonchalant, the air of a referee dealing with squabbling children. George is baffled.

"So… make him pay!"

Dream's eyes roll skyward. "Oh c’mon. Wha- Well, what do you want me to do? Ground him? Disclaimer – I’m not his dad. I think you’ve got this, you’re the one who keeps locking the fridge anyways." 

He does what? Since when did fridges have locks? Why won’t Dream fight his battles for him? George collapses onto the couch beside Sapnap, exhaling a dramatic sad sigh as he inspects his buttery yoghurty fingers and feeling the sticky shit on his face. He’d much rather get messy with Dream than Sapnap and not in this way. Life is so hard.

If this is what mornings are like in this parallel universe, he's filing a complaint with 

the Multiverse Homeowners Association.

"It’s probably good for that puny scar anyways," Sapnap taunts. "People make like – you know – facemasks out of yoghurt and shit, I should probably add some honey, really-" 

"SHUT YOUR DISGUSTING MOUTH."

Inside his mind there’s this game where he’s catapulting Sapnap into a polar bear's picnic, kind of like angry birds but so much more satisfactory.

𖤓 ☾

"Shower with me," George demands – correction, he strongly suggests. He yanks the offending – sticky icky shirt over his head, struggling with the fabric that seems intent on clinging to his skin as if it's in a lifelong commitment. Like it's a frenemy determined to stick around in his life… like Sapnap. 

He can't see much with the shirt over his head, but the choked inhale-sound his husband makes sends a spike of curiosity through him. What happened? After a series of acrobatic moves, he finally frees himself from the shirt's grasp and deposits it into the laundry basket in the bathroom. Panting lightly – he surveys the scene – half-expecting a disaster. 

Nothing seems out of place. Maybe it's the bruising that caught his attention again?

"Ehm… I- I already did. Do you need help- like do you need help showering?"

"No, but-"

"Okay, bye," Dream's curt reply comes as the door starts to close, but he pauses before it shuts completely. "Have fun in there!"

George blinks, a cynical looking man staring back at him from the mirror. Is Dream fucking seriously enforcing this two-week ‘no dickwetting’ bullshit? The ‘no intimacy’ rule? Does he genuinely believe George is that delicate? His brain is big, lots of stuff holding it down, it’s really no worries. And is Dream actually so down bad for George he thinks he can’t stop himself from jumping his husband, sparking some uncontrollable passion, if they just shower together? A smirk creeps onto the man in the mirror's lips, his eyes glinting mischievously. 

Seducing him will be easy.  

Oh Dream, Dream, Dream. He has absolutely no clue what he’s getting himself into – depriving George of essentials like S-tier sex.

𖤓 ☾

"Take a drive with me," he declares, his hair still in the process of transforming from a drowned rat to a stylish mop as he massages it with the towel, and then dramatically collapses onto the bed next to Dream, snooping on his husband, who's on his phone scrolling through his youtube-subscription page. This time, it's not a suggestion; it's an edict. The shower has left him with a cosy warmth, wrapped in comfortable clothes that are most likely not his own, given the limited wardrobe space that was likely already struggling when he moved in, or so he’s guessing, since most of his own clothes were stored in the storageroom. Well… then it does make sense.

"Where?" Dream inquires, sitting up and glancing out of the window. "It’s gonna rain again, probably. Then it’ll be gone for months, probably. We can do whatever you wanna do in a few days. Plus, you’re recovering." He's right, The clouds are throwing shade, quite literally; they’re grey and the sun seems to be on holiday. It’s quiet except for the distant whistling of the wind outside, which, by the way, has been having a full-blown tantrum against the American paper houses for days. It seems they are not built for such weather, judging by the tumultuous whistling that pierces the air. George was under the assumption that Florida was all about sweltering heat, yet the past couple of days have seen more rain than expected. False advertisement. Though oddly, it feels comforting – like – a taste of home that he's soaking in before the inevitable months of sun. 

"Mh… No, we’re going somewhere, anywhere, nowhere in particular. Who cares, it rains, so what? I'm starving, Dream, and I need to escape these walls," George asserts, “I heard one speak yesterday. It told me to stab you, so really, it’s in your best interest-”

"Oh my god,” his husband interrupts, grinning. “There won’t even be fresh air in the ca-"

"Dream," he sighs, the corners of his lips curling into a playful smile.”I really need to.”

His husband is helpless against it. "Okay, fine ," Dream concedes. "Let me grab my keys."

"I’ll get them," George says, his grin widening as he hops off the bed. Smiling and running out the room because he wants to be a dutiful, helpful husband – and not because he threw them in one of many non-used kitchen drawers when Dream wasn't looking.

𖤓 ☾

One moment, George stands in the garage, an aura of anticipation enveloping him as he strokes the glossy red lacquer of his husband's Tesla, sporting a green Louis Vuitton fur jacket that's nothing short of a flamboyant statement and of course, not to mention the likely small fortune resting on his clavicle in the form of wedding jewellery. Quite the flex, isn't it? 

And then, in a blink, he's ensconced in a different kind of luxury than his jacket, comfortably nestled and buckled in a plush white leather seat, his shoes discarded like mere plebeian accessories, his legs resting with casual nonchalance on the upholstery. He watches with a mix of fascination and amusement as Dream maneuvers the vehicle with a nonchalant swagger that says, "I've got this," one hand on the wheel and his neck arching to ensure a clear view at crossroads. His eyes consistently find George's gaze each time he does so, as if he's checking to make sure he's still there, not lost in the luscious leather.

There's an undeniable air of contentment about George, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips that he doesn't bother to conceal.

Curiosity gets the better of Dream. "What’s up?"

George's response comes with a carefree chuckle. "Nothing, I’m happy," he replies. “-I mean I’m happy not to be on bedrest anymore,” he quickly adds.

"Yeah, well… me too.”

“Wow, is me almost dying a burden, Dream?” he teases.

“I didn't say that.” Dream ignores the question. “So, what do you feel like eating?"

"Hm…" The life-old question; sushi or pizza? After a brief internal debate, he reaches a verdict. "Get me good pizza. Not the thick doughy American stuff. Please, and thank you."

"Okay."

" Not dominos." 

Thick ass – ‘thin crust,’ bullshit, he thinks.

"Okay – Princess," Dream responds with a conspiratorial twinkle. 

George huffs at the nickname but doesn't bother fighting his husband on it. He doesn't have the energy, he reasons… or something like that. 

A light drizzle commences its delicate dance against the windowpane. Just a plicker-placker against the window and those slender rivulets trace their path with a graceful urgency. They look like they want to tell him something, etch a message in their liquid script. The air in the car is warm but clean and brisk, a refreshing contrast to the muggy Florida climate. The air that hits him as soon as he opens the car door after Dream parks the car at some very small corner shop slash basement-esque esc pizzeria that seems to have sprung from the earth, is a different story. 

The climate takes an abrupt shift. It’s humid and it would be warm but the northern wind is fierce and unrelenting, and with it follows whipping rain. It literally snatches George's breath from his very lungs mid-inhale, holding it hostage, refusing to return it until several heartbeats have passed. 

But then there’s Dream, emerging through the water in front of him like some modern-day Poseidon. His back serves as a protective shield against the rain's onslaught, and he takes charge, his voice resolute, "You'll get wet and then cold and uncomfortable and complain to me the entire time." 

Well yeah, it sounds complaint worthy, George thinks. 

Dream’s fingers deftly tug at George's jacket zip while his tongue plays at the corner of his lips in concentration. He gazes down through errant strands of hair, wet and tossed by the wind, watching as Dream expertly secures the jacket around him, zipping it all the way up. 

George’s gaze gets stuck on his husband’s lips. His brain feeds him snippets of information, and he bites into them like a hungry wolf. 

He bites them, George’s brain supplies clumsily… Dream does… His lips, that is – his own lips… unfortunately. 

George can see it, faint discolorations mark the spots where some skin seems to have gone missing.

"C’mere George,” Dream beckons, gesturing for George to follow him toward the shelter of the pizzeria. 

A conjurer of safety, inner George suggests. 

The dismissive gesture takes a surprising turn as George strides forward, fingers entwining with his husband’s. Oddly, Dream almost jumps out of his own skin like George is about to drag him by the hand into hell. A skittish reaction, which is weird because he doesn't seem like the type to not want to be affectionate in public, George muses. A quick squeeze, an apology expressed through touch follows, and George is allowed to take refuge behind Dream's sturdy shoulder until they reach the door of the pizzeria. The tinkle of a bell announces their arrival, a melodic prelude to the scents that suddenly envelops them – oregano and newly baked bread and all else is a heavenly cocktail of scents. 

"What do you want?" Dream turns to ask, holding the door open for George who fiddles with his newly freed fingers.

"Eh… just a margherita."

"No tomatoes, right?" 

"What kind of caveman puts tomatoes on a margherita pizza?"

Dream's gaze becomes a study. "Did you forget?" he asks, twitching his head confusedly, like a puppy and that’s very distracting, and magic because whenever he does it, George mimics him subconsciously. "That's like… exactly what you said last time."

"Well… it’s worth repeating," george quickly justifies.

Emerging from the pizzeria's back-rooms, a man appears, wiping floury hands on his apron and passing quick greetings. Dream orders for him – "-and one margarita… oh, no tomatoes," because of course he does. Of course his husband would be attuned to this anxious feeling, the bird with flapping wings caged in George’s chest that appears when he needs to interact with strangers. 

Payment becomes a flirtatious exchange. George's practised fond smile and playful batting of eyelashes is a silent language that – if done in just the right way, prompts cheek-nibbling from his husband and garners a lengthy inhale, and that’s just too much power for George not to abuse. 

Dream would, in all likelihood, sprout wings and soar if George so much as whispered the request, riding so close to the currents of sunlight, it would suck his fiery soul out, burn be damned. It is both the most comforting and scariest thing he’s encountered since waking up.

"You can pay for snacks later." 

George nods, biting his lips. No he can’t. This barbie can’t get into his bank account.

They skip dining in, choosing takeaway instead. The cashier asks: "eat here or takeaway?" George doesn't have a wink of time to even think the words before Dream, with uncanny anticipation, says the word "takeaway." He somehow knew George wanted to eat in the car. Sometimes George forgets that his own husband knows him. 

It takes a while, it’s a calm, warm and comfortable silence, fleeting words exchanged – before they’re squaring up to get back out into the rain-storm. With a tangible effort against the pressure of the wind, Dream swings open the shop door for George, a veil of water-laden wind cascading in. The smaller of them hides his head in his jacket as he propels himself forward in semi-sprint. The wind strains against the car door as George struggles to pry it open. Unfailingly, Dream follows close, clutching food in one hand while helping to wrestle with the door using the other. George could have done it himself, but okay. 

The sheer injustice of it though. It’s unbelievably unfair that some people are allowed to be that sexy when they won’t have sex with you for another twenty one days. Illegal practice. 

Forget crimes of passion, this is a crime against passion, he thinks.

The two find themselves in an eerily empty car park, sandwiched between a corner shop and a gas station. While it maintains the illusion of being operational and centrally located; in the heart of the land dominated by alligators and sunshine, the eerie emptiness raises a puzzling contrast. It’s both peaceful and unnerving, because – how shitty of a corner shop do you have to run for that? 

Dream, seemingly having acquired a minor in mind-reading, quips in response to George's unspoken thoughts, "If we walk in, do you think there will be white tape on the floor in the outline of a body?" The wryness of his humour is momentarily obscured as he chews, covering his mouth. 

It’s the first bite of his pizza and then he… moans , food-orgasm like, like he sounds during… yeah – because George knows now. He wants to shove a hand down his own pants or Dreams, doesn't matter, but he’s turned on, red-cheeked and swallowing dry air. 

Still, Dream has the gall to look like George heard anything of that, like his ears haven't filtered out any hint of that sentence. His husband has the audacity to maintain an innocent facade. He counters Dream's lewdness with a sheepish smile, his cheeks adorably plump with cheesy goodness he can’t bother to really taste.

Yes, sure – the pizza is undeniably delectable, but the dickgame is on par. Sue him.

It’s really raining now. Like really really. It pounds against the windows with such vehemence that one might fear the glass could yield. The noise threatens to drown out both conversation and the accompanying music. 

George interrupts Dream’s typical habit of springing from topic to topic like a caffeinated squirrel, and ask-demands, "Tell me about Paris."

"Hm?" Dream chews thoughtfully, his hand flicking the lever to bring his seat back in alignment with George's. After a swallow, he obliges, "Flight is early, like six am early, which means we have to leave at like four – and before you complain, just know, it was either that or like a four am flight. You're probably going to sleep the entire time anyways, so does it really matter? No."

“No-o.” George denies it with a shake of his head, thinking: four am? Great. With a slice of pizza hanging from his mouth like an edible cigar, unbuckles his seatbelt and adjusts the heating.

"Are you cold?" 

"Mh. Maybe a little," George slyly remarks, hoping his husband will warm him up.

Dream brushes away breadcrumbs from his fingers onto his sweats and extends his chest right into George’s face, contorting to retrieve something from behind his chair. He’s totally doing this on purpose, George thinks. Dangling the forbidden fruit. Dumb asshole husband, what a-

"Here," Dream declares, depositing a furry object onto George’s lap. "Your blanket." George offers a tender smile. So they’ve done this before, gone on little dates. Maybe George remembered, maybe it was some kind of muscle memory involved in his demand- asking . Its coming back. It’s fine. It’s good.

"What happens after you have deprived poor me of my sleep, huh? After we land?" 

"I don’t know, we have like – one night and half a day before the first day of the convention. I think there’s this mingle thing. Didn't you read the thing they sent? I thought you said you did. Wait – weren't you the one who told me about it?"

Ah yes, the convention – the one George is quite well-aware of. That particular convention. The one. 

“I don’t remember.” He holds up his hands, shrugs and smiles innocently. At least he’s being honest, right?

"I asked the doctor, she said the recovery time is only a month, with the concussion.”

“I know.” Trust him, he’s counting down the days. 

“Yeah well, she says you're clear to fly after that and when we fly – it will be what?... Like more than one… two months after you fell? The bruises should be gone too so don’t worry."

With a sly grin, George commits the audacious act of pilfering a slice of Dream’s pizza. Because he wants to, not because he’s avoiding the subject.  

"Hey! What the fuck? Eat your own." 

The weird pepperoni concoction proves surprisingly delicious. However, he doesn't understand why everything is so oily though. Was food always this slick and oily? And were the portions always this big? 

Dream pouts, and George finds his misery very amusing before holding up his half-eaten margherita slice in  his other hand, just for his husband to take an exaggeratedly massive bite. 

"Plain," Dream laments.

“Well, at least I won’t get a meat-heart-attack before I’m thirty.”

“You’re almost thirty.”

Oh my god, he’s almost thirty?! But he looks so… twinkish, inner George supplies. No, shut up. He gets thrown out of that house in his mind by Dream’s next puzzling question.

"Do you think we should talk about…?" Dream begins, almost cautiously.

"...About?" George queries, clueless.

Once again, he’s under the microscope of those lilypond-like irises.

 "Guess not." 

Okay, what in the mysterious realm of cryptic conversations was that?

"Is there a special reason why you're only wearing my shirts, by the way?" Dream looks down upon the big T-shirt beneath George’s jacket.

"Huh? It was the first one in the pile, ba-by." 

Dream smiles. “No it wasn't. I sorted them.”

George deflects, not because he was caught in a lie, but rather because it’s a boring conversational topic, and the conversation gets a bit derailed after that. 

"Oh c’mon. You can’t seriously think that Tom Holland’s spiderman is better than Andrew Garfield’s?"

"Duh. The films are better." George shakes his head like duh, dumb bitch.

" Arguably… sure, but he’s not a better spiderman," Dream frets quickly, shaking his head quickly in defiance. "You’re just saying that because he’s british. That’s literally so based – George."

"It’s not, he doesn't even have a British accent in the films!”

“That doesnt matter-”

“Shut up! Let me finish! Listen, we just watched them! You-" he jabs his fingers into Dream’s side with a forceful emphasis, "- laughed! You were practically on the floor!"

Dream ceases his fingers and jerks away from the ticklish onslaught, his laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. "You’re such a fucking liar!"

For such an accusation, George leaves moon-shaped imprints on Dream’s upper hands. "I’m not!” Dream raises an eyebrow. “Embellisher… maybe, sometimes.” 

“You even admit it!”

“Point still stands, dumbass!"

"No, you admitted it. Garfield is superior."

"You’re impossible!" George pops the 'p' in 'impossible' just for the heck of it. "He’s not. The cat Garfield, maybe. This is – such a weird hill to die on Dream… but you know what?” He gets all up in his husband’s face. “At least you’re dead," he taunts, with nonchalant air.

Dream laughs hysterically. "OH! I see how it is. It’s because you think Tom Holland is hot isn't it?" His laughter reaches a fevered pitch as George's bewildered expression fans the flames. "C’mon, admit it. Be honest George. You look like a very guilty fish right now."

"I don’t! Oh my god! Shut up!" It’s so hard to pretend to be angry when laughter bubbles up like popping champagne bottles and you’re play-fighting your husband. "I would never go around calling other men hot." He feels his eyebrows furrowing, the headshake is involuntary, denial at the tip of his tongue, practically written in neon. He gets even closer to Dream to try and mock-intimidate him. "If you did that, I’m cutting something off that sticks out ." 

It’s a joke, of course – certainly not a threat.

Then – in a heartbeat, there's this – sudden, electrifying stillness, as if the universe itself is holding its breath. Dream's gaze becomes magnetic, oscillating between George's eyes and lips. 

And for a fleeting moment, George thinks ‘this is it,’ he’s won. He’s triumphed. Victory feels palpable, within his grasp.

But in the next instant, it's all whisked away as Dream chuckles, as if shaking off an enchantment, and nonchalantly takes his seat again. He turns his attention to the rain-drenched world outside, a world that George has become quite done with after days of incessant downpour. 

Dream dares to look at George like he’s not acutely aware That George is bare naked under all his clothes!? 

George tosses the emptied pizza boxes unceremoniously onto the back seat, delighting in the silent scolding glance that Dream shoots his way. 

"Let’s play a game," George announces with a sly raise of his eyebrow. That’s bound to get Dream’s interest.

" What game?" Dream leans forward.

"Well, guess what, Dream? Today is your lucky day! Woho! You’re so lucky! This will be just like popular netflix-show squid game ," he says in a singsong tone, smirking when Dream visibly cringes. "Sapnap is streaming right now… isn't he?"

"Yeah, I got the notification, with Punz I think… so what?" Dream nonchalantly shrugs, blissfully unaware of what he is about to embark on.

"Here's the deal, Dream . Each of us comes up with a phrase we think Slutnap will say, and whoever's phrase the idiot says first – that person win ."

"Alright," he agrees, sitting up straighter, his confidence radiating like a spotlight. "So what do I win when I win?"

Cocky asshole, George thinks, mentally – and not mentally, very visibly – rolling his eyes at Dream's sudden arrogance. 

"Well, what do you want?" he asks, knowing he has Dream cornered.

Dream suddenly turns to him so quickly – with a breath so deep and an exterior so intense – like… like the answer to that question is bottomless. An endless abyss he's peering into, one he finds in George’s dark eyes. 

Eventually, he decides, "You have to stream some game with me – a game I choose-"

" Okay. " He could have asked for the world, but apparently not. George is bveginning to suspect who wears the brain in this marriage.

"- and – here’s the catch: you have to casually slip in the line.." He interrupts himself with a hyena-sounding laughing fit. "-’guess I’m just a helpless little princess.’ And- and you have to admit – you love me… on stream I mean."

" Deal ," George agrees with a smirk.

"What do you want? Try to come up with something better than that, idiot."

"Don’t worry, I have. If I win…" The corners of his mouth rise conspicuously. "You have to kiss me," he declares, and for a split second, a shocked paralysis grips Dream's smile. Quickly, George tacks on, "- not like I’m made of hot glass."

"Oh c’mon, you know- I’ve explained- you have a-"

" Concussion , yes – trust me, I’ve been told. You never, ever, ever – shut up about it. ‘Sit down.’ ‘don’t shake your brain,’ ‘let me do it,’" George mocks in a perfect husband-voice. "I have a giant brain, there’s lots of stuff in it.” He points to his temple. “It’s anchored by now… trust me."

"That’s not how it works, fuck, you suck. You are the world's biggest sucker."

"Yeah?" George smirks. "You would know."

" Wha -" 

Dream looks like he’s ready to take that statement down a very long road of arguing, and for once, George would like not to, so he interrupts.

"Dream! Are you in, or are you the world’s biggest pussy?"

It takes a few anxiety fueled seconds but eventually Dream breathes out the air he’d been planning on capitalising, not looking at George like he’s ashamed of the answer, and relents "Fine – guess I’m in."

"So… What do you think he’s going to say?"

"Eh, uh – well… fuck, let me think…" Dream's eyes dart to the screen in the middle of the console where Sapnap’s face is soon to appear. "He’s going to say the word ‘ like ’ within the first three seconds – like – in every sentence always ."

That’s such dirty playing, but George hums in acknowledgement. 

"So do you," he can’t help pointing out.

"Well this isn't about me is it?"

It’s always about you, inner George traitorously confides.

"He might not say it, or he might , but he'll definitely be complaining about me shoving bread in his face this morning, regardless . I live rent free in his head, he can’t get rid of me, I haunt him," George asserts, pointing towards his temple again. "I might have set up a whole ritual and everything, maybe. Maybe his dick will fall off within a few days also, actually ." He shrugs his shoulders sheepishly – like – ‘what can you do?’

"Deal." Dream's reaction is all confidence, as if he's got this all figured out, as if George didn't wake up memoryless and still bickering with Sapnap like it’s his personal theme song, his native fucking language. 

"Alright, fine – put the stream on." 

With a few swift taps, Dream brings up Sapnap's stream, his stream thumbnail grinning right at them. 

"Ready, Dream? A deal's a deal, my dear Dreamy. Now, the question is: What pearl of wisdom will our lovely Sapnap grace us with today?" 

His lips love to form those syllables, for whatever reason. Dreamy dream dream.

"Are you? ” 

"Yes, just turn on Sap–... Actually no–" he laughs at his own mistake. 

" What? " Dream wheezes.

George rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"I dunno ..." 

With a few taps, Dream brings Sapnap's stream to life; He presses the square and it loads for half a second before Sapnap's animated antics fill the screen, and there they are, faced with Sapnap's animated alter ego bouncing around in a pixelated Minecraft world. The pov camera flickering and swirling drives George dizzy instantly. 

"What should we do while we wait?" Sapnap's voice rings out from the screen, and George turns up the audio to drown the downpour out. "He pees for sooo long chat, there’s something wrong with that shlong." 

George lets out an amused snort. 

Dream, however, was laser-focused. "Watch closely, George. The 'like' is coming."

“ Shut up , I can’t hear.”

“He’s not even sayi-”

“SHUT UP!”

Then, Sapnap's character continues to bounce around for a few seconds, engaged in parkour antics while Sapnap hums absentmindedly. 

George leans in, let the games begin, he thinks.

Suddenly, Sapnap leans back and shifts his attention to his second monitor, the chat, George surmises and his expression quickly goes blank as he presumably reads the messages. 

"Guys… Stop. I have PTSD for that – for real." 

"So, guys- No, wait- Stop talking about how George violated me filthily with buttery fingers, h ow he lubed me up with buttery fingers. I can still feel it," he exclaims, shuddering dramatically. " You won't believe how it happened this morning. I was just minding my business, and suddenly, I – like – get attacked by a wild freaking… I don’t know – bread bandit . Can you believe it? Bread! I thought – you know – that I was in a bakery for a moment there… and I told you guys that in confidence-” 

And there it was, the golden moment, there we have it ladies and gentlemen. 

"Mhm, maybe I did, and maybe I'll do it again!" George proclaims with diabolical pride, turning to Dream.

That’s it, George can’t believe that actually worked with the beef God’s been giving him lately but – suck it Dreeeeaaam. The unstoppable smirk plays on his lips, and even though he bites down on them to try to contain it, he's pretty sure he still doesn't look a bit coy glancing at Dream. 

"Now pucker up, princess! " he mocks.

“No- okay- wait, he did say like .”

“No.”

“Yes, he literally did,” Dream vehemently insists. 

“No, he-”

“ Yes. ”

Sapnap’s voice is still coming out of the speakers. “-Go scream at him on twitter… George, if you ever hear this, I’m coming for your a- Wait, he's been completely inactive this week? Has he really? He’s just been in bed. The fuck has he been doing then?"

George taps out of the stream; Sapnap isn't exactly sexy-coded. 

“Okay, whatever. He did, maybe.”

“He did.”

“Okay, fine Dream, then we both win.” George shrugs his shoulders.

Now, in the confines of their car, they found themselves locked in an exasperating stare-down. 

" Kiss me ," he insists, and can’t help cringing.

He hates how it sounds; needy, begging, tinged with cold sadness travelling up his spine, but there's no time to mull it over because Dream is already leaning forward. 

Dream's arm shoots up in a rapid motion, presumably aiming for a dramatic hair-tangle, but it overshoots its mark. 

Instead, it made a beeline for George's nearly full can of Red Bull. 

It knocks it over, and George watches, detached with horror, how Dream pulls back again.

"Oh, c’mon! Fuck me," Dream's exclamation fills the car. 

That was the idea, yes, George can’t help but think, and they should get back to that. 

The blurriness the world becomes makes it so he almost can’t see the chaotic scramble that follows; Dream frantically ransacks all the car's different compartments. 

"No tissues left, fantastic," Dream mutters with audible frustration. "Listen, I’m just gonna go in and ask for some paper, or buy it. Whatever."

"Okay," George agrees meekly, a feeling of dread settling in. He’s surprised at the sound of his own voice; the automatic acknowledgement he reserves for Dream. He hears the door open, the sound of rain hitting the asphalt with a vengeance. He jumps slightly, heart skipping, as the door slams shut, leaving him alone with the cold and humid air that seeped in, the smell of rain, and watching his husband sprint into the shop, arm shielding his head from the downpour.

So here he is, waiting.

Of all the trials and tribulations a person could endure, George considers few as torturous as the act of waiting. It reminds him of… It doesn't matter.

What matters is that it feels like- like – if he doesn’t get to have Dream now, get to have this kiss – he’ll lose him. And it’s so stupid, utterly irrational, given that they're married, that they belong to each other... Because they do , they really do, because they’re married.

They really are. They must be.

Yet, feelings can only be felt and every day he wakes up – terrified that someone else will take his place. It’s gnawing. Gnawing on him, the thought of someone else – someday – waking up, being kept hostage by Dream’s arm. Discovering Dream’s kettle laugh like George has for a second time. 

Hiding from it is like – like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a teacup.

So he acts without thought; he doesn't think, just feels – as he thinks he sees Dream stepping out of the shop through the windshield. 

George is opening the car-door with trembling hands, leaving the warmth of the blanket behind. He adheres thoughts when he stands on shaky legs. The blood pumping in his ears is louder than both the icy slicing rain against his exposed face and the door closing. His movements are rushed and driven by purpose, and his feet already soaking wet from the rain-drenched ground. 

Dream is preoccupied, slipping something into his pocket, when George gets close enough to hear how he calls out in confusion, "GEORGE! WHAT THE FUCK! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU-" 

George does not give a single flying fuck about what he has to say about it. 

He propels himself hard into the encompassing shelter of Dream's body. His spine arches with something entirely instinctual to fit them together as he snatches his husband's head down with determination, urging their mouths into a fervent collision. 

He’s half prepared for rejection, for reason, for his husband is a man of it, usually.

Yet, Dream surges with reflexive urgency. His palms find their anchorage against George’s waist, looping around it and fusing their torsos, fusing their hearts – so hard George stumbles into him, puddles splashing his legs. He doesn’t think this is kissing, he thinks this is something primal; the press of lips is bruising, they meld together in a frenzy so fervent, George’s lips don't just tingle, but feel electrified when they leave. 

With heavy breaths, they part, yet they linger, their inhalations mingling. There are seconds, minutes, years – George thinks – an eternity of simply breathing into eachothers mouths, tasting the warm rainwater, sipping the heavens themselves. Their lashes become raindrop catchers, capturing the drizzle that finds a home running across their skin and lastly  – dissolving into their eyes. George is squinting past it, refusing to miss a moment of microexpressions. He watches rain droplets make streams down Dream’s face whilst breathing heavier than he ever has before, not letting loose of Dream’s head for a moment. His fingers trace the watery rivulets that cascade along Dream's temples, a gentle glide that gathers the tears of the sky. With the tender brush of his thumbs, he wipes away the rain from Dream's eyes, revealing pools of clear green lily pad ponds when they reopen. The watery ballet takes its leave from Dream's lashes, cascading down his cheeks, lips and sculpting its course along the contours of his jaw. 

And then, finally , Dream shifts gears, he snaps and in an instance, there’s a big hand stretching across George's nape, spreading like a fan, his fingertips even brushing the curve of George's cheek, positioning his face with the precision of an artist ensuring every stroke of his tongue aligns perfectly when their mouths unite once again. He’s moving, creating the rhythm of that familiar tidal wave. He’s gasping rippling moans into George’s mouth the latter feels himself unwittingly mimicking as response to the vibrations wrecking his body. 

Wet strands of hair lash across George’s skin like the sting of a whip, and it must do the same to Dream’s, but neither object.

He breathes in the cold air between kisses, teeth chattering. 

Even his teeth ache for him.

George's lips become an arena of dual sensations – bitten, bruised, and tingling. He wants them so blue in hue and matching exactly to what Dream does to his own, they’ll mend with Dream’s, become one. His husband’s nose is tracing along George's own with every shift in angle and he tugs George’s hair because at some point, he’s figured out that the smaller gasps and moans every time. He doesn’t like submitting, to anything or anyone else, he quickly realised, but Dream is different, in every regard, for he can’t fucking help doing it or desiring it. 

It's been but a week, the rest is lost in ignorance.

Still, despite it – he feels the pressure of the raindrops like morse code across their skin. 

Three words, eight letters. 

Over and over again. 

The unspoken sentiment that resides in the bedroom of his mind. It’s hidden, beneath sheets of white and layers of dust, but it’s still there and he knows about its existence for it is persistent and demanding, prodding to be recognized.

It could almost be said, he thinks, but George's heart aches, mirroring the chill that punctuates their kisses. If George were to let tears fall, they’d blend seamlessly with the rain, an enigmatic offering that only Dream could taste. Taste the salt they contain like it’s the ripest fruit hanging from the tree.

He could.

If he does, like many other dispositions of his – he’ll never admit it.

Instead, he focuses on the fingers gripping desperately at his clothing; George’s jacket, sweats, thighs, pulling, pulling – seeking purchase, a lifeline, an anchor that propels George to a place where he stands taller than Dream, where he hovers above him like a force of nature. The sensation is akin to floating, a weightlessness that keeps Dream captive, caught – bracketed between his thighs and with George’s hands looped around his shoulders. Feet dangle, suspended in the air, untouched by solid ground. It's a brilliant manoeuvre, genius. One that brings them impossibly closer. The grip of large fingers digging into George's upper thighs, stinging like needles because of the cold rain. 

It’s divine. 

Dream kiss like George is steel and he’s aiming to separate iron from zinc. 

So heavy it makes his spine throb. 

So heavy he almost makes George forget his name again.

There is something god-like in his husband, George thinks, because you don’t submit to a god, you go way past that point, you bare yourself naked and beg for forgiveness at his altar. But then again, George knows himself capable of hallucinating halos where there are sprouting horns.

When the rain-soaked frenzy settles and they retreat back into the shelter of the car, it's as if they've both just been through a car wash – doors flung open, cleansing them from the inside out. 

When they are to drive home, Dream's arm finds its place on George's seat as he deftly backs the car up, and for such a gesture – you fall in love for a lifetime. 

Though heed this, as Kahlil Gibran wrote it: 

        - "If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees."

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

It's a week after the rainy date when more memories start to return. 

He thinks at least. 

George awakens to yet another day, disoriented. His sanity is ensnared by the perplexing grip of yet another bizarre dream. Lately, his nights have been a twisted tapestry of reality and imagination, woven so intricately that distinguishing between the two has become an exercise in absurdity; completely fucking fucked. It’s such fuckery.

One second, dream him is thrust onto a grand stage with several of his friends, and several strangers alike, the spotlight illuminating his bewildered face. And then, in the blink of an eye, the leaves around the tree swirls and the dream changes course, he finds himself engaged in a kiss with his ‘Karl’ friend – what the fuck? Then his ‘Karl’ friend is smooshing everyone else in sight, living his absolute best life. George all of a sudden misses him dearly and he doesn't even know him anymore. 

He’s suddenly covered in weird red heaves like he fell through a forest of burning nestles like a fucked up version of Alice in wonderland. He’s getting mobbed in unfamiliar streets, but bizarrely, he's loving every minute of it. The inexplicable joy of receiving anonymous gifts in public, going on what he hopes isn't dates with his friend Wilbur.

And those are only the half-believable ones. He’s not stupid enough to mistakenly believe he was aboard a colossal yacht, rubbing shoulders with an American football star, or once had a pet ostrich named Mr. Feathers. Or that he once transformed into a wintry little christmas elf on the north pole. Well, at least somewhere really cold, digging a steep grave with Karl and Sapnap to bury Santa in or whatever he’d need that for. 

Another night, he dreams of somewhere cold, of an unfamiliar bed, of falling asleep with Dream’s voice emanating from his phone, a sound that etched its signature into his psyche, even without memories it seems. In his dream, George’s eyelids are heavy yet he battles against their falling, reminiscent of a champion wrestler resisting the impending dislocation of an arm, pushing past his limit to prolong wakefulness until it's no longer possible. 

He won’t give up until he literally can not fight sleep anymore. 

This relaxedness is embroidered with needles into George’s nervous system everytime he hears Dream’s voice and it seems to be both the most comforting thing and the worst, because those few precious dreams of late night conversations about everything and nothing seem different from the day one’s. There is some kind of delicate hope in them and he’s afraid he might miss some vital detail. 

But he forgot – that the devil often hides in the details. 

He can’t remember how or when the narrative changed, but at some point in one of his dreams, they’re talking about their ideal types, and this younger George is staring at what must be his old computer screen. He is too sleepy to watch his words, too giddy on Dream’s praises regarding his last video, too happy from a marathon session of playing and teasing. 

Dream is talking quickly, loudly, in George’s headphones saying that he doesn't have an ideal type and that it’s such a weird interview question, when George blurts out, “Not many have an ideal type, I think. But – like – when you meet someone that you can’t be without, it’s compatibility and the way you love them makes them your ideal type… Because you want no one else… or something. Everyone just wants a best friend that – you know – also… do other things with.” George cringes and quickly backtracks. “Forget about it.”

Dream tries to pick that statement apart, and like all their conversations, it’s not careful, to anyone else it would seem intrusive, and whilst George would normally indulge him, laugh and giggle, let him call George an idiot, argue every point, that time he for some reason swiftly shifts the subject, probably saving himself from spilling even more sleep deprived awkward cringe material.

If these dreams are his subconscious attempting to convey a message, they're delivering it in a language both cryptic and maddening – it’s not helping. When George wakes up, he remembers very little of it, just some words and feeling, but feelings hold memory in themselves, go hand in hand, and wonders if they were even together yet back then. He wonders if it really is a memory or if he’s making things up to fill that house in his mind. They don’t feel like memories and dream George – regular George – does not feel like him. It feels more like he’s watching a movie through a first person perspective. 

No one seems to understand, not even himself. Twenty seven years of him is just… gone, missing. And what is he even supposed to do with it, when he feels it doesn't belong to him. Dream suspects something, that much is evident. All George’s thoughts are connected by a red thread but in a couple of days it will start to unspool, and he no longer knows which him is really him. He feels so fragmented. He’s turning irrational somehow.

The next night, the dream scenery shifts once more, leaves swirling in the wind around that colossal tree. They obscure his vision until he’s incredibly cold and lonely in a room packed with cheering people belonging to some flat in London. He’s firing off party poppers and is half heartedly singing happy birthday for a face he doesn't even recognize. 

The merriment takes an odd turn as the party changes into another one, a louder one, and a stranger's lips approach for a New Year's kiss, a gesture George neither anticipates nor desires, but one that leaves him struggling to extricate himself, to say no, to stand up for himself – because what if he led her on subconsciously?

She leaves quickly after that.

Of course she does. 

She tasted someone else’s name off his lips.

𖤓 ☾

"Okay… Let me show you something," Dream says one early afternoon, somewhere around the two and a half week mark of George’s infantness. He yanks up the blinds with such enthusiasm you'd think the darkness would kill him. Laptop in hand, he ambles over to the bed, undeterred by George slurping the milk from the bottom of his cereal bowl.

"Here," he says, with a curious glint in his eye, though George is not entirely sure why – because instead of giving George the wireless headphones he’s holding, he manhandles them onto George's head and makes sure his unruly hair is neatly tucked back. It’s getting long. Too long. 

Maybe he should be looking for kitchen scissors like his sister used to just to spite their mother.

Oh.

George forgets about hair as a catchy pop tune floods his eardrums. He's grooving, nodding along. He's about to dive back into his cereal bowl when a suspicious thought intrudes. 

He knows that voice.

In every situation, mind you… well almost. He’s still working on that.

He hastily discards the bowl on the bed and reaches for the laptop, snatching it away from Dream's long fingers. Seated cross-legged, he slips the machine onto his own thighs, making a calculated effort to not acknowledge Dream's little huff of annoyance at the cereal bowl almost tipping over on the duvet. It gets put down somewhere on a hard surface, George hears through the headphones, and soon the mattress dips to fit Dream beside him, leaning against the headboard. George would normally turn and call him out for staring, because he can feel his eyesight on his neck, but he’s occupied.

These, it turns out, are demos. Dream's demos. There are like what? Nine – ten – of them. His husband has been hiding a whole ass treasure trove of tracks with intriguing titles. His restless hands twitch towards the trackpad, only to eventually quell their impatience. 

As the first song concludes, he removes the headphones, yet holding onto them tight and inquires, "What? When did you do all this?” Quickly adding, "Can I listen to all of them?" 

Dream lounges against the headboard, fully clothed and looking as if he's been awake for five hours already by ten am. Maybe he never even went to sleep because he wasn't there when George did. He is, as George guessed, focused entirely on his husband, phone discarded on the bedside table 

He blinks with languor, deep circles underneath them. "Ehm… recorded most of them last time I was in L.A, I’m pretty sure I told you that. Some I’ve been sitting on. You’ve heard the rest. I just received all the finished mixed files, they’re not perfect and there are some changes I still want to make, so like… Do you want to listen to them all?"

George rolls his eyes with a pinch of sarcasm. "Yes, Obviously, I asked, didn't I?"

"Wow, George, you're just the embodiment of grace and such charm," Dream retorts dryly.

“Well I landed you, didn't I?”

Dream doesn't seem to have a retort for that one, just pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek all distractedly and scoffing, smiling dumbly. "Alright, have at it. So, what do you think, though?” 

“How am I supposed to tell you that when I haven't heard all of them? Let me listen and I’ll give you a ten page detailed report. Send me the files.”

“My label says nope to that.”

“Well say bye bye to your laptop then, bozo.”

And so he does listen. 

A few times. With Dream and without.

Alright, more than a few times. 

He’s looking for clues, that’s all – he swears. There are so many things he doesn't know about his husband. He listens all day that day, while lying upside down, his head dangling off the edge of the bed just watching the world outside their bedroom window. This is the direction all the London people are facing, he thinks. The leaf shaped shadows oscillate on the wall. The little tattling bitch neighbour collects way too many ugly garden gnomes. They’re ugly even upside down and he hangs his laundry outside so now George has the knowledge that he wears little briefs. Great.

He keeps listening over the next few days until he reaches a point where he’s using Dream's laptop more than Dream is. He’s definitely not hiding it when he doesn’t use it so it won't get taken. He has no idea how it ended up between the couch cushions, he tells Sapnap.

Dream does not at all catch him doing air guitar movements in bed either, hopping around and screaming in shock, falling down onto it and hiding under the sheets once he spots his husband. That scream was… he saw a Sap- a spider. He saw Sapnap dressed as a spider?... Yes.

One night Dream catches him red handed with the laptop before George can fling it off the bed again, and he asks, "So you’re ready to admit I'm the best musician you know?"

George, undeterred, responds with a wink and a malicious grin, "Well, I- I’m ready to admit that you are one of the musicians… ever." 

Dream laughs, "What?"

"You're also the only musician I know so don’t let it get to your big head."

"What about Larray? He doesn't count? Wow. I thought you liked him. He even put you in his song multiple times. Opening scene and all."

Oh, George knows alright. George is well aware of the lyrics and, much to his chagrin, he occasionally catches himself humming the filthy lines while scrubbing away the day's grime, making fun of his own marriage… He does like Larray though, damn it.

"Okay, fine," he concedes. "You're one of the two musicians ever."

Several days after the hijacking of his husband’s laptop, George awakens to find the demos neatly transformed into a CD. It's placed delicately on his bedside table. Dream himself is nowhere to be found. The cover of the CD stays put by his bedside, the actual CD in his own computer strewn on the floor by the bed. That laptop is way too big, what was regular George thinking, buying that? There’s no way he can covertly look at a certain photo album without risk getting caught.

His favourite song is paranoid. George gets the feeling it’s not just a song. He gets a feeling it’s a love letter. He’s not going to ask though, because then he gets acutely aware of the fact that he sleeps next to a husband who thinks George is regular George, who thinks he remembers him, their wedding and their seven year long history and he feels like a fucking fraud. 

Yet he keeps listening. 

Keeping his condition from Dream has become a kind of sadism he can no longer pretend to understand. His heart swings back and forth with the need to go home and the urge to run away. All he knows is that he is too deep in now – to take it back.

𖤓 ☾

One night, three weeks in, maybe… he’s lost track of the days. They all just blend. He spends them in bed or tailing Dream, not because everything is new and scary or anything. No. He should ask Sapnap, he’s set on the revenge plan after all. Anyways, around three weeks in, in the middle of the night, in the depths of his solitary, a glass of water slips from George's grip, its impact on the kitchen tiles resonating in the dark stillness. In an instant, his synapses spark, surging like a sudden electric jolt with the absolute scare he gives himself. 

But that’s not why he flinches.

Inside that house in his mind, he hears a woman shout, and he’s never heard her voice before but he knows who she is. She is not a welcome visitor, she is a ghost – and thus it takes effort, it takes ritual – to banish her.

He sighs and bends down to survey the shattered pieces, wielding the torch on his phone to guide his path through the dark, picking them up and throwing them one by one into the dustbin beneath the sink because he can't find a sweeper. The water means that there’s a wetness to them. 

Unexpectedly, Dream's presence materialises. Having soundlessly descended the stairs, his husband is now seizing George's hands in his own, feeling around and yanking him up abruptly. A switch is frantically flipped, and the sterile hospital lighting above casts an unforgiving brightness, illuminating their entwined fingers, scrutinised by Dream's concerned gaze. Tenderly inspecting every inch of skin. George is stumped. 

“What are you doing? You don’t touch the shards! You get the sweeper. Fuck.” Dream's voice is chiding, yet carries reassurance as he advises George to return to bed. 

George stops in the doorway, turns around and in a hushed whisper, he inquires, "You’re not angry?" 

Dream's reply is swift and sincere, "No, why would I be?"

"But it’s-"

"It’s okay. I’ll sort it out," he says comfortingly, stroking George’s back and motioning him towards the stairs.

Later in bed, when neither of them can sleep, Dream confesses something about old friends, but all George really understands without context is “-Anyway, maybe I should have explained myself, reached out more, become personally involved, like you did, but I lived so far away and I was just so busy and you and Nick mattered more, and you know, Bad and Skeppy, and then there was-”

George has no idea who any of these people are, but he’s heard enough from both his husband and Sapnap over the last weeks and he knows Dream by now, that’s enough.

“Stop. Why are you so loyal to the past? Why does it matter? It sucks, yes but if they’re as you say, you have no obligation to them or their feelings either because they didn't care about yours or the truth. You did nothing wrong. If they didn't understand enough to just ask whatever they wanted to know, if they assumed, that’s on them.” 

Dream trails his fingers down George’s cheek, neck, arm and finally says, “Of course I’m loyal to the past. I’ve known you for seven years. All those moments… who would I be without them?”

George does not sleep that night.

Morning brings a new light, he washes his face in the sink and looks up in the mirror with water dripping off of it. He braces his fingers against the cool marble counter and implores himself to be objective. This thing – this red thread that binds him to Dream, it’s nothing but thin nylon fabric. Wrapped around his little finger. It’s not even his, not really. It’s regular George’s. It’s Dream’s George’s thin crimson string. 

He does not want to feel all these things, seven years of it. So what if Dream would be angry with him if he finds out George in fact does not have those little moments? So what if they’ll fight and he’ll ignore George, who will lose the one thing that’s keeping him-

His eyes trace the contours of his features, look into his coffee-coloured eyes and think – what did you look like as a child, a baby? 

What did he look like as a child, a baby?

What is this feeling you’ve permeated into your skin like poison? Why would you do this to yourself? In the old oak's embrace, of the minds tree, he carved their names inside a heart-like shape long ago, but it’s… it’s dripping something black like oil, not sweet like sap. How did regular George keep these self destructive tendencies in check? How did he keep this marriage healthy?

He swallows dryly.

Who were you? He thinks.

Who was he to you?

It’s not love. 

It’s not love yet…

Anymore?

Maybe an ancestor of it or a viciously evolved offspring.

The ancient Greeks had eight words for love. At least four for right, more than six for wrong. There’s none for this. 

Nothing that fits. 

No rich lexicon that can encapsulate it.

In the middle of the night, he stands in the dark with the torch on his phone turned on, casting a dim glow on the mirror's surface, staring again – looking for himself. For clues.

He is the thief of his own being. 

It’s in there somewhere but the foundation is rotting and infested. The house is old. This primal, feral need for Dream did not appear with his waking. It’s sugar that’s been boiling, brewing for years . It’s been burning the pot black with soot. For a moment it’s a thought so big it fills the entire house like it’s a helium balloon, bouncing against the walls in a drowsy attempt to get out. 

He wants to just bulldoze it down completely and start over.

But though he feels born anew, you can’t buy yourself a second body and you certainly can’t fill yourself in with your favourite colours. People are already art. He is not the same anymore, but still also what he always was. Trying to change your nature never always goes wrong, for nature evolves.

𖤓 ☾

Currently – the three of them are live-streaming on George's channel. A spectacle initiated by the collaborative insistence of Sapnap and Dream, a.k.a they made George. Strongarmed him, actually. And due to their joint insistence, George played an expert puppy master, orchestrating the entire setup. Or more accurately, directed the other two on what to get and do whilst he sat on the kitchen counter eating gingerbread cookies that are god knows how old and watching. Definitely not because he's struggling to recall which wire connects to what port and where that gadget thing that's meant to fit precisely there has gone. Absolutely not. Nope.

Today's stream involves baking and decorating some sort of biscuit-like creations that George is convinced will taste horrible – exactly like chewing on the cardboard box the bland dough came in. However, that’s not the point. Flavour isn't the primary goal here; who cares? These baked goods are meant to be aesthetically pleasing, and George's own batch is a testament to art itself. 

Surveying Sapnap's efforts with curiosity, he can't help but be blunt in his assessment. "What is that?" His tone is light, but there's a playfully wicked edge as he leans on his friend's shoulder, definitely not to rub the gross floury doughy stuff on his face off on Sapnap’s shoulder. 

"Hey, what the fuck?" He throws George off by bucking his shoulder, sending him off balance. "Dude! Isn't there someone else you can annoy?"

"Probably, but-” George grins mischievously, his doughy fingers tapping Sapnap's forehead as if triggering a game show buzzer. “-ding ding ding, you’ve been chosen!  You are the chosen one Harry." 

The… thing – that Sapnap is sculpting – can only be described as an experiment gone awry – some kind of botched lab-animal, for sure. Huh. 

"Nice circle, Sapnap," he quips, chuckling.

Indignant, Sapnap defends his creation, "It’s Patches you insensitive-" he scrambles for an insult, making that shrrg sound that George thinks sounds like an old radio or walkie talkie. "-monster! What if she hears you, huh?"

"Where’s the tail? Nose? Is that the face or her ass?" He raises his voice, putting on a show. "Patches? Where’s the patches on your Patches?"

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"Well… hm," George puts on an air of mock seriousness, complete with a throat-clearing noise, "I’m not calling you a truther, sir Nap."

Sapnap counters by lobbing a blob of biscuit dough at George, who swiftly takes cover behind Dream's larger frame, hearing it land somewhere on the floor. 

"Again?! Do you have a food throwing kink?" George shrieks. "And…" he splutters. "What are you doing!? You’re the one who declared Switzerland!"

"I’m not cleaning that. Get out from behind me before he throws at me," Dream the traitor’s voice cuts through the scene.

And in that moment, George's attention is suddenly hijacked by the sight of Dream's well-built arms diligently kneading the dough, his sleeves rolled up and exposing the flexing sinews beneath. He gets adequately distracted, biting his lips instinctively. 

In a second, a string of dough gets tossed by Sapnap, some piece cut off from the fat mouse grazes George’s cheek. Stupid idiot took advantage of George’s greatest weakness. That’s illegal.

"Sapnap!" 

In retaliation, George quickly snatches a handful of flour from where Dream stands, poised to blow it in Sapnap's direction by half-climbing up the kitchen island, one leg hinged over it. However, his plan misfires when he slips a bit because some idiot floured the counter and some of the flour ends up in Dream's face instead when he tries to steady himself with a hand on his husband’s shoulder. This sudden sneezing fit prompts Dream to awkwardly rub his eyes with the sleeve of his upper arm. 

"Oops, Dream." George giggles, putting on his best Bambi act. 

It does little to shield him from the consequences, though. In the blink of an eye, he finds himself marked with a significant floury handprint on his black hoodie. Admittedly not the best choice of clothing.

"Dream!" he exclaims in utter betrayal. He's been stabbed in the back. It’s always the spouse, isn't it?

But his husband's response is swift and strategic. Without hesitation, Dream manhandles George to stand in front of him, issuing a clear directive. "Knead the dough, George." 

Once again, he gets this unexplainable feeling of breathlessness. "Why?" he questions, his curiosity piqued by this simple task and not as a ‘why should I?’

"You've only managed to craft, like-" Dream pauses momentarily, looking over the counter, "-two cookies." 

"Yes, and they’re perfect," he says in a singsong tone, giving his little silly headshake. 

Duh.  They really are, those two – one minion and one football, perfectly, meticulously iced – are works of art. In a determined manner, he takes hold of Dream's hands with his own, steering them towards the dough. "Teach me then," he quips, punctuating his words with a smack on the dough, smirking at the camera cheekily. "It’s not moving, Dream. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong." 

"Oh my god. You literally just dig the bottom of your palms in," Dream's voice instructs, guiding George's hands through the proper motion. He positions himself just behind George's shoulder, looking down to ensure accuracy. 

Sapnap interjects loudly, "Hear that, chat? Dream was like – ‘George is wrong.’ Can someone clip that?" Sapnap pouts mockingly at him. "Show the little rat where the door is, Dream. He needs to be put in his place chat, he really does. Ever since he got home from the hospital – he’s been insufferable. You have no idea."

Leaning in so that his lips are practically grazing his husband's ear, George murmurs, "Yes, oh Dream, put me in my place," accentuating every word and biting his lip against an awkward smile. "You could knead my ass like you knead that dough, pound me like-" 

He pauses as Dream coughs abruptly, fake and not subtle, his eyes darting to George with an almost panicked urgency. 

"George," he murmurs in a chiding tone. 

It’s always ‘George no,’ ‘George don’t do that,’ never ‘George get on the bed on all fours,’ and he is sick of it.

"What?" he asks innocently. "You want to play another game first?"

"Stop. We’re live," Dream insists.

"So?" George counters with a cheeky smile, gesturing with his head movements like ‘I don’t give a fuck?’ It’s not like they can hear.

Sapnap's voice crackles through, "Guys? Hello? What’s all the whispering about? They always do this, chat!"

George screams in Dream’s ear and sees him cringe with sadism,"We’re planning fun things, Sapnap. Chat! Convince Dream to play games with me! Maybe… we'll even stream it!" George declares, pressing the issue further. 

He feels Dream go rigid and his husband’s grip on his hands tighten, almost punishing, making the pretense of actually kneading the dough like nothing suspicious is happening at all, which only makes George retaliate by pushing his hips back and discovering a growing… problem. 

What? For all of Dream’s weird adamant resistance, George can get him like that… with just words? Oh my god, George just discovered – like – a six thousand year old hidden temple. 

He’s quickly muttering, "I bet you chat will like my biscuit better than yours, deal?"  

"See? They’re not. They’re totally ignoring me." Sapnap's voice laces with whining frustration as another piece of dough sails through the air from where he’s reading chat by the laptop. It misses. However, George barely cares – is too ensnared in the ongoing tension, the feeling of heated breath against his nape sending shivers down his spine.

"Is that a deal, Dream?" he challenges, his voice a mere whisper.

"He’s even ignoring all donations this whole freaking stream, tell him to fuck off, chat. And Dream. How long can you teach someone to knead a dough? Tell him to take a hike. Actually – tell him to go die." 

“I’m baking!” George defends. “Go make your fat cat!”

“No- Whatever.”

Dream breathes unrhythmically when he presses back further. "Jesus. Fuck… no deal. Okay wait, mayb- Okay, no." He’s shaking his head and all, blushing.

George, with a wicked grin, maintains the pressure against Dream. "No? No deal, huh?" he whispers, his voice the pinnacle of a seductive purr. "Are you sure?" 

Two seconds of silence, then, "Alright, deal." We’ve got him ladies and gentlemen.

Feeling victorious and delightfully smug, George decides to put a halt to their little game before it spirals into something they can't exactly show on stream. Not on twitch anyway. He creates some space between them, aiming to divert attention from their intimate interaction before anyone’s clued into what the married couple could really have been doing, not exactly a hard guess. 

He returns to shaping a Sapnap biscuit, hunchbacked and all, very realistic, and in meticulous detail actually. He tries to swipe a bit of white icing, but as he tugs at the spritzer, there’s a stupid big hand attached to it. Fingers that could be somewhere else… Somewhere much better. He has to grapple over it with Dream, give it his all to tug it down so his husband can’t get it out of reach. 

"Oh no, you fucking don’t!"

"Let. it. go!"

"I grabbed it first! You’re the one trying to rip it from my hands!"

"I thought about it first, and then you just picked it up!"

He gets tickled and shrieks… ahem – giggles – accordingly loud. 

Eventually, the scene transitions to the floor, George doubled over dying over Sapnap’s Patches biscuit because it got even fatter and distorted due to the heat in the room, causing the decorations to melt and blend. And maybe he’s exaggerating just a tad when he holds it up to the camera, showcasing the hilariously disproportionate biscuit and consults with real Patches. He can sense the offence she takes. The narrowing of her eyes and whiskers jumping is a clear indication, and chat totally agrees. 

"Look at this, Patches! This is how Sapnap envisions you!" he exclaims, adopting a mockingly dramatic tone. 

"Yeah, well… Why the heck is your minion green?! Answer to that, bitch."

"It’s not!" He throws a look and then turns to Dream, who is pointedly looking away, at the ceiling. "Is it?"

He looks sheepish, humming and clearly contemplating the answer like it’s not a yes or no one. "Well… it’s kinda.. Sort of yellowish-green."

"Dude, it’s green," Sapnap quickly jumps in, showing the green-tinted minion to the camera for emphasis. "It’s the most disgusting – unappetizing – minion I’ve seen. "

"Mhm? Wow, that’s crazy, Slutnap. Admitting you find minions in general appetising… Your mom in the most disg-"

"Oh, I dare you to finish that sentence!" Sapnap’s head snaps up, holding the award winning biscuit hostage between his fingers, very visibly threatening to break its neck like the sadist he is. "You’ll get a penny for my thoughts, British boy."

"I'd give you a million just so you don't share those thoughts with me. Chat, they're actually mocking me for my disabilities right now, in my face, and threatening to destroy my work of art." He points towards it to exaggerate the abuse. "They’re actually the worst. I’m a snail and they’re just pouring salt at me. That’s the dynamic. That’s how it is." 

"Mhm, George?" Sapnap drawls. "Getting microwaved as a baby is not a disability. Let’s just agree to disagree." 

Dream laughs his ass off at George’s expense, joining the devil’s side. Falling hard from grace, in George’s books. 

"No. I disrespectfully disagree to agree, Backpack."

"What did you call me?" Sapnap gets to his feet, his hands still smeared with multicoloured icing. 

"Why are you standing? Huh? What are you going to do, Brokeback mountain?"

Sapnap's expression turns from playful to determined. "OH, THAT'S IT!" he shouts, snapping the head of George’s baby.

"AHHH!" It’s an awfully traumatic sight. 

As if that’s not enough – with snatching up two tubes of icing, Sapnap is taking off after George, who has managed to grab one tube out of Dream's hands as well. 

"HEY!"

He runs like a gazelle on the savanna around the kitchen counter. "Peace! Dream, save me!" 

"No peace this time," Sapnap demands.

So when he gets tired and it becomes a stalemate between just rhythmically turning your body in different directions to psyche the other of which way they’ll dart, George sees something spectacular. Sapnap's shoes are conveniently within reach, as if they were his trump card. He runs to them. Holding one shoe aloft, he visibly threatens to fill it with icing by holding the tube mere centimetres above it. 

"You wouldn't," Sapnap challenges, a mixture of doubt and defiance in his tone.

George snorts, his eyes dancing mischievously. Stupid boy. "As someone once told me: ‘I think we both know I would.’" He laughs, not evilly at all because it’s deserved.

"I’ll flush your phone!"

"Guess what? Dream will just buy me another one. But try going anywhere without your favourite dead-stock shoes, frat bro!" George pretends to squeeze the icing bottle, and Sapnap's eyes do that delicious saucer thing.

"Those are actually so expensive, George!" 

"Since we’re no longer in Switzerland… consider them prisoners of war , idiot."

"Dude! We’re in Switzerland! Okay? I agree to disagree to agree…" He looks away confused. "Wait, what?" 

A wave of laughter breaks out, blurring the line between fighting and having fun. In the midst of their banter, it always becomes easy to forget the reason behind it all; It’s always: ‘remember that fight we had?’ and never – ‘remember that thing we were fighting about?’

"Stop making me laugh! You’re poisoning my mind. You’re eeeevil . Just know, mark my words Sapnap – if you break peace, one day – you’ll put your foot in there and it will squash and flow out peanut butter." 

"What the frick? This is what I have to live with – chat! You’re such a little devious little fucker. No actually, you wanna know what you are George? An easy bake oven. Pointless." 

Sapnap likes to complain about George’s awesome character but almost every time they fight, the blood sucking mosquito looks as happy as if he had flown upon a nudist colony.

"Listen, Sapnap – I appreciate all the compliments and everything – but I’m married," George retorts, and for some inexplicable reason, Sapnap laughs his flat little ass off. “I won, fair and square.”

“You cheated anyways. You can’t call house with fifty three cards up your ass.”

“There are only fiftytwo in deck, dumbass.”

“Yeah, well he’s a joker-” Sapnap motions to Dream. “-and you’ve got him up your ass, don't you?” and George doesn't really have a retort to that. 

He wishes.

George gradually lowers his icing-loaded weapon, observing Sapnap retreating to regroup behind enemy lines and exchange what seems like scandalous whispered banter with Dream, judging by the latter’s reaction. 

George shoots one final glare Sapnap's way before returning his attention to the lively chat. Messages are flying in rapidly, a lot of them skull emojis – likely mocking Sapnap – surely. Though he can still discern a multitude of thirsty comments directed at his husband. His husband's forearms, his husband’s taut neck, his husband’s substantial hands, his husband’s this, his husbands that – send nudes, they jest. 

"Um… Thank you for the hundred, ‘You and Dream should compare hands, you know, for science.’" George reads aloud, emitting a sardonic snort. "Nope," he pops the p and thinks, not falling for that one bitch, I see through you. Nice try thwarting your little scheme, I'm not falling for shit. 

"He just doesn't want to be humiliated, guys," Dream interjects with amusement.

"Yeah? Maybe not everyone wants to look like they could get casted in the hunk category of every pornsite," he spits back, glaring.

"What the hell is wrong with you, George? Yeah? That’s how you wanna play this? Don’t you think you already get called twink enough?"

"HU-HU," George mockingly imitates, sticking his tongue out at Dream until he earns a grin in return. His tongue is pretty, he knows. 

"I’m done," Dream says while eyeing his completed biscuits with extreme meticulousness.

"You’re finished?"

"Mhm. With- With the cookies."

"Oh. Let me see," George exclaims with enthusiasm, angling the camera to showcase the cat, the beanie, and the house. The house exhibits a palette that's half blue, half yellow, or according to Sapnap: green. But his opinion doesn't count. He doesn't get voting rights. The consequence of having an IQ under 15, he’s afraid.

"You like it?" Dream inquires softly.

"Yes. Um, yes… It's- it’s cute."

"You can have it. After it’s baked." 

He was going to steal it anyways.

"It’s cute?" Sapnap chimes incredulously.

"Yes. It’s better than your cat," George affirms, though his focus lingers on the house.

Dream cuts in, "Yours are better, though, more detailed. Before Sapnap snapped that one.” He picks up the severed head. “You’re artistic, like actually good at this – well, when you want to be. Nimble fingers and everything, you know?"

George’s breath gets stolen. 

Well… Hello praisekink.

George listens to their banter about a festive gingerbread house stream they evidently did last Christmas. Naturally, he remembers every bit of it and can contribute significantly to the discussion, not merely plastering a silly grin on his face and giggling like a lovesick fool. No, he definitely isn't feeling a pang of sadness about it like he got shot in the chest. 

The bet is in the back of his mind, so he finally says, "Chat, which one do you like better, one for Dream, two for me?"

Sapnap hovers by the laptop they're using, eyes dancing over the screen. "Hmm… one, two, one, one, one… alright, yeah the majority goes for one, George, suck it." 

Well fuck. It’s surprisingly hard to find excuses, little games, to take advantage of his own husband. 

Dream looks as disappointed as George feels, even though he won his disappointment is not even comforting because he’s the one making George resolve to this. He’s the one driving him mad.

He looks at chat and thinks, in lieu of nudes – send more life.

𖤓 ☾

Turns out, seducing your own husband when still brain-shaken isn't a walk in the park. It’s a walk on hot, hot sand. Little jumps, actually. Scorching to the point of unbearable.

George is deliberate with his touches, pulling on Dream’s belt hooks to order him around, a nonverbal command that's much more ‘you're mine’ than ‘pass the salt.’ The point apparently doesn't come across, so he displays his thighs and lower stomach with the subtlety of a hoarding, like he’s just casually scratching his shoulder by going under his entire T-shirt when he sits on the kitchen counter as Dream cooks something that smells of both shrimps and coconut. He’s not sure the coconut milk wasn't a distracted fueled mishap, though it is still delicious. 

George smirks and laughs and crinkles his eyes cutely, swings his feet, eyelashes fluttering and lip being bitten as if he’s competing in the fucking Olympics of Flirting. He sits on the washing machine, feeling it vibrate from washes when Dream sorts laundry, leans close to let him smell his own soap on George’s skin, the softener too. Smell how even their scents mix.

He spreads his legs over the backrest of the couch and stretches obscenely, half naked and spread out like a mermaid. An invitation with neon lights flashing – to within his being. He does so when taking naps in the living room, when watching netflix, when eating breakfast, even once when Sapnap was there.

When it doesn't garner the attention he wants, he huffs. Several times. Increasingly loudly. It gets left ignored.  

IGNORED! 

In George’s defence, he handles it well. Barely any complaining.

Finally, after countless failed attempts, George goes for broke: "I’m very flexible," he delivers with a sassy giggle that's practically dripping with innuendo, but without much humour. They’re in bed, he’s laying propped up in just his pants and breathes down Dream’s neck. 

"Good for you," Dream answers dryly, deliberately dry. Dry like he’s chewing on grains of sand when he could be biting the soft skin by George’s hip. 

He’s tapping away at his laptop,, tip tap clank, yet sneaking glances like a thief. Stealing glances at George like a spy infiltrating enemy territory. You can almost see the internal dialogue in Dream's eyes: ‘Act casual, act casual, don’t stare too much, don’t get caught, don’t – oops, caught.’ 

He's like a moth to a flame, only the flame is Dream and the moth is George’s sanity.

Because he does look . He can’t seem help it. 

Obsessed like an addict, he looks and looks, looking like he’s drinking, as though he's pouring crystal-clear alcohol down his throat. And he tries not to, like he’ll actually get too drunk on George.

But he doesn't often touch. Well he does, but not like that. Never does his fingers crawl up like spiders on George's very exposed and supple skin with intent.

"Let’s play a game," he says in a singsong tone, but everything lately comes out sharper than George wants it to. 

Dream tenses, toes clenching the duvet.

George giggles, playing it off as a joke, because he sees Dream isn't about to give in, so the next best thing is to tease him. "I meant minecraft, Dream. What did you think I meant?"

He really can’t explain why, but there’s a torture to being ignored, to waiting. Each passing moment stretches out like an elastic band about to snap.

In their bedroom, it’s just him, Dream and the Berlin wall two-point-o he’s built between them. 

Though he’s tried to jump over it, Dream bricks sky-high and leaves no doors or windows.

After that second kiss, or real second kiss at least, he stays away like he dare not come closer than ten metres because they’re a regency couple whose parents have servants watching their courting and it would ruin their reputation beyond repair if he pounced on George. 

He’s playing really hard to get, yet just a glimpse of George’s ankle seems to kill him. It’s confusing. In the beginning, it was entertaining, but now George is in the mood to get either shunned by high society, brain damaged or dissolve into the sky.

Dream doesn't treat him like glass anymore, no. He's acting like a vampire who's afraid of sunlight. George is now akin to some bright hot white light he can’t even look at, little less touch and George needs. He needs. One thing's for sure – Dream might be playing hard to get, so George has to be playing even harder to resist.

He gets on call one day with Wilbur, partly because he said he would call – like – two weeks ago and partly because he seems like his most sensible friend. George is quickly proved wrong. It does not go as well as expected.

"Hey man. So… are you excited for the event? Wait, are you even participating in that minecraft event this week? You are going to twitchcon I’ve seen. I only heard like two people talk about the minecraft thing, actually, now that I think about it."

"Yeah. I don’t know," he says. "Which event?"

"The only one, smartass."

"Did I sign up? I can’t remember. Probably not," he drawls, not really listening. His fingers are dancing across the keyboard like an aimless ballet – scouring the internet for advice on his hopeless situation. “If I did, just tell them I overslept after it’s done.”

"I’m not even in it. Why are you being such a sad boy – bad boy?" 

" Dream. My husband won’t fuck me," he says, because he’s past the point of shameless. "He’s driving me absolutely, actually, insane."

There’s a brief, awkward pause containing several seconds before Wilbur lets out a sound that's mostly just panicky bubbling and air, a sort of strangled chuckle. A weird cough, possibly, and George’s fingers still, eyebrows furrowing. 

"Eeh… hold up… Wait here just one second… What the fuck, George? Ex-fucking-scuse me? Not this shit again, I swear I can’t take it. My heart is fragile."

"Wha-?"

"Are you taking the piss? Is it real this time? This isn’t like last time right? Are you fucking with me or am I misunderstanding? I just want to be real clear we understand each other you’re telling me what I think you’re telling me."

Right… He doesn't even understand himself. 

"No, I’m not fucking with you," he says, half-annoyed because – after all – this is not advice on how to fuck your husband; this isn't even close to a consultation on marital intimacy.

"Well holy shit, am I the first one you’ve told?" 

"Yes. I’m not exactly advertising it." 

Like he’d just let out on stream that Dream refuses to fuck him because he sees a porseline doll that just fell from the shelf and might crack when he looks at George.

"Yeah, no, that I understand. Would be a fucking circus."

"So… what should I do?"

"Well… I don’t know. Fucking hell George! Why would I know? I do not want to hear about Dream’s hard kinks!” Wilbur insists, frantically adding, “don’t you even dare tell me!... I just have to say though – like – I support you and this, if it makes you happy. I’m all onboard. Really. Even the first time."

That’s… really weird. Supportive, really supportive in George getting his dick wet. Too supportive? Well, he appreciates the sentiment regardless.

Wait. The first time? Has Dream refused to fuck him before?... and people know about that? Jesus.  

Was that during the ass shot thing the doctor talked about? Probably, he’s got this picture in his head from the dreams of red heaves all over his body and he’s sure that if that’s an actual memory, those would have hurt rubbing into the mattress. That doesn't mean Dream could have just held him up like a good husband though.

"You should call… hm… like – Velvet, or – you’re friends with Larray, right?  I don’t really know them but they’ll give you exactly the type of advice you want, I think… Yeah."

"Okay, thanks."

"This was not at all what I was expecting, I’m going to be honest."

"Okay?"

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

After the puzzling conversation with Wilbur, George ends up asking google for advice. That is, only to have a million Buzzfeed articles attack him, saying the reason his husband is ‘distant’ is because he’s cheating. “Did he buy you flowers?” -He feels guilty, they say. “Does he listen to your concerns?” -He’s plotting how to emotionally destroy you after the breakup. “Does he get along with your friends and family too well?” -He’s fucking your mom. "Does he never leave his phone unattended?" - He's 100% in a secret relationship with the neighbour's cat. Blah blah blah...

George muttered to himself, "What little fuckers."

Sweating in the Florida heat – his skin where his shorts keep riding up is glued to the leather chair, and he decides he needs a lifeline. Searching up a contact on his phone and maybe slightly smiling at the contact-picture of Karl kissing him on the cheek, he dials the number, feeling the cold glass of the screen against his cheek and looking at the jumbled cables on the floor he'll never untangle. 

From the fleeting snippets he's glimpsed of Karl's bubbly online persona, how could he not put his faith in him? He feels like Karl at least wouldn't lie to him, or judge him.

The phone signal goes one, two, three times before there’s a click.

"Hello, Karl," George chimes with a hint of a grin woven into his voice.

"Hey, buddy! Did my texts get lost in the Bermuda Triangle of your phone?"

"My sincerest apologies,” George says in a mock-posh voice. “I've been engaged in an epic quest of recovery. That pesky, pesky bruise on my side was staging a rebellion against me, Karl! I thought it was going to kill me! I was afraid I might not have long left, and now I’m traumatised. Dream doesn't seem to care, and Sapnap is the grinch. You are my only true friend left." 

"Of course I am. I would have even thrown you the nicest funeral if you died, I swear it." Karl says, adding a faux air of accomplishment. “I would have even asked Jimmy for a gold coffin, don’t you worry buddy.”

George smiles, drumming his fingers against the armrest of his chair. “Ah, fear not, for your humble friend is fighting valiantly against the last forces of pain. Now, onto more… pressing mattress- I mean matters." He laughs awkwardly, hiding his face with his empty hand.

His brain is really a one way track to Dream-oville.

Karl chuckles as well, clearly entertained by George's pain. "Alright, shoot. Lay your troubles at the feet of the wise creature." 

"What?" George leans back in his chair too much, until it does that thing where he thinks he’s going to fall back and jerks up and hits his leg against the desk. Fuck, he thinks, mouth open in a silent scream, life really is pain. 

"I miss you! What’s skedaddling? What's crack-a-lacking? What's cooking, good-looking? Up for a stream soon?" 

George wrinkles his nose, refrains from screeching right out for once and rubs his shin, embracing that bittersweet sentiment that clings like caramel to his smile once again at the words. He missed this, somehow, though he can’t recall it. Karl must feel this separation even more, he actually remembers George. 

“Ehm… maybe, but I… need advice,” he croaks out. "...I need advice on how to get Dream into, well, you know, compromising positions – activities…” A throat-clearing “ahem” follows before George splutters out “-you know… to fuck me," after three seconds of silence and subsequently thumps his whole palm onto his face loudly in despair. He meant to phrase that with far more finesse. "Please don’t block me," he quickly pleads. Kindly refrain from banishing me into the digital void of one’s and zero’s, he thinks. 

"Ehm…” Karls begins cautiously, not unlike Wilbur. “First off all – that took you long enough. Like – finally! Secondly, so eh… You know, I might be like the worst person possible to ask this of. I’m like a penguin teaching you how to fly."

No, he most certainly doesn't know why that would be the case. Once again, George is reminded of how little he does know.

“Ehm… okay? Right, right. I know,” he adds anyway.

"But… I saw this one thing in a movie once that you could try…"

Now, that’s what George is talking about.

"Tell me."

Karl's reply beams back, "Well heck. Get ready for this sexy nugget of wisdom that I'm about to drop on you-"

𖤓 ☾

It’s been almost a month since George's majestic fall and Dream has not cracked yet. The doctor prescribed one month of a 'no vigorous movements' policy, and George suspects Dream might be expanding that rule to a whole new level – for some inexplicable reason. It’s not concerning him or anything, the fact that his open husband doesn’t want to fuck him, it’s fine. He’s fine. That’s fine. It’s all so fine and dandy. It's all sunshine and rainbows, actually. He just needs to find the right moment to deploy the Karl-scheme, and then victory will be his. Surely.

With about two weeks, or twelve sunrises, left until the Paris trip, George is counting, he still has nothing better to do, so he decides to be proactive and pack in advance.  He unearths a suitcase from their closet and heads into the storage room to pack some clothes, discovering he actually owns a fair share of it in the process. However, he prefers the hoodies in their bedroom for some inexplicable reason. He's been cocooned in them like a disgruntled caterpillar for the past two days because Dream, in his infinite wisdom, decided he needed to jet off somewhere for a weekend. Some work thingy George didn't bother listening to. Because here's the kicker – he went without George! Dream’s so very delectable husband wasn't even asked to join, so rightfully – George is pissed… and still horny. God.

Snapping him out of his reverie, is a dress-jacket, as black as a starless night and undoubtedly the brainchild of a designer's fever dream. It takes a graceful tumble from its hanger, much like the one George took, descending into view like a fallen star gracing the earthly stage. At least that’s how he imagines it happened.

However, it's not the jacket's high-fashion credentials or grace that freeze him in his tracks. 

No, his attention is captivated by a fugitive scrap of notebook paper that spills from an inner pocket, landing on the floor like a solitary leaf in autumn. 

Like a memory. 

An impulse inside him whispers to discard the paper, making his fingers twitch. After all, deciphering an old grocery- or to-do list won't magically restore his forgotten memories. Yet, despite something in him shying away from opening it, he surrenders to the siren call of curiosity. 

Seated on the floor, he unfolds the document, revealing its cryptic contents.

Line after line, the paper is a patchwork of random words, numbers, marks – timestamps, perhaps. A mosaic of 2:33, 5:45, 1:23:09, breadcrumbs accompanied by titles, presumably belonging to bygone streams or videos, judging by the content. They might as well be hieroglyphics, inscribed on an ancient scroll. The paper itself is aged, opened and refolded one too many times, bearing the marks of time and use.

As he delves deeper, he reads words that feel both intimate and foreign, softening the edges of his eyes immediately.

The jacket feels like an artefact from another life, regular George’s life. A designer jacket that only looks worn once… a relic of a most likely very important memory. 

Therefore, these words, oh shit… these words … George turns the paper around until he’s read it all, every scribbled thing, and he thinks they are his wedding vows to Dream – or fragments of the vows anyways, half formed sentiments. Maybe even passages from his speech. Where the true speech resides, he doesn't know. If it's saved, if it's on film in one of the computers, but this is... this is good enough for now. Until he remembers, that is.

Within the scattered entries, there are goddamn riddles waiting for keys of context. Some lines baffle him outright, like ‘you have hands like a doctor?’ Leaving him wondering if he's stumbled onto a crossword-puzzle of his own creation. Others are plain indecipherable – remarks from streams, events, feelings. Dates. The stamps resemble constellations, a red marker binding them together like cotton from a detective’s clipboard, offering a map of clues to a life he’s lived, but knows nothing of.

But some truths emerge unshackled by the chains of a past, raw, unfiltered and brutally honest, like:

- ‘I didn't really care for you when we met, it’s no secret. I thought you were too young, and too stupid and you reminded me too much of a golden retriever. I don’t remember the first time I heard your voice. It’s funny now, though. It’s funny because I recognize the tone in which you breathe. I fall asleep to it. It’s a lullaby.’

Or,

- ‘To meet your best friend a world apart is one thing, but to meet the love of your life in your best friend, knowing you will love him, even if you’re never in the same room again, even if he chooses to cross the street not to have to greet you is an indescribable type of intimacy.’

It’s... he feels almost like a voyeur, an entity watching over his own wedding, a witness to his own love story. A stalker. But he’s the groom, of course he is, of course they are – were – he just can’t remember. 

Not a single tear graces his cheeks. He swears he doesn't care that other memories might have resurfaced, but not the life he shared with Dream; not yet. Doesn't care that that part of all remains locked away in the attic of his mind, beneath boxes far too heavy to be placed atop something so delicate. And if he were crying, he's not sure if they'd be happy or sad tears. 

With a determined swipe, he brushes away the lingering strip of moisture from his cheek and carefully slips the lined paper into his shorts pocket.

𖤓 ☾

The day after George discovers that slip of paper, he is nestled in bed, duvet pooling by his waist with strips of warm sunlight painting the walls and floor. He’s waist-deep in cosy vibes. But guess what? Dream's MIA, even though he just swooped in from some mysterious gig and should most definitely be catering to his neglected snack-material house-husband. Classic Dream move.

George unfolds the lovey-dovey parchment once more. The words cascade like a murmuring brook, like they’re melting off the paper. He can imagine the black ink dripping on his skin, carving itself into him like a tattoo from a shady parlour, each and every recitation imprinting the ink deeper. A ritual unfolds – smooth silky paper unfolded, crinkling in the quiet, words read and emotions stirred. Repeated until the sentiments are small enough, insignificant enough, to click into place somewhere in his mind. Until they transform into mere symbols, their meanings floating weightlessly, seamlessly in that black river in his mind's creak. Until the ink has stilled and only the crows above can be heard croaking. 

He’s not sure how he feels about being married to Dream. It makes him happy but it somehow makes his heart heavy like it’s resting on his chest, as stone-weight heavy with anxiety as an actual chest filled with gold. Only when Dream is there, next to him, does he feel like he can move; like he can function. But when he is there, George also feels like he’s living a lie. 

Which he is, lying that is.

This paper is proof of it, he thinks, stroking over the crinkled bits where it has been folded a hundred times just this morning.

This is a receipt of both his lie and their marriage, because maybe George was starting to think-

No. He shakes his head vehemently.

And then the words are folded into a neat, portable bundle that finds its haven in a handmade box, a shrine, inside the bedroom of his mind. That is where they’ll stay. That way, they can be plucked like petals from a cherished flower whenever he desires; recited perfectly. Or he can forget they exist, make them collect dust, if he so wishes.

The actual passage he’ll hide in a biscuit-jar in his office later. The dry kind of cookies, the ones neither Sapnap nor Dream touch. 

He would be online right now, but then there's the streaming world, a small country of keyboard warriors typing out praises to his husband wherever he looks. He doesn't like it. Not vibing with it at all. It – being how everyone just agrees that Dream is fuckable. It threatens to break his patience like glass by just the right frequency. 

He doesn't exactly blame them because duh, but still… 

Actually he does. 

He already knows that little fact very well, it’s not news, so everyone should get over it. 

For heaven's sake, he was right there in the flesh, next to his husband on the baking-stream. Furthermore, it was his stream, and yet – the thirst-chant still persists like a never-ending jingle. It doesn't help that Dream went away, that George has no idea what he’s been doing the last two days beyond a few facetime calls.

Frustration simmers, like an unexpected pop of vinegar in a sweet dish.

While they infiltrate his husband’s DM’s, George is in his and Dream’s bed with his wedding necklace around his neck, clod on his collarbone like a VIP pass to dream-oville, making a subtle clink against his collarbone every move he makes. And he’s reading the resolutions of eternal love he made him on their wedding day. 

They’re the ones daydreaming, not him – he thinks. 

Just as the thought hits, he hears faint distant voices shout from somewhere down the hallway outside the bedroom door. 

He swiftly jumps off the bed, playing ninja by the slightly open door, trying not to touch it so as to not have that creaking hinge-sound give him away. Whether it's sleepy time or high noon, like now, he's got a sixth sense for whose boots are tap-dancing in the corridor – whether Dream's or Sapnap's. He is a floorboard fortune-teller, though he feels more like a wife waiting by the window for her husband to come back from war. 

The footsteps get closer and he knows he’s got the right ones. In a quick shuffle, he's back at the bed's belly. But this time, with his chest hugging the sheets and cursing himself to find some way to look naturally beautifully sexy. His choice of itty-bitty boxer-briefs that barely leave anything to imagination is like a constant thorne in Dream's side, one George prays he will just please pluck, each night. 

The door protests with a subtle creak, surrendering to the gentle force that nudges it open, followed by an abrupt silence, footsteps having stopped and suddenly George’s heart is once again betraying him.

He feigns a lazy stretch, maybe slightly deliberately arching his back, in a way that doesn't at all mimic a cat's movement because despite what anyone says, he’s not akin to some weak little kitty. He’s a tiger, a sexy tiger. He rubs his palm against his nose, eyes fluttering with feigned sleepiness, like he just woke up and prays it looks nothing like a performance in a secondary-school play. 

"Dream?" he murmurs.

His gaze pivots halfway, and there he stands, his hubby, his significant other, his partner-in-crime, totally caught red-handed. One hand clenches the doorknob like it owes him money, its knuckles as pallid as bleached bone, looking like he’ll rip it off if there was a shallow gust of wind flying by. With each replay of this seduction-drama over the past week or two, Dream's eyes further widen, and haven't shrunk back to their regular size since the first time George executed this little stunt. He looks both baffled and frustrated in a way George hasn't seen him since the first time he kissed him. 

Gotcha, he muses internally.

Destiny is grinning with the mischievousness of a fox caught raiding the chicken coop. And the fox – it wants to get George laid. 

"Mhm? Need anything, darling?" he drawls, fighting back a smirk by biting down on his lower lip. An orange-half, is – thanks to Karl's insightful advice – retrieved from the bedside table. The shell is brought up in an arc to get the meat to stand out and brought to his lips. It's like a stage performance, and the orange is the star, ready to dazzle its audience… he hopes. His teeth puncture the fruit's flesh, sinking in with an innocent ease, eyes never leaving his husband's form, but with a glint that's maybe slightly… less innocent. 

Hook, line, and sinker, he silently declares victory, mentally awarding himself a gold medal in the art of bedroom shenanigans.

"Just… eh..." Dream stammers, eyes on George's every move, as if he's trying to decode the secrets of the universe hidden in his chest, legs, and, well, mostly his ass. "I need a charger." Dream's focus follows a route, tracing the edges of George’s mouth and hands where trickles of juice meander, only to dart back up to his eyes, but just for a second. Before it all repeats.

"Oh." 

George shifts his gaze away with a dramatic tilt of his head, projecting nonchalance like a pro. He'd deny stealing any and maybe all ‘ahem’ chargers from Dream's office, but come on, who needs that many? 

"Yeah so…” Dream gestures awkwardly toward the desk in the corner and scuffles towards it. George takes advantage of the moment to indulge in the juicy orange in his hand, watching the warm sunlight paint leaf-shaped shadows on his husband’s skin. He savours it with an exaggerated slurp, and out of the corner of his eye, he amusingly glimpses Dream's back tensing with every sound. As Dream turns back around, George squabbles to look away and adeptly dissects the half, extracting the succulent fruit with his fingers, all the while avoiding direct eye contact. 

“Since when do you eat oranges religiously, anyway?” Dream questions, raiding through drawers with suspicion in his tone. “Since when have we ever gone out and got oranges, because ‘you need it’? Is this another one of those ‘edit my videos Dream’ showing who’s a simp for who, thing?"

"It’s not."

It totally is. 

He's very aware of the citrusy drops that threaten to fall from his hands, so he deftly flicks his tongue to capture them before they stain the mattress.

"B- because if it is, I think-” Dream shakes his head like George is doing something morally wrong right in front of him. “I think we both know who pays the bills around here. Or is this because I went away? Are you being – like – a vindictive house cat left alone for too long?"

"It’s not, I’m not! " he insists.

A few errant droplets evade him, cascading down his chin onto his bare chest, leaving a trail in their wake.

"I’ll- I’ll- I’ll… throw them out the window, or something, watch me." 

"Dream!"

"Then you, you’re next."

"I just want oranges, calm down! Okay! I get it! You don’t have to act like you’re – like – the freaking president! Or whatever." Determinedly, he trails his tongue along his wrist, following the meandering path of the droplets.

"What?"

He pops his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean before popping them out and finally locking eyes with Dream for an errand second, making an effort not to smirk when he sees the white knuckles gripping the desk. He challenges, "You heard me. Just saying… not everything is about you."

"Okay, George… I’m practice-throwing right now," Dream announces, flailing his arms about in a basketball throw dramatically. "You’re going out the window."

"Stop! Okay, I was joking, I was just joking. You’re in control, I swear."

Yeah, right.

"Well… tread closely." Dream quickly shakes his head and quickly corrects himself, "No. Fuck. I mean carefully," yet does so tensely like George himself is a bomb ready to go off any minute. Interesting.

And pfft – he’ll thread as closely and non carefully as he damn well wants to.

Dream turns to face the desk once more, apparently intent on flinging George’s charger out of the outlet in a theatrical display. Like stealing is more important than admiring your half-naked husband. 

What an asshole. 

However, in his haste, his arm jerks unexpectedly, propelling both the charger and arm straight into his unfortunate, stupid whiteboard. 

"Hey, Dream?" George tempts, sitting up in bed whilst his husband tries to steady the idiotic, big thing. It was previously adorned with a painting of a cat that now looks like Picasso's less talented cousin got involved.

"Yes, George?" 

"Care to join me in a little game? You know, just a friendly, spontaneous challenge." He makes his voice flow as smoothly as a polished river stone and he swears he can hear it plop into the water – hook line sinker.

Dream whirls around with an intensity, something burning within his slotted eyes and mouth incredibly opened like it's trying to catch invisible flies. "You're doing this on purpose,” he accuses, throwing up his hands all accusingly accusing as well. “Oh my god, this whole week-" He pauses, struck by a newfound clarity as though a lightning bolt just upgraded his brain to the 2.0 version.

George feigns innocence, "What do you mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about, really. I just have a vitamin D- I mean C deficiency. Want a taste?" he asks, waggling his tantalisingly juicy fingers out in the air over the blanket towards Dream.

"Hey!" Dream lunges forward to grip George's whole hands, smearing the juice between them to keep it from staining the bedsheets."You’re not the one- like- I’m the one who fucking changes the sheets!" he admonishes, his gaze drilling into his husband. George loves it. "This is insane behaviour. Off the charts. I’m actually throwing you out the window. I’m seriously tempted, George. Are you actually this desperate?" 

George tilts his head, feigning confusion. "I actually don’t understand. What do you mean? Like… I genuinely have no idea what you're talking about. I’m just eating. Is eating in bed illegal now?" He somewhere in the sentence starts to pull on Dream’s arm, and to his surprise, meets no struggle, bringing him closer to the middle of the bed. Subsequently, his husband's form suddenly appears looming over him, one knee up on the mattress. "But… If you're so eager to throw me around, I'm not exactly protesting… if you want it so bad."

Dream huffs incredulously, his tongue poking at the side of his mouth, chest rising and falling with indignant energy.  "You know what? I'm gonna-"

George cuts him off by squeezing the fruit-half between their clasped hands and audaciously licking up the orange juice trailing along the side of Dream’s, all the way up to his pinky. "You'll what, Dream?" he teases, his eyes dancing mischievously.

"I’m… I’m like… deleting every project of yours I have… And, and-" Dream threatens breathlessly. George pops his pointer finger into his mouth. "-Fuck. Like… and posting every embarrassing photo since twenty-sixteen."  

"Dre-eam..." George drags out his husband's name, a sly grin curving his lips as he pops his finger out of his mouth audibly. He tugs Dream even closer, inching back toward the headboard. "Lets not fight. At least not with our pants still on."

"You don’t even have pants on!" He protests meekly, yet following George’s lead like he’s on a leash, like a well-trained pup. Dream obediently climbs onto the bed, backing George against the pillows he’d previously propped-up by the headboard, just for this moment. If he’s having Dream atop of him, he needs some lower support, let's be honest.

"Yes, I do."

"Yeah, well... no, that's like... that's such British bullshit"

Dream allows George to lick his fingers clean and then, with a tug at the elastic waistband of his jeans and pants, he draws Dream closer, almost toppling over him. Admittedly a little less gracefully than anticipated. Then, he loops his legs over Dream’s hips, making himself a little prison ball as he watches his husband brace himself with one hand on the headboard to maintain balance after George’s forceful move.

"Yeah?" George replies, bracing his elbows against the soft mattress and getting all up in Dream’s face, a mischievous grin dancing on his lips.

"Yeah."

He switches to the second orange half, bringing it to his mouth from the bedside table, taking a juicy bite that lets the citrus nectar dribble down his chin, glistening like liquid gold, he’s sure. At least that’s how he has to imagine, or he will fold. "I bet…" he begins. "I bet you can’t lick up every drop of orange juice from my body," he continues to murmur provocatively and listens to Dream's sharp intake of air between his teeth.

Changing his perch, he raises his other, free hand, still reeking of citrus like a failed orange perfume experiment, and gets a grip on Dream's tangled locks, planting a smooch on his self-nibbled lips, allowing him to taste the tangy sweetness. He almost goes cross-eyed scanning Dream's eyes for any sign of a potential escape plan, but nope, just a husband looking like he's witnessed a car accident. Undeterred, George pushes the boundaries, using the hair grip to tilt Dream's head and sneak his tongue into Dream's mouth. The headboard emits a creak somewhere in the background, though that might be the foundation of George’s entire being when Dream finally gives in, moaning desperately and slowly begins kissing back. 

And then slowly becomes quickly. 

And then quickly becomes quicker.

And then quicker becomes “oh my god yes.”

Dream's breaths become urgent and ragged against George’s cheek once they break free and George has never lived through anything hotter. And he is so sure he has him, that he’s winning this game. He feels liquid gliding down his hand and dripping onto the mattress beneath it, but who cares? So lost in the moment, he barely realises his own hand is turning that orange into a desperate pulp. Because he has him. He has him biting harshly into his shoulder, grinding so perfectly. He has that perfect dick against him, against his. He's certain he has Dream right where he wants him – his victory is imminent and George is trailing that hand from his blonde-brown curls down, down, down, around – to slither down Dream’s stomach, arching his own body, wanting to feel more, always more, and finally trying to reach into Dream’s jeans and then pants.

That is, only to get forcefully pushed in a move that successfully dislodges George's one-elbow prop, and suddenly he’s back down, prone onto the mattress and subsequently, that hand retreats from its pants quest. 

He was so close.

"Stop," Dream growls and it’s baffling. George is tilting his head like a dog who has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to do.

“What?” Idiot. What is Dream even doing? Why? Why the hell not? He wants to scream but he’s still got some dignity and this – has to be a joke, surely. George has looked in a mirror before.

Dream just stares, like always, reverting back into the perfect little abstinent schoolboy. George thinks it's time to train his puppy, reward-punishment style. A playful laugh escapes him as he raises the orange half, deliberately squeezing juice onto the freshly laundered white duvet that normally has a whiff of sandalwood but is now getting a citrusy makeover. 

Hopefully, soon it won't just smell of oranges either.

"Okay, daddy," George jests.

"Oh my god! Fuck, stop! George!" Dream's hand tries to halt him, but the action only succeeds in squeezing the orange even harder. "Fuck you. Fuck your stupid orange-eating ass." Dream sounds like he's not impressed, to say the least. George isn't entirely sure which action Dream is referring to – the juicy comments or the actual juice squeezing. 

"Now it’s already dirty, so what’s a little more? Doesn't matter if we dirty it more, right? Can’t you feel it?" George giggles, mock-whispering, as he brings their joined hands clasping the orange toward his collarbones. He gives it a good squeeze, causing the juice to cascade down both their hands, onto his neck – catching in the dips on his collarbone, then down to his chest. And also of course, stream down their arms onto the mattress. It’s everywhere. It’s a sticky situation. "I’m literally dripping for you. Sugary and sweet, baby," he jokes, the sarcasm as thick as the juice covering them. And fuck, he should have drunk for this, because all he can do is laugh and think that’s cringey. 

It better work.

Because it’s not a joke.

He wants to baptise Dream in oranges.

Dream, however, reacts like he's auditioning for the world's calmest statue. Not exactly the desired effect; not ideal at all. 

He wants him panting, grunting.

So George cranks it up. "No more excuses. I think my legs would look great over your shoulders. We should test the theory. I also really like the colour blue, and I would like to be painted in it, thanks." 

Dream’s eyes flutter open, and George mentally does a victory dance.

"Maybe I’m vanilla, a gentleman – George," Dream mutters, yet his arms are already in motion – immobilising George's legs, folding them by his hips, holding tightly. Like George is the one in this scenario who’ll freak out. 

"I don’t want gentle," he quickly hisses. "I really hope you're lying right now, choir boy. Guess what? I want to cry on your dick," George whispers, utterly unashamed. Not at all embarrassed or with red cheeks. Nope. He’s a vixen, really. Dream's gaze twitches, almost like he wants to look down and witness the explicit image George is painting with his words. "I want you to use me. I want you so gone you can’t even think about my pleasure and you’re just – just rutting and grunting," he confesses, his words barely audible between them, but his arousal screams loud and clear in his mind and surely, Dream can feel it too. 

"George…” Dream accentuates the name by pinching George’s thigh hard as fuck and watches the pained expression. The absolute sadist. "You don’t even know… I- I want you – like – absolutely ruined.” George has never smiled as hard or crazed as he is at this moment. “But you- you always talk a big game, we always do this back and forth, but then you pussy out everytime. You-" 

The smiles drop.

"Not with this," George interrupts confidently. He’s been pushed past shame. "I literally dream about the warmth when you come inside me. About sucking you and crying and snotting on your cock, and you still pushing my head down." Why won’t he just understand that?

Dream suddenly looks spellbound.

"Dream – please."

"... No," he breathes out like it’s a tragedy, ripping his hair out like he’s auditioning for a fucking Shakespear play he’s been practising all life for. 

George is actually going to go on a killing spree. Goodbye future citizenship. Goodbye voting. 

It’s like fucking your husband isn't an easy decision, instant yes please. George wants to ask to speak in looks, he finds that rather easier to understand. 

"Why?" he asks sternly, objectively, not like the answer might break him into a million tiny little pieces. Must be that dick.

"I don’t want to take advantage," he whispers like he’s tethering between insane and crying. George hates it and he loves it. Loves that he can push him to that point.

Mainly, because all George can hear in Dream's tone is a hidden plea: convince me. 

"You’re not. I want this."  Dream has no idea. If only he knew how much.

"I don’t know if you’ve noticed – but you’re acting kinda off. Your brain, like something’s… weird. Just off. And I don’t know why, I can’t put my finger on it, but George-," he squeezes George's thigh with a grip that conveys either a desperate reluctance to let go or a punishment, but instead ends up rubbing their crotches together and inciting loud unpredictable moans. He closes his eyes panting, and George is certain a kaleidoscope of colours must be adorning the inside of Dream's eyelids because George can sure as hell feel them fissing inside his own brain right now. "-something’s very obviously wrong," he continues in a whisper, his voice barely more than a breath and George knows he’s trying to convince himself, because now there’s a grinding motion picking up and fuck. "I’m terrified you’re going to wake up one day and regret this. And I’ll lose you for something so stupid."

George licks his lips, holds onto Dream’s middle and grinds right back up into him, trashing his head on his pillow… And now, here’s the thing, George may be a little morally corrupt, and whilst he’s not proud of it – usually – he’s also very pretty and he thinks that makes up for it, honestly. So, at times he's not a very decent person, and he definitely doesn't want to be decent in the other sense right now. With that said, he tries to prop himself up on his elbows again, getting closer to his husband, clutching desperately against the pleasure and pace Dream refuses to pick up; it’s slow and careful like he thinks it might still be undiscovered. Then George is shrugging his shoulders and plastering on a smile the best he can as if what he's about to say is a joke. 

Like it’s not his last lifeline. 

"Don’t treat me like a child. If you don’t touch me, I could probably just go out and find someone who will." He tosses out the words casually, as if he's discussing what to have for dinner. Like he’s not casually threatening divorce. 

George would never of course, would never find someone else to- he can’t even think it, and Dream knows he would never do that in a million years because he’s literally promised to him for eternity. It’s so obviously fake.

Dream still breaks like fine china. The eruption resonates in his skull like a tolling bell, as before he realises it, his husband has seized the base of his throat, by his necklace, driving him into the pillow so angrily that it genuinely takes him by surprise and leaves him breathless. 

"What happened to no sudden movements?" he pants.

“Shut up.”

Oh my god, George thinks. Dick: hard. Thirst: trapped.

With Dream’s probing hands groping him all over, George is suddenly helpless in his arms. Fingernails bite into his wrists, lips are licking up the orange all over his collarbones, bodies are sticking together every deep brutal thrust, arms are snaking around his middle and crushing him against the larger form and he is riddled with shivers. His ribs are being mangled in an effort to keep him in place as if afraid that giving George room to breathe might somehow provide the opportunity for someone else to take Dream’s place, as if there was anyone else that could.

This newfound control over Dream, the jealousy he just gave away, is going to lead to such a spectacular abuse of power. It makes George feel like a child building sandcastles too close to shore. He’s always re-building whatever gets washed off, always anxious that the tides will wash it away completely or that another child will tear it down when he’s not looking, and if it ever does slip between his fingers – he’s raising hell. 

"Fine. You wanna be a fucking brat, is this what you want?" Dream's words are a growl, his fingers spreading the fruity residue as he raises and slightly – more a threat than anything – presses down on George’s windpipe. 

Like George would ever say no to that.

“Yes.” Sounds wonderful, he is in.  

Dream’s hands run down his inner thighs, closer, closer to his dick; eyes that murky green lily-pond George sees his future reflected in.

"You want me to ruin you for anyone else? Even yourself?" Dream asks, which is not very modest of him.

But then, as he hesitates. And that won’t do. George struggles against him and pulls his hand that last inch closer to cupping his dick.

"That's… presumptuous, no?" George sputters, his face likely flushed crimson and adorned with a crazed smile, bubble-like laughter trapped in his throat. He thrives on this, revels in it; loves it.

"Shut up. Take your underwear off." 

"Yes sir," George responds instantly, his fingers trembling as they navigate the removal of his pants, while he makes sure to maintain at least one leg entwined with Dream's, for security. He could still  run awa-... slide off the bed... and that would be highly embarrassing.

Dream doesn't even glance down, doesn't give his exposed dick even a hint of acknowledgment. No greeting; terribly rude.

"I'm still not going to fuck you."

Somewhere, angels weep. 

"Oh my god!" George exclaims in a mixture of frustration and desperation. "Please please please please-" Begging is bound to work one of these times, Dream likes George desperate, it’s so obvious.  

"No." 

"Please! I'll say it however many times you want. I'll post it on Twitter. I'll go live right now and stream the audio of you fucking me in one of those twitter space-thingies." 

Dream, being the compassionate soul he is, increases the pressure on George's neck and it’s good, it’s such a tease. Clearly, he's a big fan of suspense, but right now George can't appreciate the spa treatment when he can't breathe enough to bicker back. 

"Shut up. You’re full of shit. You would not. Never in a million years."

He underestimates George’s sheer level of horniness. This hunger. And he’ll live to regret it.

George attempts a dramatic reach for his phone, but Dream swiftly apprehends both of his hands with one of his own and then George forgets what he was supposed to do because he’s so horny and so hard. What the fuck? 

"Okay, I'm all ears."

"Stay still," Dream orders, his hands deftly working on his own belt. 

George nods eagerly, heart pounding like a drumroll. He can do that. Sounds great. Sounds like an excellent plan. It sounds like Dream is trying to take off his own trousers. “I can do still. It's a talent. I have a talent for it; a gift,” he croaks out. 

The buckle clunks against something, and soon enough, it's being drawn out of its loops. "I'm going to tie your hands to the headboard because, let's be honest, I don't trust you not to do something stupid. Like shake your fucking head and die or stream this because your slow-ass broken brain suddenly thinks that would be hilarious, okay?"

"Yes. Fine." 

Dream expertly loops the belt around itself, securing George's wrists into two loops and then cinching it around the headboard, giving it a practice tug. It's practically Fort Knox. This isn't amateur hour; they've clearly rehearsed this before, and that makes him irrationally giddy. If Dream were to leave him like this though, his car is getting keyed and there will be very large rocks in the washing machine and-

George schools himself to keep his head on his shoulders, but Dream’s stupid big surgeon hands are making that increasingly hard. Then he bends down to nip at the sensitive skin of George’s neck who promptly arches into it and almost misses the whisper, "If we're doing this… like – terms and conditions do apply," He meets George's gaze close, so close he once again almost goes cross-eyed. "Do you understand?" 

“Terms and-” They’re already married, what does Dream think Goerge is going to get pregnant? "Yes, well – right, yes. Sure." He would probably agree to take another dive into the pavement at this point. From the nearest skyscraper… Or is Dream into something really freaky? Needing explicit consent – contractual – type of freaky? O-oooh. Now he’s even more interested. 

"I suck you off or I eat you out, choose one." And if that isn't one of the wonders of this world… but that’s not according to plan.

"Or you can fu-"

"Or I leave you here and let you scream for Sapnap when you start starving to death." 

"I mean – fu-...cking eating out it is. Let me finish talking, I was just getting there," George babbles as Dream's tongue trails down his body, diligently cleaning up the sticky remnants of orange juice. And even if George loses that particular bet, he’s already won because Dream currently has one of his nipples in his mouth and George is almost unconscious from asphyxia, grinding against him, and Dream is big and so-so hard just by this. By him. It shouldn't be a revelation and of course George doesn't almost come on the spot, that would be embarrassing…. But it’s…. Indescribable heat in the very fiery pit of his stomach. Like a furnace full of coal.

 The twist though? Dream is still fully clothed. This is going too slow. He wants to demand a striptease, but let's face it – demands haven't exactly been going great as of late. 

But lo and behold, the gods seem to have heard George's silent plea. Dream's tongue goes lower, later departing from his belly button, and George arches to keep him there, almost sending Dream tumbling. That is, until he realises that Dream is sitting up to throw his jersey and T-shirt into the abyss in one swift motion. The landing is heard, since it knocks something somewhere over, but who the fuck cares? 

His husband half-naked? Breathtaking. But before George’s brain can even make that camera shutter noise and etch it into his memory, Dream's broad shoulders descend once again. Swearing, cussing, he sinks down. George lets out a yelp as strong arms encircle his thighs, roughly tugging him down the bed – closer to Dream – though George suspects the actual intention is to insure he feels his wrists bruising . With a little help, he hooks his knees over Dream’s shoulders and sprawls back, fingernails scratching into his flesh. 

Not that George minds. Bruises and arousal share a common fabric: blood surging to a part of the body desperate for attention. How could he mind? He loves this – how he doesn't need to lift a finger, how his body is laid bare and ready, taking whatever Dream serves. Yet, a tinge of melancholy creeps in because his fingers are little prisoners, robbed of the pleasure of running down between his husband's legs. 

“You want this though, right?” George blurts out before Dream can make any further move. He needs Dream to crave this just as much, or else, what the hell is he getting hims- 

Dream pauses somewhere by his hips, warm breath fanning over George’s erection so unfairly, so shiver-envokingly and before George can cry out at the roof, Dream hoarsely breathes out, “Gods – fuck yes,” like this is his make-a-wish.

George must look positively stupefied, and he is. He will also be the first person to die of finding his husband too hot as half of Dream's face disappears lower – lower – still lower, completely ignoring George's eager erection, eyes locked together so intimately. 

Dream keeps eye contact and spits into his hand, and subsequently, George’s eyes are somewhere inside his head. Then, fingertips are rubbing between his balls and his hole, going lower, against his now wet hole and-

If George sounds like a wounded animal, it’s because he’s just won.

Fingers are stroking up and down, swirling around, barely pressing against the tension of his rim so teasingly. 

Dream chuckles all derisively, then chuckles more when George’s erection flags and then, he’s throwing a verbal grenade, "Eat the rich, right?" Daring George to fire back with something snarky. The nerve. The arms keep George spread wide, exposed, and helpless. Dream’s arms have a deathgrip looped around his thighs, keeping George spread wide, exposed and helpless, and George knows he begged for this, yearned to witness it more than anything, but now it feels different. Like a plunge. 

It feels… it feels… like death and rebirth when Dream licks one broad stripe and then blows cold air over his- that place and he’s not sure what sound he makes, because he’s never heard it before.

He feels the sensation of Dream's tongue trailing right behind his balls, and his chest rises so high with his inhale that he's sure he could count his own ribs with how the skin stretches taught. Dream is a tease, his tongue dancing around George's sensitive area, his eyes locked onto George's, waiting for any sign of protest or demands, he’s not sure which. He’s not sure which one would make him stop either and which would encourage him. So George bites his tongue, literally and metaphorically. 

For his remarkable restraint, a valiant effort indeed, he’s rewarded. Dream's tongue delivers another broad, bold swipe over his hole, and surely he feels the way George's body jerks involuntarily, his hole twitching, because he can in no way control it, nor the loud moan that escapes his lips. 

Surprisingly, Dream doesn't shush him or tell him to shut the fuck up like last time. George’s puzzlement must show in his expression, because Dream responds with a derisive mutter, "I don’t give a fuck what he thinks you’re doing, I'm not the one moaning like a whore." It’s awfully, awfully awful and disrespectful, and he gets this odd sense that he could come from the sheer sound of Dream's scathing voice alone. It's like déjà vu – like that has happened before. 

But all coherent thoughts evaporate when Dream decides he’s done fucking around. Dream transitions from teasing to full-on action. He devours George's ass as if he’s been the one who's been getting starved from S-tier sex for goddamn ages. He is burying his whole face between George’s cheeks, licking into him, making electric pulses dance up George’s nerves to his brain, and doing it like he has to devour him. And George is such a willing human sacrifice on his altar. His tongue suddenly rubs, probes, and his fingers massages around George's prostate from the outside. Dream's beard scrapes against his skin, it will most surely scuff him raw like sandpaper. 

It’s perfect.

His legs are trembling beyond his control, and he thinks he’s laughing but the wetness by his eyes says something else as Dream sucks and kisses and feasts.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re- I lo- Mh" he moans.

"I’m what?" Dream asks between prods, with spit stuck in his beard, all over his face.

"You’re… everything," he whispers, not sure why his mind screams that Dream maybe shouldn't know that. "-It’s nothing. You’re good, just good, good – so good." He's tempted to beg Dream not to stop, but he knows Dream's sadistic tendencies – he'd probably get a kick out of the irony.

“Just good?”

“NO, that’s not what I-”

George's eyes squeeze shut with an intensity that's almost physically painful when Dream suddenly revamps his efforts. He feels the wet streaks of overstimulation run down his face,  and breathes erratically in the only way breathing is possible right now. 

He gets a small reprieve once Dream sits up, spits over his hole, and finally looks at George’s dick when it waves hello.

Yet right after, George is being flipped onto his stomach, arms twisting in a way that arms are not supposed to be twisted and it hurts but he trusts Dream implicitly. He can’t remember why but he also can’t remember a single time he hasn't, so he immediately spreads his legs wider and digs his nails into his palms, readying himself for whatever comes next. 

Some of the overwhelmness must have shown, because now steady hands massage the sides of his hips until he relaxes into the mattress, allowing Dream's hands to guide him. 

Something cool and slick glides over his asshole, too slick to be spit, and he attempts to twist to see what it is, his cheek making friends with the pillow. Lo and behold, it's Dream holding half an orange. 

"If it burns – I don’t care. Cry about it."

Dream would like that, wouldn't he? It does sting slightly, or maybe George wishes it did. 

He doesn't care either way, because his attention is captivated by the sight of Dream's exposed chest and the erection straining most likely painfully against his fly. They should make trousers illegal, he thinks. 

Dream dives back in, moaning around George, tasting him. It’s glorious, it trigger a response moan like they’re howling fucking wolves and George can’t help but laugh at the thought, only to get brutally bit on his ass-cheek. 

“Aooch!”

"You taste so fucking good, baby."

That successfully shuts him up and has him hiding his face in the pillow. And yeah, that’s… his dick is twitching with urgency against the duvet, trying to launch into orbit, and he’s already close but he doesn't move. He does not grind down because Dream has a deathgrip on his hips, because Dream hasn't told him he can, because he doesn't want to ruin the rhythm. Many reasons. Because his limbs won’t listen, because he’s being electrified from his ass, because they’re too heavy and he just wants Dream to take care of him, to decide everything, to push him to his limits. 

His hands are burning, grinding bones and it’s great, it's all he wants. He wants Dream to steer him through life's decisions, even the mundane ones like choosing which side to wake up on or how to butter toast. He wants to offer up his entire life to his husband, and everything in between, to place himself at Dream's command and follow without hesitation.  

But he also kinda wants to hold his hands, intertwine their fingers around George’s waist because he needs something to hold onto whilst his husband’s tongue is doing wonders inside him. Fuck. He's lost track of time; the pillow beneath his head is soaked again, and the sounds of his own catching sobs fill the air as his pleasure is raising, raising, always raising.

"Dream. Close. Please let me come, please."

Dream's lips kiss the base of his spine. "Good boy. Grind back on my face, defy the mattress, baby."

Oh my god, George thinks. He can’t just say things like that and have it be legal. 

The commands, the endearments – they intertwine like a spell. George can't believe the absurdities that Dream spews, but following the orders now feels as natural as breathing. His pride is cast aside, replaced by a willingness to surrender to Dream's every whim. He dances to the rhythm dictated by his husband, who's got a firm grip on George's waist, rocking him like a ship in a storm. The mattress kind of hurts against his dick, but again – who cares? It’s frantic, it’s animalistic, it’s everything.

A sharp bite on his butt-cheek precedes Dream's two – probably, that can’t be one, surely? – fingers making a grand entrance into George, and his world shatters. The fingers bend and twist, expertly pressing against his prostate in a wave-like motion, all synchronised with the tongue action. And yeah, that’s the magic formula. That's all it takes to unravel him.

It’s genius. It’s the key to his being.

George goes taut before trembling uncontrollably. He’s unable to hear anything over the rush in his own ears, but he knows what he sounds like in orgasm: filthy, desperate. The duvet beneath them is now a canvas, further stained and dirtied for real. 

Dream lets him ride the waves of orgasm, licking leisurely.

George resurfaces from the depths of sensation to find Dream's big wrist near his face, he notes distantly. Another hand presses into his back, holding him down as his husband's grunts suddenly fill his ear. And as his hearing gradually returns, George becomes aware of the sounds – wet skin on skin, those guttural moans, the way they catch on each inhale like breathing is a task. The harsh bites against the back of his neck over his necklace, his Dream takes it in his mouth and licks the orange off George’s sunkissed skin. God.

He tries to twist his head immediately because Dream is jerking off over his body, and it’s revolutionary, like being plunged into ice-water. But alas, his husband pushes his head back down into the pillow, lightly grips his neck, and sits on his thighs, and he can do nothing about it.

"Want to see," he mumbles, boneless and his voice weighted.

"No," Dream responds, bending down to capture George's tears with his mouth, kisses, and thus, he can physically feel his dick press against his spine, the wetness, the size. 

George doesnt think eyes are supposed to open as wide as his does right now.

"Yes," he tries to insist, hiss, but his words are swallowed by a kiss, silencing him completely. He forgets to move, little less think. His wet eyelashes leave imprints on Dream’s cheek, he can feel it, the domesticity.

Dream's climax approaches, and George sleeping hopes, prays maybe, that he’s going to write his autobiography on the space on George’s back, so hard the ink is going to bleed through the page. Permeate – tattoo itself – and never leave his skin. Just as the thought hits, he feels a profoundly wetter sensation than the orangy tangy stickiness between them hitting his back in spurts. Dream stills above him, his grip on the duvet white-knuckled, his voice moaning, chanting George's name like a sacrificial mantra. 

If it’s a summoning for an erection, it works. George wants to go again. Surely that’s enough cum to open him up. For Dream to push that giant thing inside. 

And if it’s not, he’ll wear the tears with pride. 

He goes to tell Dream this wonderful idea, but before he can articulate his urge, Dream’s prized possession is back inside its denim confines, hastily refastened and the belt is already releasing from the headboard, getting gently pried from George’s skin that it must have melted into when his skin turned into the burning sun, surely.

If he’s not getting dicked down this fine afternoon, then George decides he wants to sleep. His body yearns for it, exhaustion seeping through his very bones, but Dream's insistence tugs him back to reality. And tugs him off the bed too. The duvet is whisked away when he blinks, a magician's trick performed in plain sight. George's hand is enveloped by Dream's suddenly, and he observes the sight with a sense of detached curiosity, as if he's watching someone else's life unfold. 

It sort of feels like a dream when they move into the bathroom. Dream guides him onto the toilet seat before starting the shower's cascade. In the mirror, George catches a glimpse of a man thoroughly ravished, looking fucked out like he’s been through a blender. He closes the door, and as Dream’s fingers brush against the light switch, George halts him. The mirror's slight reflection is enough to reveal his debauched state. 

"Can you shower by yourself?"

"No." The denial is swift, but It’s a lie nonetheless. Dream knows it’s a lie. He still shampoos George’s hair in the dark and lathers sandal-wood smelling soap into every part of his body, every nook and cranny, washing his own come off the smaller who wants to protest but can’t find a reasonable reason to do so. Then, a warmed up towel gets wrapped around him. 

Dream decides the bedclothes need a transformation, so George theatrically sprawls himself onto the carpet in the bedroom like a fallen hero or maybe as though he's a sultan reclining on his throne of tasselled rugs. Either way, he gets an exasperated look thrown at him.

Then, like a gentle giant, Dream lifts him from his bizarre throne and deposits him back onto the bed, a rebirth of sorts on this freshly laundered altar. Meanwhile, Dream takes his exit, embarking on a second water ballet within the bathroom walls because he won’t get naked in front of his husband but he’ll come on his back for some reason.

That’s fine. It’s so fine.

As George's fingers tap-dance across his phone's screen, they're met with a message from Karl. The one and only. The god. Sex-Gandalf, George muses, appearing at the right moment with his wizardry and profound advice. George will bow to his unparalleled wisdom.

Karl 13.05

hey 

now that I think about it…

might have been peaches

George's response echoes his profound gratitude.

George 13.46

owe you my life

youre a genius

Sapnap's barrage of profane emojis remains ignored. So what if he heard? George is too busy being a devotee at the Temple of Karl to care about Sapnap's digital tantrums.

He goes to open twitter instead, because he doesn't want to fall asleep yet, not without Dream. Yet, as he navigates the app, he is bombarded with a flood of mentions, like… more than usual. He initially suspects Larray mentioned him. Because usually when it’s scandalous, that’s the case – and George finds it annoyingly hilarious.

However, as he dives into this virtual ocean, he's greeted not by Larray's humorous havoc, but by a clip of Sapnap streaming. The volume is being cranked up, George's ears attuned to the unfolding events. Sapnap's voice fills the room like an insect rubbing its legs together. 

It’s just some jackbox game Sapnap apparently played with a bunch of friends, the usual screaming, laughing, and jestering. Now that he thinks about it, Sapnap might have asked George to join whilst he was scheming… oh well. George is somewhat entertained watching, but why the fuck would people be sending him it so-

And then he hears it.

Well… Everyone heard it. 

An uncomfortable pit forms in George's stomach, as if he's been hit by a comical anvil of embarrassment. The whole jackbox-call on the screen has gone deadly silent. Like… twelve people have collectively sworn off talking, judging by the discord symbols that were previously showing up when they were talking. Now the circles are all gone. It’s barren. 

He doesn't even want to think about how many viewers they all had. His cheeks blaze red. Redder than the shower made him, more red than the sex-flush. 

The walls have ears, he realises. About twenty thousand of them.

Sapnap's voice carries the weight of silent incredulity as he desperately tries to laugh off the scandalous revelation. "What the fuck. No no no chat," he stammers, a playful symphony of denial. "He’s fucking with me. He knows I’m live. I told him. That’s literally so fake sounding as well, good try though George. Moan a little louder will you? Bro, you’re literally just embarrassing yourself, when you think about it… For no reason."

The rest of the call falls into giggles as well, merry chaos – taunting him as though he's the punchline. And Dream, not that they know that. Except Karl, George notes, who stays very very silent. And his silence speaks volumes. He’s even got this face on when Sapnap opens discord over the game-interface – like – he wants to laugh but also doesn't want George to kill him for this discretion.

No way George can get off that easily, they must have known what he and Dream were doing… they’re married for fuck’s sake! What do married couples do?! Fuck!

George's impulse to bury his face in his hands and then those in the pillow is huge. It’s so embarrassing he can’t even bring it up to Dream. 

But he doesn't regret it. Not for a second. 

So what if the price is a whole ass sea of crimson shame and echoing laughter?

Plus, he unwittingly marked his territory; effectively staked his claim. Didn't he? 

‘Listen how good he fucks me, listen how much he wants me.’ 

That doesn't sound too bad, right? It’s fine… This might not be so bad after all. Suddenly, the embarrassment doesn't taste so sour. It tastes sweet like orange juice.

Or maybe that’s the post-sex hormones. We’ll see, he thinks.

He takes a three-hour nap in his husband's arms, so who’s really winning here anyways?

𖤓 ☾

That dusky evening – alone in their bathroom – in front of the mirror, he acts like this love is cheap and vulgar, dirty. That it’s not everything. That Dream is a locker-room secret. But everyday without fail – come the night's curtain call – he steps into the private bedroom of his mind and unveils it behind the white sheets. The room is dusty and used for storage, filled with cobwebs. Yet, what he unveils is polished to perfection and gleams with an immaculate sheen, so much that he can make out his own reflection. He knows – subconsciously –- that it’s there, even when covered up. He dreams of it like it’s gold and as thick as oil, resistant even to the spread of water, to rust, to touch, to eternity.

He never even saw Dream so much as open his jeans, still – he wants to know him far more naked than without his clothes on. He wants the part of him he refuses to give.

Henceforth, he avoids the mirror as if this thing might turn up to haunt him if he says its name three times out loud.

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

For once, George manages to defy the laws of the universe and wake up before his slumbering husband, and Dream didn't even go to sleep at six am. His nose is buried in Dream’s chest, rubbing against the hair there and the smell of oranges penetrate his nose still, almost a day later. He lays there for… he doesn't even know how long. The morning sun spills into the room, casting a warm glow on Dream's skin and it apparently warps time somehow, and George is currently studying it. In the sole search of academia, of course. As the clock ticks away, he does however succumb to the ancient art of procrastination, just scrolling the bottomless pit that is youtube and maybe still sneaking some glances at his sleeping husband and his curls against the new white sheets, maybe sneaking some pictures too. So… he can continue the study. The sun truly is illuminating Dream's skin like it's auditioning for a skincare commercial, he muses.

He steadily ignores twitter, not ready for the clusterfuck his own actions may have caused that he also does not think he should need to take any accountability for. After all, him and Dream were like unintentional models. It’s Sapnap’s fault when you think about it, and his accidental paparazzi horseshit. George is a living work of art alongside Dream, when you think about it a second time, and Sapnap's at fault for turning their lives into an accidental reality show. He lives with a known married couple and streams in prime-time fuck-hours? He ought to be shamed, George decides.

When his stomach protests and he finally decides to listen to it, he feels like he's extricating himself from a tangle of abnormally large limbs trying to  get out of bed. Limbs reminiscent of those octopuses that haunt the deep sea that you see in horror films or nature documentaries, he thinks, or… well, possibly other – less educational – types of films too. 

Skipping down the stairs because he finally got – kinda – laid? Not George’s style. No joyous humming or twirling at the bottom like he's a Disney princess. No ma'am. The journey to the kitchen? Definitely not a merry dancing affair. It's a quest actually, a caffeine-deprived odyssey. Sex sure does tire you out, he thinks, a groundbreaking discovery. He walks past the hallway mirror and sees a smugly smiling man.

Coffein is the holy grail, but alas, Dream despises the very essence of coffee. Well, the smell at least. Even George's milky, sugary concoctions earn a disdainful glare. Not that George is a coffee enthusiast, but he's not about to lose a finger attempting to snatch Sapnap's monster energy drinks. Green tea it is, then – the sophisticated choice. 

But, how could he have foreseen that the hot drink machine-thingy might as well be extraterrestrial tech? Each button press feels like deciphering an alien code, futile. Maybe the appliances are onto him. Maybe they recognize that he’s from a different universe or something, and now they’re rebelling. Great. This is when a helpful husband becomes indispensable. The unsung hero of domestic warfare is sorely missed in these trying times but Dream is blissfully unaware, probably dreaming about a world where coffee doesn't exist, George muses whilst banging his fist rhythmically against the idiotic defiant machine, because this always worked to coerce the old sturdy TV set on that antique crochet-cloth-covered table in the quaint old house by the creek back in Bright– 

He halts. 

His wrist throbs somewhere in the back of his mind. 

What was that? Something, a feeling or memory – he supposes, just turned his blood to ice in a split second. 

It doesn't feel like a memory though, it feels like a past life. Like a relic from the Stone Age he's in the museum being told about. A slow, heavy breath follows, accompanied by a pang in his chest and fleeting dark spots clouding his vision. 

Of course, it's just caffeine withdrawal, right?

Anyway, the machine is the stupid broken thing, not him. 

Because he's fine.

It finally lights up, with a swift click of all the buttons available, and George goes to grab a mug and realises that the entire kitchen has conspired against him. He grumbles about the downside of being married to someone as disgustingly – filthy – wealthy as Dream: a million kitchen drawers. Befuddling, is what it is.

Okay… All he’s looking for is a mug, a simple mug. How hard can it be to find a single mug in this colossal kitchen? Where do Dream get them when George demands them? Do they have a secret butler?

He opens the next cupboard with a bit too much force, celebrating inwardly for all of one second upon seeing the cups whilst feeling the whoosh of air created – disturb his bangs.

And then, a vivid picture-flash, like a snapshot from an old camera – floods his mind. It’s a mug, crystal clear in his mind's eye – a big one, brimming with Earl Grey tea. Though the liquid itself isn't visible, he knows it's Earl Grey with half a sugar cube. 

The image flickers like an old reel, moving from right to left and back again. refusing to stop in the middle. 

He envisions the cup as dangerously full, like the water surface would break and liquid flow down its sides if you were to add one more drop. And he is afraid, petrified, that any loud sound might jolt it, no – her , causing the hot tea to spill over and leading to panic for those red-painted nails tightly clutching it. He is afraid of scalding those thin accusing fingers with boiling-hot tea just as much as he is afraid of the scolding he'll receive. The cup, he recalls, is real porcelain, adorned with painted cats, and even though he can’t really see red, those red nails seem to leap out like splashes of wine on a pristine white linen dress or, in this case, a bathrobe. On one hand, they encircle the mug, and with the other hand – they wave him away dismissively at the same time. She waves George away from her. 

To her, there's no need for her to lift her eyes from the newspaper she's engrossed in.

George remembers her.

Well… the essence of her. He remembers of   her.

Not her face. 

He remembers her simmering anger, her disconnect.

How could he forget?

His mother harboured the kind of anger he believes some women possess by default, maybe genetically. One he’s also seen in his sister. It was like she had something to say – no – something to scream, yet she thought that no one would listen to it or believe it so she kept it in. It infiltrated every interaction like a silent but poisonous venom, ceaselessly brewing but never quite overflowing, just like that mug. An anger that inevitably evolved into resentment. It seeped into her chest as much as his, for though he loved her, he did not particularly like his mother.

The tension within her never dissolved like the sugar in her warm tea. 

The image of her face eludes him, try as he might.

Fortunately, that's not a crucial detail, as she never bothers to look at him.

In his recollection, he's a small figure, barely able to peer over the edge of the polished wooden table. It had just been waxed, and so the veneer was vulnerable to dents if you were to scratch it with your nails – dig them in – but he knew better by now than to attempt that. The air holds whiffs of dust, because though the house was always clean, it was also very old. Though that day it smelled more sweet, the scent of sugar biscuits. 

She suddenly hushes him with that unnerving shrill " hush ," a sound he's grown far too accustomed to, though he didn't know before this where he remembered it from. 

Then comes the command, "Go play, George. Outside . But no running. Be careful around Grandma's vase and the delicate porcelain." 

She really never casts her eyes upon him.

Still, her judgement extends even to his friends – which is downright ludicrous considering she's barely ever in the same room as him, much less his friends. She’s not around. He should know, sometime later in life, he searched for her in all of the corners of the world that fateful day in the bathroom when the sirens were too far away and the air smelled of chemicals. She has not even a basic idea about the classroom he spent eight agonising hours in, every day, year in year out. 

In the reel, her fingers touch his shoulder and he flinches, not because he's repulsed by her touch, but because he's seldom ready for it. 

The scenery shifts to autumn, red leaves falling outside the kitchen window, and her derisive voice scares him a second time.

 "No, you can't be friends with that boy," she decrees, her disdain evident as she scrutinises the shabby furniture glimpsed in the background of some photos posted on the boy's mother's Facebook page. Even more disdainful is her reaction to the image of the boy gleefully sporting a purple princess dress when she pauses over it on her work Ipad.

No. That word is her favourite word, and always final like a judge's gavel slamming down.

George knew with what little memories he already had that his childhood wasn't a montage of bedtime stories, tea parties, rain puddles, birthday cake, and Disney movies. 

But he also didn't think it would be this… empty.

Coming back to himself, gripping the cabinet handle, he half-expects it to snap off under the intensity of his grasp, the way he’s hanging onto it, shuddering as the memories, like the leaves he imagines them to be, once more flutter down beyond his reach, settling with the rest beneath him. 

The wind's ferocity has ebbed, yet its faint whistle lingers in his ears.

He doesn't know how long he stands with the faint smell of tea herbs in his nose, just that the packet of earl grey he finds in one cabinet ends up in the dustbin somehow and the machine thingy mysteriously broke into little pieces all by itself.

The discomfort reluctantly shoves itself into the backseat as George saunters back into the bedroom, and stumbles upon Dream – awake, shirtless, and lost in the mesmerising glow of his phone.

George bounds onto the bed with flair, delighting in the alarmed look that flashes across Dream's eyes. The prospect of George accidentally causing mayhem all over the fresh sheets is, of course, as always, a tempting notion. After all, what's the harm? One set of bedsheets is already a lost cause, irreparably damaged actually. And another one – or three – doesn't really move the needle, especially if you count the sheet George tore and bloodied, made modern art, and so graciously gifted the neighbour. Clearly, that was all Dream's fault though.

Dream takes one look at the tea bag in his cup and delivers a classic conceited Dream line, “You know we have that capsule machine, right?” 

“It’s broken,” George asserts, only after whisperingly yet derisively having mimicked his husband’s comment into his cup before taking a gulp and instantly screaming and flailing, because fuck that’s hot shit. His tongue is shedding after that, he's sure.

Dream seems more concerned with the comment than his husband's well being though. He narrows his eyes, raises his eyebrows and everything, conducting a thorough investigation, and George holds his cool even under tough interrogation, though he's thinking, in sickness and health, my arse. 

“Did you… replace the water, filter and capsule?”

“...yes,” George says because he totally absolutely did all that, how dares Dream question it?

“And it's broken?”

“Mhm,” George confirms, taking a casual careful sip, his gaze wandering out the window, thinking that well… now it most certainly is at least. Turning his focus back to the phone in his husband’s hands, and  instead inquires, "What are you doing? What are you looking at, mh? What’s catching your eye?" His curiosity is surpassing all the heaps upon heaps of modesty he has within as he practically clambers over Dream to catch glimpses of the screen.

"It's..." Dream's response trails off into the abyss, whilst the apparently offending cup gets confiscated from George's grasp and deposited on the bedside table without diverting his gaze from whatever ‘it’ is. Then, with an amused huff directed towards whatever spectacle is unfolding on his screen, Dream blissfully forgets that George even asked three whole questions.

George’s mouth falls open. 

Well, isn't that just fantastic? The unmitigated audacity of men!

What the heck!

This situation of being ignored is all too eerily familiar. 

It’s icy – winter – and the flowers in his garden are withering.

"It’s what?" George prods, an edge to his tone.

Dream's response comes with a note of something, "It's eh… the music video we're working on with Young Gravy... So, here’s the thing – Ehm… so someone suggested- I mean I think he did. Anyhow, a bunch of streamers got invited on – like – mostly women. They’ve been talking about outfits and concept-stuff. Ken texted me details, and like – it’s interesting… kinda maybe… a little scandalous. But I like it. It’s coming together."

"Okay?"

"They somehow got Amorath onboard." 

Dream says it like George is supposed to be impressed.

"Right," he breathes out, the tone not even a tad frustrating because, of course, he's completely acquainted with Amorath. No need to fish out his own sticky phone from the pristine sheets, definitely not hearing his fingers make that 'shrrk' sound as they peel off the screen in a quest to search her name on Twitter. 

He most certainly does not freeze at the sight of her captivating beauty.

The fact that Dream singled her out by name and not the others has zero effect on him. The scandalous headlines from various articles about her do not trigger any strong reaction. Nor does the realisation that she seems genuinely nice, or that she's quite intelligent, expertly capitalising on her attributes and the folly of straight male stupidity. 

It’s all absolutely nothing.

And in its nothingness, George seizes both their phones in one swift movement, one in each hand, and presses the power buttons, effectively taking the devices hostage. 

Dream's reaction is an immediate protest, his voice somewhere between astonishment and exasperation, "What the fuck, George? This again? Actually… What exactly is it you think I’m hiding?” 

When George can’t offer a rebuttal for several seconds, he smugly adds, “Yeah? Nothing? Spit it out, Sherlock!"

"Yes, nothing... okay? I just... I want to watch something," George asserts, nudging his head towards the big ass laptop on the bench across the bed. “I'm fine, it's nothing.” 

Okay, maybe there’s a tiny tiny hint of defiance in his voice – though that’s hardly out of character.

Dream looks him over like he’s a riddle or green or has horns or… something. "Watch… what?" 

"I don't know. Just go get the laptop," George grumbles in complete nonchalance. His attention seems wholly absorbed in inspecting his nails, moreover the orange stuff wedged in his cuticles. It's not like he's worried about being betrayed by some microexpression Dream can read like George is his native language, thus sabotaging this morning's supposed fantastic afterglow, or anything. 

Dream, not buying it, warns, "This better not be another one of your schemes."

"Would I ever?" George doesn't even have to feign innocence, batting his eyelashes. "Now, Dream, fetch the laptop."

Dream tries to snatch his phone back, but this is of course not George’s first rodeo. He reacts quickly and guards it with his whole body, sitting on it.  His husband  narrows his eyes at the casual rebellion. "Are you serious right now?"

"Dead serious," George retorts, crossing his arms. “You know, in the time we’ve been bickering, Sapnap has had time to steal like five of my video ideas.”

Dream's irritation intensifies. "Give me my phone back."

"Go get the laptop."

"I will! If you give me back-"

"Freaking fine," George hisses, thrusting the device back into Dream's chest with a bit too much force. 

"Okay, Jesus . You don’t have to act like a cat who I’m – like – giving a bath.”

“WHAT? I am not.”

“Is this some kind of retaliation because things didn't exactly go your way yesterday? Because I thought I explained why I can't, why we can’t… right now," Dream responds, frustration evident in his voice.

Actually, George wasn't completely clear on that front, sometimes he suspects Dream might actually be speaking like… Klingon… or something. But, that’s most likely suspicious to admit because he really looks like he presumes George gets whatever reason he has for them not participating in marital gymnastics right now. That is, beyond the concussion that’s probably already healed. And judging by Dream’s comments yesterday, George is already acting suspicious, and his husband definitely won’t embark on the horizontal tango if he keeps acting weird, or wrong, or out of character, whatever he said yesterday when George was a little distracted.  

So, what does he do? He hums. Not a Mozart concerto or anything, just a casual " Mhh. " The sound of confusion and uncertainty, like a GPS recalculating because he’s sure he missed a turn, yet he does not remember the route or where he’s been and everything is unfamiliar territory but Dream. He is the only thing that does not usually feel unfamiliar.

And sure, he could prod more, he could reach the end of his husband's patience and then further, go over the edge as he often does. 

Yet, George does not want a confrontation, to fight, to even think about this. 

To not feel wanted . To not be wanted . Especially by him. 

And sure, Dream says he wants him, ‘Gods yes,’ he said didn't he? But then why won’t he-

This is exactly what he did not want to think of. Those are the thoughts that expand the petals in his windpipe. 

But maybe if he just knew why, if he didn't have to guess and paranoia got the better of him… Because – most of all – he despises the idea of ignorance, of silence, of waiting. Of the unsaid words that could fester and fray the red thread between them. Deep down, he wants the dirty sharp edge of the knife, rather than a sterile white, but the knife will hurt and might leave an infection and he’s scared.

Still, George bites his lip like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, closes his eyes for a beat too long, then stares into Dream’s eyes with a determined gaze, meeting him head on. Because… George is better than her, and her silence.

"I don’t know, okay? I don't understand why I'm in a foul mood; I just am," he settles on because it’s at least half true, his knowledge is scarce as of the moment, he does not really understand and all of these feelings are confusing as frick. 

He apologizes by easing back into the warmth of Dream's body, planting a tender kiss on a freckled shoulder, a wistful smile playing on his lips. The scent of oranges still lingers and it brings forth a long buried barely audible whisper, "I’m sorry." 

Dream responds like it’s on autopilot, his demeanor shifting to something nurturing and safe. "No, it’s fine," he reassures, fingers gliding through George's silky brown locks with a gentle touch, a soothing gesture akin to calming a restless steed. Brushing it back like George is a racehorse getting ready to run fast as fuck. He snorts at the impropt thought, and so does Dream when he asks "What?" and George tells him. 

After a contemplative pause, his fingers twitch as if hesitant, and George looks up at him, waiting. 

"You know –  George – you don't have to do that; be strong all the time. I’m here, lying in bed beside you, with you. It’s just that. You don’t have to – like – wield humour like a shield to lighten the mood. You don’t have to joke to make anyone feel better. You can just be here, with me, as you are. You know you don't have to say anything, right?"  

Oh… that… It’s unearthing.

That is, how silence can offer solace and not just be a precursor to impending chaos; a wait for something to snap.

A syrupy thickness lodges in his throat, and this time it is particularly difficult to swallow down.

He lost her a long time ago, he thinks. 

Not like – she died – no. Not to death. 

But they only speak on birthdays now, don't they? Barely that. He's seen the texts. 

His sister texts him ‘Mom says happy birthday,’ once a year and he has to live with the fact that he loves her, yet she’ll probably never be at another one of his birthday parties. There’s no erasing her name everytime he sees something yellow, and that’s pretty much all he sees. The love he has for her is childish, it will never leave.

She would never have called, he realises now. 

Even during moments of illness, brushes with mortality , her concern barely extended beyond a perfunctory text message.

He swallows down a sob half a second too late. 

The fingers in his hair still completely. 

"That's not fair, you know," Dream's words break into the heaviness, and this time they're not that comforting. "We share laughter, and I confide in you. I express –  you know– always – how inspiring you are, how helpful, how funny, how truly selfless at heart, when it really matters anyways. You offer more support than you realise, every day. You give me those parts of yourself, and yet you cry alone somewhere I’m not permitted to be or even see. Share your pain with me, George. Please." 

George says nothing, pretends he didn't hear it. He barely breathes.

He needs Dream in that house he keeps seeing.

To be the centrepiece; to be the branches everything else stems from, amongst the darkness and cobwebs. This thing between them is the sole source of light in there once the sun goes down. 

George envisions him as a constant visitor, someone who knocks on the door with the majestic lion-shaped knocker whenever loneliness creeps in. 

Yet… Dream is right; George does not want him to find his hiding place. 

He feels like a child who loves his plushie too much. If you use it – it becomes gross and loses its softness no matter how many times you wash it. It will just get more worn down by love and George refuses to subject Dream to the damp and mouldy space in the basement, where George hides his worst sins. To watch mushrooms slowly bloom from his vertebrae; to corrupt him.

No. 

Dream is solid and stands against the waves that want to sweep George away. He is steel… No – scratch that – he is netherrite. That can never change. 

What he truly wants is to peel Dream open like a ripe pomegranate, snap him open and extract the seeds of his being and nurture them to flourish in the garden of his mind. As robust as oak. 

As far away from that corner in the basement as possible.

George's smile takes on a bittersweet hue, and he not so gently shifts the topic. "You should take me to the beach someday."

"The… beach?" 

George props his chin up on Dream’s chest so he can look him in the eyes once he's sure none of the petals in his throat are going anywhere. 

"Mh.” He nods, looking over his husband’s face. “I want to know what you look like with the sun outlining you, shining through the outer parts of your hair," he murmurs, sighing audibly and stroking the fluffy curls with gentle fingers. With sunlight outlining him. Like a halo, he thinks. "I want to soak up the sunlight until the sweat trickles down, smell the ocean – saltbreeze – the scent of sunscreen." On you; on your skin, he muses. "To come home and wash the sand off, lay in this bed washed clean and in fresh sheets after – with you. Feeling tired out because of the sun." 

He wants to feel at home. To encapsulate these feelings into sounds, smells and sights for the rest of his life, for the rest of Dream’s life, in ways few will understand and he thinks neither of them will ever forget, no matter how many times George would fall and Dream could leave. He wants to own parts of Dream no one else ever will. Their own language. 

"It’s important to me."

Dream nods in agreement. "Okay, I promise. I will. Just not today."

He soon starts to untangle himself, and for a split second, George thinks he’ll leave but something in him denies it vehemently. He would never, he thinks – right? as Dream lowers George’s head gently to lay on the pillow. 

Bending down to collect the discarded clothing strewn across the floor, his broad back is turned towards George for a moment. In that split second, something pulls on George’s limbs, a reflex guided by instinct, almost like a muscle memory. He discreetly raises his phone, tapping the little camera icon with a quiet anticipation.  

The glow from the window is golden, shining on the wall, over Dream’s back in the shape of a square. It dances upon him, his skin oddly both soft-looking and shifting like a marble statue coming to life. Glistening by the sun. It’s not at all as cringy or sparkly as in twilight, it’s magnificent, George decides after a second contemplation.

Just before Dream pulls on the T-shirt he had retrieved, George manages to capture the shot. It's not the same shirt Dream had worn yesterday – because George’s nose has been buried in it since the early hours. And while his husband may lack decency in personality, he’s still wearing pants. This, unfortunately, prevents George from snagging a spectacular shot of Dream's ass. Yet in George's mind, this might be even better.

It is, he declares inwardly.

Next to the other pictures in the locked album, this one is a masterpiece, the epitome of his stalker-carrier. Nothing short of artistry. If George were to touch the warm strip of light falling on Dream’s back and arms, George is sure they’d be warmer than even the sun. A shadow dances on the wall before his picture-still husband. The motion of pulling on the shirt renders his arms blurry. The light plays on the tousled blond-brown locks. Just like George thought, like a halo. The faintest suggestion of rumpled bed covers occupies the lower frame where George is perched. But mostly, what he sees is the cleanliness, the intimacy, the calmness – that is Dream. 

Though undoubtedly, the centrepiece is Dream's wedding-necklace, a gleaming promise he can’t ever take back if George never signs the divorce paper, were he to be served.

George quickly goes to add the photo into that locked album in his phone, wanting to preserve this stolen moment before Dream returns with the laptop. But when he unlocks his phone he's unexpectedly directed to the last thing he was browsing, a somewhat… embarrassing reminder.

Amorath’s twitter page.

Before his brain can even complete possibly the worst idea he’s ever had, his fingers react with several swift motions. It goes through so fast and suddenly there’s a small vibration coming from his phone  shaking even the foundation of that house. 

It's an absurd action he just performer, really, given that just yesterday he was the one trapped under Dream’s form, his cum seeping into his skin – seeping into every pore, no one else, and everyone heard it… 

But they thought it was a joke though, the devil on his shoulder adds.

Still… It is – after all – a sight meant solely for his eyes. 

Until death do them apart. 

In an instant, he's overtaken by remorse. Yet the action is irreversible by now. Still, he navigates with urgency, hunting down the dustbin icon on his screen. If only he could press it with physical force, he imagines the metal yielding beneath his grip, bending under the weight of his frustration, just like the crushed remains of cars in a demolition site.

Not that it matters.

The damage is already done, a rapid cascade of events set in motion. Within mere seconds, the captured image has escaped his control, probably spreading like wildfire. Whoops.

In minutes, the picture will most likely be circulating everywhere. 

Yet, it's the accompanying caption that might carry even more weight: 

georgenotfound

dream husband behaviour🍊🍊🍊

[picture attached]

In his head, the devil on his shoulder adds a translation: ‘He’s on my leash. Back the fuck off you bitch-stealing witches. Trespass at your own risk – you would-be enchantresses.’

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

They are lounging on the living room couch and Dream is glued to his phone, thrusting it towards George at every opportunity, rambling on about some Spanish streamer or something. George is not listening, in fact, he is also glued to Dream’s phone, but only because he’s prepared to fling it at the wall if his husband were to open twitter and see something that George maybe could get in trouble for. Unfairly so.

In a half-assed effort to dodge the barrage of questions he has no intention of answering, because he doesn’t have an answer, George stuffs his mouth full of cereal with all the finesse of a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. Through a series of intricate finger gestures, he conveys the message: "Can't talk, might choke." And much to George's relief, Dream, bless his cotton socks, just rolls with it. 

It’s a fairly effective strategy he’s lately adopted, though George is positive that his chocolate cereal addiction is starting to send Dream's health-conscious mind into a tailspin, but that is a problem for Future George to deal with, he thinks.

Suddenly, something starts vibrating, Dream’s phone is ringing, he realises. 

Dream actually smiles down at the contact with a big grin and goes all giddy with a slutty “Hello?” once he picks up the phone. 

George scoffs in disbelief. 

He’s grumbling whilst listening to his husband name American football players to an unknown male voice. One, who George certainly does not recognize, much less the contact name. He lasts all of one whole minute – quite a feat – before he whisper-shouts: “Who’s the fuck is that?!”

Dream brings the phone away from his ear and stares at George all blanc, dead-fish like, whilst placing his hand over the speaker and going, “My brother?” all accusatory.

Oh… How was he supposed to know that?

“Right,”  Just… ehm… making sure.”

“Of what?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles and Dream goes back to talking to his ‘brother,’ George is going to have to fact check that, he thinks.

The floorboards by the stairs suddenly start creaking, announcing Sapnap’s imminent arrival like a horror movie soundtrack, in George’s opinion, since he is about to intrude on their intimate space. 

He realises that Sapnap managed to distract him when he suddenly tunes back to his husband’s conversation and hears him go  “Congratulations? Wait… for what?”

George would also very much like to know what, but Slapnack’s mouth is suddenly in the room and barking out, "Why the fuck are your sheets in the laundry room sticking together and yellow?" His laser-like gaze is aimed solely at Dream, who quickly lowers his phone. Because let's face it, George would just give Strapalack the silent treatment or respond with the maturity of the twentyseven-year-old he is, sticking out his tongue. 

Dream goes statue-still, face completely blank, and George valiantly tries to maintain a dignified poise, a Buckingham Palace guard pops up in his mind. However, his own body betrays him, letting out a nervous laugh. He fights the urge to propel himself out of his seat to run away, a crimson blush creeping up his cheeks. But curiosity got the better of him, and he remains. 

And then the confession spills out of his husband like a burst dam, desperate and cascading."I… spilled-” A pause, a gulp of air, as if the next words were being fetched from the depths of the Mariana Trench, and George envisions inner-Dream scrambling around in his brain for parts to form an answer. “-juice…? Orange juice," he settles on, “Yeah.”

George twitches and the milk in his cereal almost performs a high dive. What was that? Dream's attempts at mental gymnastics would have earned him a participation trophy at best. George needs to give him a crash course on how to produce an answer quick enough that’s both a lie and believable. 

Sapnap breaks, smiling sinisterly and blinking away tears of amusement like he’s a walking SOS signal, like he’s signalling morse code. His tone has never been so sadistically smugly taunting, and to George, that says something.

"You're telling me you spilled an entire carton of orange juice? On the bed? Really? Nah, dude… You wanna know what I think? I think you pissed yourself." The sarcasm is thick. "I mean… I'm not here to judge your hobbies. Listen, no kink shaming but that shit’s a biohazard-"

“Oh my god, why are you even being like this?” Dream groans, and even though Snapmap is clearly joking, the verbal rally continues, with Dream practically begging George for an assist, "Actually: George, tell him!” he urges and points towards Sapnap all wide-eyed. He’s practically throwing his partner under the bus by exclaiming, "Tell him! You were there. You know the tragic tale of the Great Orange Juice Flood of '23. Actually,” he turns back to Nick, “just smell them then, if you don’t believe me." He pleads, his wild gesticulations threatening to summon spirits rather than evidence. 

"Ew!" Sapnap was having none of it, shaking his head like whatever Dream says it’s a lie.

George feels like he’s watching a tennis match, chewing on his cereal, eyes dancing between them like a brisk back-and-forth of tennis balls. 

"Seriously, just give them a sniff, you'll see!" 

It’s starting to sound like a challenge.

Because George so loves backing his husband into a corner, he jumps in with, "Wow. I’m revolted Dream. It doesn't begin to cover it. This is beyond the pale, even for you, you know. Asking someone to sniff potentially pee-soaked sheets? What's next, a taste test?" Now giggling, he can’t resist jabbing,  "Step right up for the scent of the century, folks! That’s actually a crazy thing to ask.” 

“Says the actual crazy person. Throwing stones in glass houses are we?” Dream turns his threats to his own dear husband and grips one of his legs over the thick blanket hard. “You really should shut up before I start telling him what really happened,” and – zimzalabim – George promptly does just that. 

"You are both nuts!" Sapnap hollers, pointing an accusing finger that could've doubled as a makeshift wand casting a spell.  "And you're sick!” He tells Dream. "Sicker than when we went to antarctica. You're twisted, man! Twisted I say! This is way worse." 

George snorts. 

Them in antarctica? Yeah right. 

“Alright, we’re going to the laundry room,” Dream says, getting up from the sofa and intimidatingly stepping closer to Sapnap. 

The latter just shrieks and makes abortive hand-manoeuvres. "Don’t come closer, man! "Back off with those potentially contaminated pissfingers!"

"Oh c’mon, c’mere Sapnap!" 

As the two run around fighting, in George’s mind, he visualises himself attempting floundering in Antarctic winds like a rouge kite in a hurricane, flapping wildly like those flowy plastic inflatable tube men outside car dealerships. He would have flown away like a trampoline in a storm going through the suburbs and complained the entire time. They'd lose him faster than a hat tossed overboard at sea. He'd practically need a leash tied to his iceberg stop-closs of a husband.

" Antarctica ," he murmurs between laughter, shaking his head in amused disbelief at Sapnap's nonsens.

But as his laughter dies down, Sapnap, who’s just escaped Dream and is taking refuge behind a chair, abruptly sharpens his focus towards George like a spotlight of interrogation. "Who are you laughing at? What's even tickling your funny bone, huh? I mean… We share a wall, man, I’ve heard things. Horrible, horrible, terrible things – you know. And don’t get me started on what the hell you were up to yesterday, because the whole stream heard that."

George focuses on having his grin remain firmly in place, but his attention shifts from Sapnap's face to literally anywhere else. "Mhm. I'm well aware," he retorts, in an utterly unapologetic way of course... certainly not blushing or shrinking away… or anything. 

Wait. 

Hold on…

A furrow forms on George's brow.

They do not share a wall.

Something uncomfortable is bubbling up in his chest, the petals swirling – fluttering – like the uncertain wings of birds, and lodging in his throat.

Maybe Sapnap means Dream’s studio wall? His cheeks all of a sudden feel warm at the prospect of a few possibly frisky moments that could have accidentally made their way into an editing session or two. Sapnap’s own fault for lingering, George thinks. For letting curiosity turn into auditory voyeurism. The absolute gremlin.

Then, like a sudden blip on a radar, Spiderman's out of breath voice filters back to him as he snaps out of his trance of thoughts, "Whatever, I'm just gonna-" George finds refuge in his cereal bowl, the flaky sugary goodness and pretending to read something on his phone as Sapnap walks past his space on the couch towards the kitchen. “-get something to eat and-” But his words abruptly cut off, replaced by a horrified scream, the kind you'd expect from someone witnessing a slow-motion disaster. "What the hell… George?! Literally what the hell on earth did Karl just send me?" 

George's eyes slowly rise up from his cereal bowl, brows knitted in confusion as he scans the room for clues. 

"..." He spreads his palms up towards the sky in a gesture that says, ‘How am I supposed to know?’ And his lips mouth the word "... Nudes?" because Sapnap does look awed and Karl's cuteness is certainly not lost on the scoundrel, George has noted.

"You told people Dream is your husband?" Sapnap’s voice takes on a pitch usually reserved for malfunctioning car alarms, laughing his little ass off like it’s not the literal truth. 

"WHAT?" Dream demands as he lunges for Sapnap's phone. 

“And what’s this picture? Ah man, that’s uncomfortable!” Sapnap cringes. “Why the hell would you take a photo of that, little less post it? Are you insane? Holy shit! You’ve actually lost it… your brain that it,” Sapnap rambles and sounds just as blown away as horrified as amused. 

George is partly mortified. 

He’s not sure what he was expecting but somehow he’d convinced himself that no one had time to see it, little less screenshot it. That Dream would never know. 

Yet, his confusion right now mirrors Dream's, his gaze shifting from the phone to the faces around him… because… well – why would the caption be more scandalous than the picture; the literal breach of privacy?

He tilts his head in question and thinks, Do their followers… not… know that? Do they not know that he and Dream tied the knot?

"Chill," admonishes Sapnap's voice towards Dream, breaking through George's internal meltdown. Sapnap is straining against his friend's intrusive form, yet he quickly relents with a sigh and lets Dream angle the phone to peer at the screen.

Time stands still as George studies Dream’s reaction like a hawk. 

In less than five seconds, his face cycles through an entire season's worth of expressions. 

First, there's laughter – like it’s kinda funny, like it’s a joke. Then, a hint of scornfullnes or plain incredulousness maybe. Like he still does not believe Sapnap, or like he does not believe George did that. Then, anger takes the stage; crossed arms and furrowed brows, and stomping. In a way that – insinuates that – if it is a joke – it’s really not funny. 

George’s nervous smile freezes over. 

For a second, he thinks that’s where Dream will land. Anger . He can deal with that, he won't like it but- but then… but wait – there's more. There’s softness… maybe hopefulness, but that doesnt fit – it’s ridiculous – so maybe George is reading Dream wrong, he thinks. 

Because George fucked up so badly… he thinks… well he thinks that that look has to be pity. 

That ignites something in George that starts panicking, deer in headlights, naked in an auditorium, inevitable doom – kind of panic. 

But then Dream’s eyes flicker around to George’s tattooed nervous little grin and he’s angry again.

It's like trying to read a book while someone flips the pages every two seconds. Dream is constantly changing like the Mona Lisa, depending on the angle you watch it from. 

But what does Nick mean they don’t know Dream and him are married? ‘You told people Dream is your husband?’ echoes in his head. Memory is such a privileged thing. He feels just like a dog chasing its own tail these days.

But the real kicker comes when Sapnap decides to add his two cents, poking the bear. "That’s so not worth it George. I mean… it’s kinda hilarious." Sapnap's lips twitch against a suppressed smile. "But that’s gonna come back and bite your bony ass," he quips before he slings an arm around Dream's shoulder. His words are a playful nudge, except that it is going to accidentally send him tumbling down a hill if George has anything to say about it.

He would call Sapnap out for being obsessed with his ‘bony’ ass, but he’s not in the mood. Especially not when he witnesses the camaraderie going on right now between the two men in front of him. It feels like a secret handshake shared only by them and it’s so annoying. What is he missing?

Sapnap continues, "Are you finally going to throw him out your bedroom?” he asks Dream. 

Like George wouldn't dig into the doorframe like a cat if he tried that. 

“-and after the fake-ass moan George made yesterday when I was streaming?" 

Dream goes stiff, minutely, and George is sure he’s the only one who notices those little things. 

"-that was actually way – I mean way – too far. Kinda funny… yes, I’ll give you that George, but too far for a prank. I get it, you’re feeding your little minions because you have the humour of a sixteen year old. Dnf that – dnf this-” 

There’s that word again. What the fuck is dnf?

“-but these are not crumbles. These are like whole ass bread slices, and you know what-” Sapnap cuts himself off suddenly, staring at his roommate who is right now experiencing a whole storm of anxiety. “Why the hell aren't you arguing back? Come on!”

"Oh my god. Shut up, both of you." Dream's response is curt as he untangles from Sapnap and takes several steps back from both of them, hiding his mouth by his hands in that way George knows he does when he’s overwhelmed. 

George is not panicking, simply righteous quick to defend his own honour. "I didn't even say anything!” So unfair, he thinks. You shut up," he impulsively adds.

Something minor in Dream’s expression shifts. Without warning, the air seems to carry an unsaid tension. Like an invisible thread connecting them. Like – if his husband stormed out the door right now – George would subsequently be pulled off his seat. 

"No but really-” Sapnap cuts back in. “Like, that’s gonna get you in trouble – and for once – I am not looking forward to it, George. You’ve both been accused of gaybaiting before, have you forgotten?" 

The words hang in the air like a storm cloud. 

Yes. Yes he has.

George's memory frantically flips through its pages, searching for context. 

What is gaybaiting? Gay – baiting…?

"Gaybaiting?" he repeats, somewhere between a question and statement.

"Yes?" Sapnap's tone is expectant, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.  "Unless you're telling me this is some kind of announcement that you were in on the piss thing, because then I’m out, bags packed." 

"HA – HA, real funny Snapmap," he mutters, still rummaging through the rooms in his mind. 

Baiting for… gays? 

Does Nick really think he's trying to fish gay men with his own husband like a second hand thirst trap? Like he’s out here trying to lure unsuspecting gays with his irresistible charm and Dream's rugged good looks? As if! Like George will ever accept anyone else into their bed! He’s utterly speechless and throws his roommate the dirtiest daggering – ‘come closer and I’ll rip your dick off’ – look he can manage and imagines red laser beams blowing Nick’s head off, but alas, reality disappoints.

"George..." Dream begins, yet shifting his taught jaw towards Sapnap, nodding towards the door. 

The latter, who previously looked like he was about to start popping popcorn and settling in for his favourite drama, says, "Seriously?" He’s evidently not pleased at the silence urging him to leave, to give them space and the retort is laced with irritation. "I live freaking here too, you know. So we don’t solve issues like a family anymore? Hm?” He laughs scornfully. “What fucking ever, like I wanna see you scold George for his unhinged behaviour. This whole dynamic is getting old anyways. You two have been playing house since he moved in, so why stop now?” His voice gets lower as he walks away.  “Keep going then. Go on. I'm out." 

Sapnap's exit to the kitchen is accompanied by the sound of his stomping footsteps, and a second later, angrily clinking metal pots.

"What does this mean?" Dream's voice is a whisper, a tremor hides within it like the words were much more comfortable staying in his throat than being out in the open. He takes measured steps closer until his knuckles graze the edge of the arm rest beside George. 

The words are some kind of plea for clarity, one George envisions Dream bringing to that dining table in his mind, laying between them like a contract. It has a right answer, he can hear it in the tone somehow but there’s so much perplexing emotions to unfold in those four simple words that George is left with more questions than he’s sure Dream is right now. 

He can’t find any fine print.

He’s not sure what to answer.

George is left scrambling for words and settles on, "I’m not ashamed of you?" It comes out almost like a question, yet it is so clearly a defence against his own actions; a very fragile attempt to justify the breach of their private bubble. For inviting parasocial eyes into their bedroom. For posting something publicly that he’s literally been holding under lock and key in his own phone – most likely for this very reason. 

Because they are so public and this is so private.

"But it's so… so new?" Dream asks. Or at least George thinks it’s a question. 

They’re newly married? 

Well… probably, they’re young after all. Google said twenty seven and twenty four last time he checked, but sometimes Google is a little liar. He’s a little smug; he’s older than Dream. Though like a candle blown out, there's no trace of that smugness as of right now.

“You can’t take this back. You actually can’t erase this, George,” Dream insists, his voice a whisper.

In a last-ditch effort to salvage the situation, George flails around, arms physically reaching around in the air like the answer is floating there. “Then… I’ll just cover it with something else,” he suggests, desperation creeping into his voice. “A you mama joke, something crazy, I don’t know- Something.”

Dream says absolutely nothing, doesn't even move for several seconds, until “That’s not how this works.”

“Yes it is, that’s how everything works-” he insists, but it does little to sway his husband. “I-” George reaches out to tentatively rest his fingers on Dream’s hand over the armrest. “Please just… just forget about it, it was a mistake."

He’s not pleaing, simply just asking because it’s not that big of a deal, is it? It’s just a picture, he tells himself. A request to sweep the mess he's made under the metaphorical rug among the others is justified. 

He doesn't beg, but just maybe the unspoken panicked pleas are there: forget George fucked up. Forget he opened up the door to their bedroom for the public eye to scrutinise. Forget he’s needy and jealous and demanding and don’t scream, don't be angry, don't leave, don't let this ruin us, he thinks. 

Don’t let me ruin us.

But those words – ‘to forget about it’ in particular – look to be the last thing Dream wanted to hear. 

A switch flips inside Dream. Like George is watching summer turn into winter in the span of a heartbeat, the anger transmutes into an icy neutrality. No longer the Mona Lisa, but a brick wall. 

"Okay," he answers, and that’s it.

The deliberate neutrality in Dream's tone carries an aggressive nature that feels far more dangerous than if he had lashed out in outright anger. George watches as the anger in those greens dissolves into the lilypad pond. But it does not disappear, just sinks to the bottom, polluting the whole thing. It’s still that clean clear sparkly green he’s used to, not even murky. Yet he knows it’s downright dirty and he can’t shake the thought.

The space between them grows as he watches Dream retreat to his office, leaving George alone with his thoughts and the aftermath of his actions. 

It takes three seconds of staring at his phone, debating, before he goes online scavenger hunting.

It’s true, it’s actually true. The lack of public records of their marriage is a glaring absence. Yet, it's the subtle weight of the necklace around his neck that anchors him amidst his swirling thoughts. His fingers find it subconsciously. The evidence clearly rests there, just as in that scrap of paper he has, in every interaction between them, in Dream being his second of kin at the hospital, having a link to his family. And in so many other things, he’s sure. He just can’t remember.

What he does find – however – is a random screenshot of a tweet. He quickly searches the actual one up and finds it to be very real. 

Now… George has seen the name Austin mentioned before, watched a few videos and  kind of really likes the guy. He’s funny and unhinged and probably the experience of a life-time to hang out with once every blue moon. 

Which must be why Dream commented, ‘ bro chill, my boyfriend uses this app ,’ under a thirst trap he posted on twitter. 

George can't help but snort. Oh the irony! Here he is, getting chewed out for broadcasting their love life, yet Dream's out there marking his territory like a dog with a fire hydrant. 

Pot, meet kettle, George thinks.

He’s not the only possessive one so what right does Dream really have to judge, huh? 

So what he’s gathered is that the public doesn't know they're married… Just that they are dating, then.

Oops. Well that’s an oversight on his part. 

Well actually… how was he supposed to know? People don't usually hide that they're married. That is in no way his fault. It's not like people drive around with ‘Just Married’ signs post-wedding… Or wait, do they?

Well, judging by the mentions he’s getting this very moment – at least the message of ‘back off’ got across quite well.

Wait… Then it hits him. 

How many of their friends are in on the secret? How many of their friends know that they’re married? 

"Oh," George's exhalation is accompanied by a mentally satisfying click. 

Wilbur's words suddenly make much more sense, like the conversation is now seen through a new lens. 

Well – oops, again.

One thing's for sure: the cat's partially out of the bag, and there's no shoving it back in now.

𖤓 ☾

Dream locks himself in his studio and George is lost.

Perched on the couch, he positions himself, keeping watch over the corridor leading to Dream's studio. He's ready to spring into action at a moment's notice, prepared to thwart any attempts by Dream to abandon ship and sail off into the sunset of Ibiza. Because let's face it, George having to break his legs and hauling him all the way back would be impractical.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so he unleashes a barrage of text messages in an attempt to coax Dream out of his self-imposed isolation:

George 13.09

i just shattered another glass

whoopsie

slipped too

hit my head on the way down

He actually expects that to work. So when Dream fails to respond immediately and George is left staring at his screen too long – like a lovesick puppy watching his crush walk away – whilst it closes itself, turning black around fifty times, he contemplates flinging it into orbit. 

George 13.11

gues ill just die then

George 13.26

thinking of dumping all my money into Ubisoft stocks

thoughts

?

My fingers over the invest button 

1

2

…

George 13.48

went out

someone is offering me candy 

and a tour of the inside of their van

sounds fun

George 14.12

Back now

i got swarmed and mobbed

not that you care apparently

George 14.49

called your mom, told her we're expecting

surprise!

George 15.30

guess whos got your nose??

come get it :D

After approximately three hours of playing the waiting game, George reaches his breaking point and mutters a frustrated “fuck this.” He is so lost, in fact, that he leaves the couch to seek advice from Sapnap of all people, so he’s also sick apparently. 

Bursting into Sapnap's room, George is primed to start the mother of all pillowfights.

“Come here Sapn-” His battle cry is abruptly silenced when his eyes lock onto Karl's sheepish face on Sapnap's phone.

"You!" George accuses, pointing an accusatory finger at the unsuspecting device.

Karl, looking sheepish, spins around as if searching for an invisible culprit, feigning innocence by avoiding eye contact. "Who? Me?" he questions softly, pointing to himself. "Little old me? Remember when you said you owe me your life?" he adds, throwing both his hands up in mock surrender whilst dropping the phone onto what George assumes is his bed in the most unflattering angle. 

"That was before I saw you laughed at me!" 

"I wasn't laughing! What the frick? I almost died trying to hold it in."

“Oh, so you thought it was funny? You thought one of my most painful moments was funny? "

“No,” Karl instantly replies, shaking his head like he got caught, which he did. “You didn't sound in pain, in my defence.”

“Wait, what? Laughed at what?” Sapnap interjects, casting a suspicious glance between his phone and George, clearly missing out on some juicy gossip. 

“Moron,” George mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes at the obliviousness.

“ Wow… Hello to you too George! Glad you could barge in and violate my privacy. So… did Dream finally kick you out and you need a new head-sitter? So gracious of you to visit your second choice.”

“HAHA!” George fake-laughs, his voice booming a tad too loudly, judging by the sheepish reactions. “Also, don’t say it like that! It sounds so weird.” 

Sauntering over to Sapnap’s bed wounded, George flops onto his stomach with all the grace of a deflated balloon. He can’t even summon the energy to maintain any anger. Life is so tough when your husband is rich and handsome and angry, but not in that soft-dom way, just disappointed somehow.

“Hey, want some pancakes?” Sapnap offers, brandishing a bowl of... something vaguely resembling pancakes in George’s direction, which George promptly swats away with annoyance before rolling back into his pit of despair. “I wasn't going to give you any anyway.” Sapnap takes a bite and literally moans all disgustingly. It does not help George’s mood. “They’re still warm. I even made them myself with my own two hands and neither of you two can have any.”

“Please. If I wanted food poisoning I’d just go out and lick the nearest bin.”

“Hey! I’ll let you know that I’ve watched enough cooking shows to know my way around the kitchen.”

“You’ve watched enough cooking shows to find the kitchen – scratch that – you’ve watched enough to know what a kitchen is. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Wow. So I take it your’s and Dream’s talk didn't go so well? Kinda glad I missed it then. Are you sleeping in the dog house tonight? Did he bust out the ‘you're acting like a child’ line again?”

George’s head snaps up, shooting daggers at the phone, piecing together how Sapnap got his hands on that little tidbit of information.

“I’m never sharing any of my secrets with you again,” he grumbles to Karl.

“No, but seriously, what’s up? Are you okay?” Sapnap's concern catches George off guard, it takes a second for him to cock his head and register that it's genuine. 

“Oh… yes – I mean – I guess.”

“But you know you messed up, right? You should have just kept the post up, because now everyone’s sprouting their own ridiculous theories and people think… well you know what people think.”

No, George does not. Can he please stop saying that?! He gives Sapnap a crazed smile because it beats bursting into tears. Cooking his head, he grumbles, “If you only knew.” 

“No, seriously. You've been all kinds of impulsive lately, and it's either hilarious or cringe-worthy. Sometimes both… Mostly cringey though.” 

George slides out of bed like a slippery eel, flopping onto the floor with all the grace of a newborn giraffe learning to walk. “Okay, I'm out,” he declares, his mind barely catching up with his body's motion as he makes a feeble move towards the door, only to be thwarted by Sapnap's sudden intervention, grabbing George’s wrist and pulling him back up.

“AOCH!” George protests, because Sapnap is currently doing a thousand needles on him, yet he shuts up when Sapnap puts him to lean against his side, patting his head reassuringly… It’s kinda… tolerable. 

“Okay, my bad, buddy. I won’t bring it up again. Seriously.” He mimes zipping his lips shut, and god does George wish he came with that function.

“You should also maybe avoid every drama channel on youtube,” Karl adds, tossing in his two cents like a nosy nosy neighbour peering over the fence.

Sapnap hums agreeingly. “Oh yeah I also saw all that. What were you thinking George?”

That’s exactly what he’s been asking himself for the last three hours. He practically handed everyone the most scandalous snapshot on a silver platter! For free! Now, the entire world has caught a glimpse of his husband in all his semi-naked glory. 

“I’m seriously considering hiring someone to invent a mind-wiping device,” he muses aloud.

“Brainwashing, huh? Bold move,” Karl remarks, more intrigued than judging and George kinda really likes that about him, because – what he can remember – other people in his life have been of the opinion that a lot of things about George are judge-worthy.

“It’s not brainwashing.”

Sapnap scoffs, joining in the conversation with gusto. “You’re literally proposing a brain rinse for everyone who saw the picture.” 

He pulls George into a side-hug, phone still in hand, their faces squished together so they’re both in the little camera view. George blames his miserable state for not having energy for protesting and trying to escape.

“Well, they weren’t supposed to have it in the first place. I’d just be taking it back, reclaiming what’s rightfully mine,” he retorts. Sapnap's laughter vibrates into George's shoulder, threatening to deposit unwanted snot on sacred fabric. "If you dare get snot on this hoodie, I'll-" George's threat hangs in the air, all bark and no bite, as he makes no real move to escape Sapnap's playful hold. His gaze then drifts to a family photo perched on Sharpman’s bedside table, which he grabs with mock horror. “Seriously, you give me shit? What was going through your head with this haircut?” 

“Hey! It was fashionable in like twenty seventeen. It was like the peak of fashion back then so… and it’s not like your hair was any better. But yeah… you have a point. Lay off young me, though. He can’t defend himself. That’s weak.” 

“I think he’s adorable,” Karl chimes in with a little smile George wants to shove his fingers into his throat at. It’s so disgustingly fond.

“Of course, you would, kiss ass,” George snorts, rolling his eyes. “Brace yourself to lose your mind, then,” he warns, before unveiling another photographic relic from the table: a much younger Sapnap, proudly donning a dinosaur costume. He dodges Sapnap’s attempts to intercept, a dance as old as time between them. 

Karl's delight is palpable. “Oh my god! What a cutie!” he exclaims, his reaction painting a spectrum of embarrassment creeping up Sapnap’s neck, a shade that could rival the rosiest of dawns. Equally disgusting.

“If that’s your taste, I suppose,” George teases, his tone dripping with mock disdain.

"Shut it, I was five! Dinosaurs were cool, okay?" Sapnap challenges, but there’s no real heat in his words, more playful banter to let George have his fun. Like he knows George needs that. Like he’s letting George make fun of him like some sort of fucked up therapy.  

“No, I mean you,” George adds.

He can’t help but giggle at Sapnap’s astonished look and earns himself a shove almost sending him back to the ground.

They spend the next hour chatting about TwitchCon plans, discussing outings, and surprisingly getting along swimmingly for once. There are some details that George does not at all understand, but hey, what’s new? Sapnap tries to tickle him once, and once only, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs and a loud pterodactyl screech that Karl screams in surprised response at and drops his phone. 

The disruption even prompts a concerned text from Dream, which tells George his studio isn't as soundproof as they think or the door is ajar. But fate plays a cruel trick, for the message lands not on George’s phone, but on Sapnap’s, and just before the latter can stroke away the notifications, he sees:

Dream 17.02

What happened? 

Is he still okay? 

And suddenly, George most definitely isn't.

He stays quiet for a while after that, though Sapnap and Karl's conversation shifts to a pop culture chat and then somehow they’re circling right back to where they started.

“Hashtag ‘Dreamhusbandbehavior’ is trending, did you see that?” Sapnap's words pierce into that house in George’s mind, dragging him out and back to the harsh reality.

“Oh? Yes well it is instant meme material,” Karl adds.

“What?” George asks, and against his better judgement, goes to check the top posts under the hashtag.

The internet's response is a mixed bag of praise and ridicule. He quickly gathers that some believe the picture is a gag; a very well-thought-out joke, praising George for his creativity, and that’s probably a good turn of events. He should trademark it. He should make merch with it, he thinks, because the alternative is that George did the most cringe possessive bullcrap ever… 

Yet, somehow he doesn't like it being a joke either. 

Karl interrupts his thoughts. “As I see it you have two options by now.”

“God knows he needs help,” Sapnap says.

George waits for Karl to elaborate, when he doesn't, George gets impatient and says, “Okay, well share your wisdom.”

“Sapnap, tilt the phone please,” Karl says in a singsong tone. 

Sapnap actually listens to this boy, and George tilts his head curiously. What is he? Karl’s puppy? He thinks. Once Karl can see George, he puts his hands together like he’s a supervillain squirming and says, “Okay so, numero uno: you know – gaslight and girlboss. Pretend it never happened or just shrug it off. What picture?” Karl shrugs his shoulders on screen. “No one knows.”

"Bravo, Karl, bravo," Sapnap applauds, “ I agree, and if you’ve learnt anything over these years George, you should too. Doing nothing, that’s – like – always the best option.”

“And number dos?” George asks tentatively.

“Hmm… Well with both of the things that happened yesterday it kind of looks like… you know…” Karl tiptoes around the elephant in the room with all the finesse of a ballerina on a tightrope. George eagerly awaits the revelation and gestures for him to continue because – again: no he doesn't know. Karl squares his teeth in awkward anticipation before finally letting the truth tumble from his lips like a confession in a dimly lit confessional. “It looks – a bit – like an admission… so… I don’t know how good option one is at this point.” 

George's eyes widen in sheer horror as the pieces of the puzzle click into place. “Shi- Oh my god.” It totally does, doesn't it? He moaned, then posted that like… like he was for some reason announcing they had sex. 

He buries his face in his hands and groans in something far past shame. 

Is that why Dream is mad?

He wants to know so desperately. What is his husband thinking? Why didn't regular George mood rings as wedding jewellery, or something?

But amidst the chaos and confusion, Karl offers a glimmer of hope – a lifeline tossed into the turbulent sea of scandal. "Best thing is to play it off as a joke," he suggests. "You could just go live and minimise it, I’ll join. We’ll make it a small little random gag. Scandals are only fun if they're scandalous, after all." 

Sapnap interjects sternly, “Wait what? I thought it was a bit?” looking at them both like they've lost their minds. “That’s a hard pass though. Like – a fat – absolutely not. No way. Dream will not be pleased if you egg the shitstorm on, George. Seriously. He was obviously pretty pissed off about you posting that without him knowing.”  

“Well that’s all I have,” Karl says. “I’m just saying…. It’s an option.” 

“Yeah… A stupid one.”

"Maybe, but I never said he should do something even crazier or anything so they’ll forget about the picture." 

OH… Karl offers a tantalising secret third option. 

"Dream won’t like that," George muses aloud. As Sapnap said, George thinks. As in – won’t like it enough to come out of seclusion? To stop ignoring George and neglecting his husbandly duties? “Exactly…” 

“Yeah,” Sapnap agrees, nodding.

“No. I mean – exactly, let’s do it Karl.”

Sapnap’s eyebrows rise towards the sky. “Excuse me?” he asks, glaring, and in a few seconds something he sees in George’s face has him throwing up his hands. “You know what? I give up. Suit your-fucking-selfs.”

-

The thing about George, bless his memory-challenged heart, is that no matter what he remembers – he isn't vindictive. Not even petty. As petty as a teddy bear really. He’s just a devout believer – a card-carrying member even – of the in the old adage ‘fuck around and find out’ club. And Dream is currently fucking around.

So, bulldozing his way into the soundproof jailcell studio like a bull in a china shop? Not George’s style. Apologising when they're both equally guilty? When they are both just as down bad? As unnecessary as a solar-powered torch. Actually, it’s like trying to teach calculus to a goldfish. Equally unnecessary and borderline absurd. 

Instead, he concocts a plan so cunning it'd make Machiavelli look like a bumbling intern. He does decide to go live with Karl, and get this – they’re playing a game called ‘Dream Daddy.’ Oh the irony! The name alone makes George bite his lips so hard it's a wonder they don't bleed. His teeth should be charged with assault. 

The implications, the images, the thoughts - Inner George is having a field day at the name. He has to close his eyes when Karl looks at him knowingly. 

As they dive into the game, George starts making funny voices, turning the once-innocent feel-good game into something of a satirical masterpiece, if he dares say so himself. The perfect distraction. Chat is in rambles, no pictures or oranges currently being mentioned. And maybe – just maybe – towards the end of the stream, he’s drunk enough on it and annoyed enough that Dream hasn't tried to stop him, that he’s saying whatever pops into his head to bait him out of his office of his own volition. 

Or maybe he’s just a truther. 

Karl, roleplaying as one of the dream daddys, daringly threatens to keep George’s character hostage. "I’m going to keep you here forever and forever and forever," Karl declares like a salesman pitching.

George uses the voice-changer to give himself a gruff voice again, responding,  "Well… Mr Captor! I'm into some pretty kinky stuff… I'll need a gun and… a key. Yes?"

Karl giggles and hides his face in shame before playing along,"Oh of course. Of course, pretty boy." He’s wearing a grin as wide as a snake's in a mouse convention, George thinks.

The screen transitions, and suddenly, George's character is outside. "Yes! Well well… Voilà! Looks like I escaped the bed-way."

Karl laughs even louder, pushing away from the desk. "Why take the highway when you can take the bed-way?" 

George fake-laughs for effect but it sounds like Santa at a North Pole's party thanks to the voice-changer, so then he’s genuinely in a laughing fit. "Can I interest you in doing something that would make snapnap incredibly angry?" he asks, because whether it's platonic or not, Spam-mail has the biggest crush on this candy floss attitude boy. "Want to grab some drinks with me, pretty boy?" 

George swears Karl’s avatar's pixelated moustache is twitching with intrigue "How about ten tomorrow?"

"No."

"No?"

"... That’s way too many." 

Karl facepalms yet doesn't bother hiding his chuckle at the dad-joke… daddy-joke?

Karl then waves his hands and calls it quit before it ‘goes too far?’ Like that’s even a thing. All roads lead to rome.

The stream slows down and suddenly, he’s back to having to ignore the frantic chat screaming about the Twitter picture, for some reason the hoodie he's wearing, the moan on Sapnap's stream, and other things George couldn't remember if it were tattooed on his forehead. Not to mention the faint bruising on his throat he didn't bother to cover up. He flaunts it like a wrestler parading their championship belt. Why not, why should he cover them up? They’re trophies after all. Took almost a month to get.

"What picture?" George says, smirking at the chat. "No idea what you’re talking about. You have lost it. Oh oh… crazy town," he jests. His smile edges closer to the camera, a mischievous glint in his eye, as he leans in like a conspirator whispering secrets. "But guess what? Patches is in my lap right now chat, and I'm not throwing you a Patches-cam bone, so just chew on that," he taunts into the camera, making faces. Which really means: ‘keep talking, I'm not acknowledging shit.’ "She lives in my lap."

"I wish I were there to cosy up in your lap," Karl sighs. "Plant a smooch on you. Like in Antarctica."

"Right," George mutters with a bemused smirk. What even is that gag? It's like saying they went fishing on the moon. "Best part was when the polar bear gobbled Sapnap up whole." George deadpans as if he's recounting a documentary on the migration patterns of sloths. 

Karl laughs heartily while the chat collectively emotes ‘cap’ like a Greek chorus.

"It is true chat. And you know what? We killed santa, buried him in a steep hole. I am the new Santa, actually. The official lap-bearer. Bow down, mortals.”

“That’s the north pole.” 

“...He immigrated. You want to know something though Karl?" George purrs, his voice a silk ribbon. "I did have a dream where I planted one on you. But shhh. Someone might disapprove though."

"Someone? Hm?" Karl questions with a raised eyebrow, doing that square ‘you’re taking it too far’ smile.

"Someone," George drawls, his shoulders lifting in a nonchalant shrug, as if he's divulging a minor office gossip. "... Patches. Who did you think?" 

"So untrue. Patches loves me."

Someone in chat, meanwhile, keeps screaming about the game George promised to play with Dream on stream during the baking stream and he actually scoffs, loudly! That would be a way bigger breach of privacy and most likely streamed on a very different website. 

"Guys – If you guys want the game stream with Dream, go scream at him on twitter to play with me," he challenges, his smirk practically audible through the screen. That will teach him. It’s actually a lesson in democracy, if you think about it.

George leans back in with an air of conspiratorial amusement, a sly grin creeping onto his face like a Cheshire cat whilst he strokes Patches fur like a movie-villain. "Or – maybe," he muses. "I am keeping something secret Karl. You wouldn't believe it. Not secrets… vows – you could say," he taunts, lifting a frigid metal water bottle to his lips, his fingers clinking against it. "Maybe, just maybe, I was referring to my other companion… my golden retriever." 

"Yeah? Where is he?"

"He’s hiding." George sighs.

Based on the wedding speech – Dream will know what the retriever comment means. What he wasn't expecting was for Karl to match his energy. 

"Sounds fruity." Karl's response is a croak, a sound so rough it could sandpaper a brick wall. Like he knows he shouldn't say it but did it anyway. Laughter hides behind it, peeping out like a playful kitten in a game of hide and seek. He hides his face again, but the chuckles escape like bubbles in a soda can.

George literally chokes on his water and glares at him wide-eyed and half-horrified, half-amused – his wide eyes boring into Karl's and both of the men turning red. 

It's the kind of inside joke that should be locked away in a vault, but there it is, laid bare for all the world to see, thanks to Karl's unexpected retort. Dream will one hundred percent know what that means if he is watching. And he’ll know that Karl knows.  

Chat is not stupid either, many of them start spamming oranges and question-marks.

Karl, momentarily sealing his lips as if to imprison his laughter, suddenly switches gears with a comically high-pitched tone. "So, George," he inquires with faux innocence, "how did those oranges you were pining for taste? Tasty? Delectable?" and George realises he’s read Karl completely wrong. He is a wixen.

Oh my god.

There’s a second of contemplation where George considers just shutting up, throwing his hands up like a white flag of surrender for Dream to see. But then, a more mischievous thought blooms like a rare, audacious flower. 

He plucks it.

"Well," he begins, his words dripping with innuendo as he dares to tread into riskier waters, "I prefer my fruit a tad sweeter. They were... a touch too bitter," he concludes, a cheeky grin wrestling with embarrassment as he nibbles on his own lower lip. "And hard to peel. Keeping their juices all for themselves." It's a joke that tiptoes on the line between clever banter and scandalous insinuation, and George, for all his bravado, knows he's just thrown a grenade into the room as soon as it escaped him.

"Mhm?” Karl croaks, looking like he’s about to explode. “Do you think the oranges have an ego, George?"

"Yes, exactly. Precisely," he retorts. "But I’m afraid – my dear Karl – that it's too late for these citrus rascals. Their heads… shapes – I mean,” he quickly corrects. “-are already too big for their own good. Too big to be sweet." His finger tap-dances on his mostly healed almost-invisible temple scar, just as a lightbulb appears above his head. "And I'm not referring to the upstairs hea–"

The door gets thrown open with such force George is surprised it’s still attached to the hinges and Patches scurries under the desk, scratching George’s hand until a trail of blood appears. Aoch. 

Okay, but maybe that was taking it too far, maybe George never learns. So it’s probably a good thing that Dream chose that moment to barge into the room. 

"Neither of you are making any sense right now, what the fuck!" Dream says, confused, yet more panicked and angry. Cornered little lion, inner George supplies. Oh oh… George is sooo scared.

"Are you sure Dream? I think it makes perfect sense, if you think about it."

"I didn't say anything!" Karl denies. "I’m filming with Jimmy later. I’m saving my energy. I’m not even going to talk. My vocal cords are on lockdown mode starting now," he giggles nervously, word-spewing. 

"Having a window seat in the clown car doesn't stop you from being a clown, ever heard that Karl?" Sapnap says, and George wonders for how long he’s been on the call. 

"Sapnap coming in with the unmatched wisdom," George quips. "And as for Dream," he sighs theatrically, his head reclining on the headrest, locking eyes with Dream's incensed ones before turning back to the chat, too quick to read. "Dream barged in here like he’s Shrek trying to save Fiona from Karl the ferocious sexy dragon. Guess that once again that I'm just a helpless little princess, huh Dream?" he teases, grinning on. Should he stop? ehm…

Dream, unable to contain his exasperation, demands with an undeniable undercurrent of fury, "End the stream." It’s not at all subtle. Not subtle at all. It’s palpably angry. "Go on, end it."

George's grin wavers. This is not like their usual banter. 

"Are you too pussy?" Dream whispers, with a slice of malice, mocking, throwing those words from that day in the car back at George. 

It’s a dirty tactic. One that works. 

With a gulp of not fear, but doom, he salutes the camera with mock submission, ending the stream with a sheepish grin. As Sapnap cries out in disbelief, something like ‘unbelievable,’ as George severs the call. 

Dream raises an eyebrow. "Wove it in quite naturally this time too, didn't you? So good at following orders."

Dream needs to stop being so cleverly mean to him or he swears to god he’s going to fall in love with him… a second time. 

George just grins. "Well, I am pretty flexible. But don't let me – saying what you told me to – get to your head. You still lost the game, remember?"

A sharp retort shoots back. "I didn't. And weren't you just saying my head was too big?" Dream's eyes narrow as he steps closer, or more tugs George's chair closer assertively as the latter struggles to not fall over. Dream is suddenly looming over him and his palms brace the armrests, caging George in. 

"You are so confusing George. I don’t understand you. I get too close so you push me away and then you rub it in my face?" Dream hisses, like he’s been thinking about it for years not hours, not letting George break eye-contact though he feels himself shrinking back.

He wanted Dream’s attention, but he’s not so sure this is how.

Conceal, don’t feel – don’t let him know. 

"Nothing kinky makeup sex couldn't solve, I’m sure."

"Stop. joking." Dream’s tone is so sharp and flat it is nearly cutting his flesh. Enough to shave a hair-thin slice off George's composure. "You're not being funny – truth is George – right now – you’re just being spiteful."

Well, well, well. Where did all that southern hospitality go? It wasn't even a joke, but okay, George thinks.

Dream ploughs on, "Do you like me or not?" 

And he sounds tired. The kind of tired – like – like he doesn't really care about the answer as much as finally just getting an answer. It’s confusing.

“Yes?” George shrugs his head a little in a confused manner, waiting for Dream to clue him in. "... Define like ." 

But then, Dream’s body goes uncharacteristically strung and the breath he lets out sounds almost truly hateful, and that’s new. 

"Like do you… are you…" He swallows and ploughs on. "You are-” he pauses and blurts out, “you want to be with me, right? Or no? I don’t know.” 

Then, in a whisper, he adds, “Why did you take it back?" 

And that too, really is strung. More strung than anything he’s ever said to George. And it bristles him like hair. 

Dream breathes in sharply through his teeth. "Is this a joke to you? Are we a joke to you?"

Oh, he thinks. Did he go too far again? He was just joking. Just trying to cover it, like he said. He doesn't really understand why Dream is so mad. 

Has he really gone so far that his own husband somehow questions if he still loves him?

Since he woke up, he’s tried to never think too deeply or too subjectively before talking or acting. Simply because there’s freedom to waking up wiped clean of anything and everything without any significant emotional attachments and he’s not so sure he’s ever felt unbothered before. 

And now George isn't sure how or when a switch was flipped, but he’s not emotionally unattached anymore. Dream has changed all that. He’s made some things matter… too much.

Most memories he has are childhood ones and the lines between past and present are blurring so surreally. But even he can’t deny that he’s been actively ignoring the fact that he’s sleeping with someone who thinks George loves him. Who thinks he remembers their wedding. Who thinks they share a… what was it? A seven… eight years – long history? 

George doesn't want to care, he really doesn't. A man who has no conscience does not suffer. Humiliation is in line with pride, but further or sooner you have to fall one of two ways and it’s dependent on your adeptness to care – to feel shame, isn't it? And he knows which way he’ll have to fall to not lose Dream. For Dream to catch him.

And that plunge is scary.

His mother’s anger is always choking him and he’s starting to understand his father’s decision to disappear and start anew. 

"No. Of course not ," he finally breathes out. “It’s… we’re not a joke,” he admits. It's a fragile admission. They are quite literally the only thing George does not consider morbidly comical.

Dream still doesn't look convinced and something – a tiny ball of fire perhaps – is burning in George’s throat. 

He can’t lose him, because Dream has made himself matter so much, so far too much. 

And so  – instinctively – George reiterates the text he’s memorised; The promise regular George made to him that day – however long ago in a church or on a beach or in a field beneath the open sky or wherever – somewhere – unwrapping his heart. 

"I would- I would still love you-" he reaffirms, and it doesn't necessarily feel like a lie. His fingers itching to bridge the distance to Dream’s forearms but uncertain if he’s allowed to. "-even if you choose to cross the street not to have to greet me one day.” He takes a deep breath and adds, “Even if I didn't know who you were," then, in a whisper, “You know this.”

It takes a second before the dirt in the bottom of that lily pond starts vaporising and it turns clean once again, like it was nerve there, and suddenly George wonders how he could have thought that unattachment meant freedom, when this is the most relief he’s ever felt.  

"Yeah well… You hurt me today." Dream's voice trembles, his words quick, firing out like a machine gun in rapid succession. Still, George understands all of them. 

George goes stiff, a defence. He hates that. He hates the sentences, he hates the tone, the words and the way he says it. Even the relieved breath and the lily pond threatening to overfill. He hates that he did that.

“I’m sorry,” he pushes out, and actually means it. “I didn't mean to.” 

For the first time, he thinks maybe he could show Dream his ragged wood and broken mirrors. Dream who stands before him with hands seemingly so clearly ready to bleed. Furthermore, his husband knows something is… off with George – has expressed it – and yet he demands for nothing, not even an explanation, whilst George – apparently by nature – is a natural complainer. 

"Are you happy? With me?" George asks, head snapping up to attention, because he never actually thought about it. He was so focused on his own feelings towards Dream that he forgot this is very much a two-way street. 

Did he actually ruin this? 

Without it, what does he have? What remains? What else? 

What else in that house has any value?

And his husband is right. It’s not like Dream exists to be worth something to George, but that’s so easy to forget. His husband is so… sure and steady, brave and loud, George sometimes forgets he is also capable of suffering.

"I am," Dream asserts after a long pause, exhaling and straightening up, so he’s not caging George in anymore. Instead, he strokes George's hair, guiding his head to rest upon the firm expanse of Dream's chest. There, George can hear the reassuring rhythm of Dream's heartbeat. “I really am.”

"Is that so?" 

"Why wouldn't I be?"

With a subtle shift of his head, his chin presses into Dream's chest as he gazes upward into those green waters that never betray falsehoods. "But it’s- I don’t know, I’m- you know… me." 

He thinks it would be hard to love him if he was someone else, yet it is the easiest thing for Dream – it seems.

"It’s okay. Like you said – I know now. We’ll figure it out, baby. Just let Ken handle the shitstorm and please for fuck’s sake promise not to post anymore pictures or go live saying weird shit anymore." Dream leans down, delivering a tender, fleeting kiss to George's lips – a rarity, as it's the first one initiated without any coaxing or cunning on George’s part, and probably also a bribe. “You can literally just talk to me and we’ll figure it out.”

“Mhm,” George agrees, nodding and lips tingling, not really comprehending what he’s agreeing to because ‘ Baby.’ 

The word slipped so seamlessly from Dream's lips, and it's the first time he's called him that outside the confines of their bed. A soothing sensation washes over George as he eases into Dream's embrace. 

He doesn't know how he hasn't noticed before, but this thing between them, this connection – it’s not silky. It's more akin to rough close-spun linen, grounded and tangible. It doesn't change temperature based on the environment. It doesn't wear thin with washes. It doesn't rip like the first pair of bedsheets George ruined, only to make bandages, but when the blood and filth washes away, it’s both wholly and holy clean.

And that means something.

𖤓 ☾

Only the day after that, George is walking in the middle of the stairs when his vision goes blurry and he has to steady his hand against the plaster. 

A memory returns.

For the first time since waking up – the leaves that take flight aren't confined to his quaint back garden in Brighton. They don’t look like the green-orange-brown big and holy ones. These leaves are different, he’s not even sure they systematically are leaves, small and almost palm-like as they are. Fir needles perhaps – and they smell different, not the crisp chill of late autumn and dirt – but rather a medley of citrus, sun, sour blooms, and the vast expanse of the ocean itself.

The memory that appears is like a forgotten song he used to love that suddenly fills the house. It is less a memory and more a flash of feelings that he thinks can only be felt, never described. A love that can only be lived. 

There’s joy associated with his husband. To Dream, he realises.

But not just laughter. 

It’s the feeling of growing trust during a time he thought he was no longer capable of receiving or giving it at all. Rebuilding something withered away. It’s the feeling of self-discovery, that molten rock simmering in his lower stomach. It’s an evening of minecraft and friendships being woven just as the creation of an intricate story-line. It’s the nervousness and excitement of fame brewing. It’s a hurried silent five-minute meal downstairs in the dining room in London, it’s dread looking at his sister’s plate untouched and her missing. Later, it’s Dream whisking George away with him in the car digitally when going through a late night drive-through. It’s jittery hands on keyboards, blue lighting, a lingering sour-sweet aftertaste from too many RedBulls. In the middle of the night, It’s the risk filled action of his teeth biting into the back of his own hand whilst the other one is stuffed down his pants and he’s muted on call, with only Dream's soft sleep-breaths in his ear. 

Yet, also somewhere in between all that happened in that evening, it is a glimpse of helping Dream through some breakup or something alike, and there’s pain in that. Yet, Dream did not confide in Sapnap the same way he did in George, and he thinks that meant something too. 

It's dependency.

 It is trust drilled into the foundation. 

They were friends first, he’s starting to realise.

Buddies, bros, pals, mates.

But somewhere – in the middle of the night – Dream starts comparing. He starts speaking about these people that came before George like they can't compare. Like they didn't even come close to him. Like he was the sole contender in a competition he'd already won. Like he’s the only one who had a chance. 

He is trying to glue together fragments of a broken mirror. He can’t really see the whole picture and these dusty memories still don't feel like his. They belong to the previous version of him. But he thinks Dream left his muddy footprints all over George’s exposed wooden floors, inside him, and that this imprint goes back to when they were much younger. 

Back when distance mattered; that seven thousand kilometre distance between them.

Back when age mattered; that three-year gap mattered… 

Gender mattered. 

As the fir needles clatter to the floor and they echo like a chorus of bells ringing, he's transported back to the stairs.

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

The crack of dawn might as well be cracking jokes, mocking George as he lies there, a prisoner to his own insomnia in the eerily silent streets of Suburban Florida. Silent except for the relentless ticking of George's internal clock, mocking him with every tick tock – tick tock. The plane to  Paris TwitchCon is calling in the early morning, and thus, sleep really would be appreciated, but it sure is playing hard to get, eluding him. 

Frustrated and desperate, it gets to the point where he shakes Dream awake just to whisper in his ear that he can’t sleep. "Hello Dreeeeam, the sandman has forsaken me. I'm adrift in wakefulness." 

Dream swats him away from his ear, though surprisingly, instead of a torrent of irritation, he's met with an unexpected calmness. Peering through a single half-lidded eye, Dream offers a solution more like a drug dealer than a romantic partner, "D’you want melatonin? I've got – like – a whole stash." 

"Took one," George grumbles, his disappointment palpable.

"’nother?" 

George props his head up on his elbow, sighs and admits, "I might have taken… three actually. They’re not working. You got scammed," George declares, his scepticism evident as he casts a dubious glance at the seemingly ineffectual pills on the nightstand.

“They work for me,” Dream grumbles into the pillow, sounding like he's talking through a mouthful of marshmallows.

“If only there was some miraculous ancient method to get rid of excess energy, to render me utterly exhausted,” George muses aloud, batting his eyelashes so furiously they could generate a breeze, shrugging super innocently before adding, “I dunno, just spitballing here.”

Dream emerges from the bed, his hair a tousled mess. George's imagination goes into overdrive, envisioning all sorts of tantalising possibilities. Could he be getting lube? Condoms? Perhaps some tantalisingly kinky gadget? He can’t wait, he can practically taste th- 

His hopes are dashed when Dream returns with the ugliest stuffed bear known to humanity. It’s not even a bear, bears have ears, George thinks, this has… head-tails. It's a patchwork monstrosity that could give Picasso a run for his money. One that he presents to George with all the carefulness as something made of glass before slipping back into bed, leaving George to reckon with his new companion.

George's spirits plummet. "How is this going to help, Dream?!" George exclaims, his disappointment palpable. "This," he waves the hideous creature in the air, its limbs, all of obvious different lengths, flailing wildly. It looks like a drunk octopus, he thinks. " This… this monstrosity, this is your grand plan? To do what? To horrify me into another coma?” George is not whining or anything, but admittedly, his voice climbs an octave and inner George might just add that it’s one a dolphin might appreciate. “This beast is not what I had in mind. Where did you even get this?” 

“I made it when I was a kid,” Dream explains with a hint of nostalgia. “It’s a ‘dream-catching’ bear, there’s spun thread and feather inside for like – making nightmares stick-” 

In that moment, the tentacle monster magically undergoes a metamorphosis in George's eyes.

It’s beautiful. How did he not see that before?

The mismatched ears, the lopsided gaze – what were once glaring defects now seem charmingly unique. Imagining Dream, with his child-sized fingers and determination, labouring over each too-far spaced sideways stitch, attempting to push the needle through the rough and rebellious brown material he thinks might once have been fluffy. And since it no longer is, he gets a picture of Dream as a kid, hugging it to sleep each night, wearing it down. He gets a picture of  thousands of nightmares snared together inside the bear. Thousands of his nightmares Dream just trusted George to keep safe. He thinks about what it would mean if their roles were reversed, if George let Dream crawl into that alcove in the basement where dreams have died and are rotting.

“-or at least that’s what my parents called it. But I suppose I could just... take it back?" Dream reaches out, his gesture sluggish, perhaps even half-hearted like he knows George just changed his mind.

In response, George clutches the bear to his chest, a fierce protectiveness washing over him. “No, wait. Actually… It's kinda cute. I just didn't really look the first time, so… you know it’s dark and things. It wasn't fair of me to judge so hastily,” he admits, his voice softening.

“Oh- okay.” Dream sinks back into the pillow, his arm coming up to drape lazily over George’s middle, while George remains perched upright against the headboard, stroking the fur of the bear, examining its patchwork form. 

“Lay down,” his husband breathes out, the word more a sigh than a command.

“I will, soon-” George relents, still studying it. “-soon.” After a few seconds, he’s once again listening to his husband snoring lightly.

Some time later, Dream's arm twitches, jolting him out of his trance. When George taps his phone, cold artificial light seeping into the room, he realises that thirty minutes has gone by just like that. Like sand through an hourglass. 

It’s just as George resigns himself to the idea of abandoning sleep altogether that the quicksand of consciousness eventually pulls him under. It's the gentle pull of the bear's soft fur under his fingers that finally lulls him into slumber. 

And guess what cruel force rudely awakens him? 

None other than Dream's infernal, buzzing, and relentlessly vibrating machine-gun-ish phone, shattering the tranquillity like a hammer on glass. An unholy alarm clock from the deepest pits of hell. Like a sleep deprived freaking ninja, George manoeuvres himself over his husband's form expertly, attempting to silence the damn insistent thing.

The contact name simply reads ‘mom,’ and as George considers answering, the phone falls silent, plunging him into darkness.

He pokes the screen and squints against the light with blurry eyes. It’s almost three thirty am, 03:23. He opens up the device, wondering if it’s some sort of emergency.

She’s going on about something like not forgetting to put on the alarm and bringing in the car and wondering who is going to be watering plants that George killed three weeks ago… In the dead of the night. Half an hour before they need to leave.

‘I’ll tell him,’ George sends back, then groans sleepily when he realises how creepy that sounds, the eerie undertones of his message. Like he kidnapped Dream or is his incredibly hot secretary something. "This is your son’s husband by the way." Somehow, that might be worse when he thinks about it. Who else would it be? 

He settles back, half-asleep and half-anxious, biting on the skin around his fingernails, and falls back asleep awaiting a response that may or may not come.

The stupid thing goes off again ten minutes later, this time being the alarm.

“Did you steal my phone again?” He hears Dream ask whilst he’s trying to bury his face into the pillow.

“No…” he quickly denies.

“So, did it crawl into your hand?” With a very closed and amused voice, Dream whispers “find anything?” plants a kiss on his cheek, snatches the phone back and is already making his way into the bathroom.

“You must have put it there in your sleep. It’s your subconscious telling you to trust my judgement more!” George screams back three seconds later, and in the fashion of an hour's sleep, he thinks that’s a logical excuse.

𖤓 ☾

As of right now, George is running on one hour of sleep, which is arguably worse than none. The sparse sleep he managed to steal brings about a certain… state. He's not a grouchy cat ready to hiss, despite what Sapnap might believe. Plus, his perspective is not reliable considering he is the only one George does hiss at. 

But this morning, George hasn't. He’s not even on the verge. He won’t snap or anything. People just shouldn't – you know – try to touch him, or talk to him, or look in his direction because then they’re just kind of asking for it.

Conveniently, George has forgotten how much he hated airports until he set foot in one. He discovers they are an exquisite concoction. That is, if you like inconvenience, overpriced necessities, and plastic seats that rival the comfiest of medieval torture devices. 

A stupidly expensive sandwich that could probably fund a small nation's lunch for a week? Check. A $5 bottle of water that seems to mock basic human decency? Check. And let's not even start on the macabre chamber of horrors that are the public toilets, complete with sights and smells that could rival any horror film set. It's a cruel joke, indeed.

And amidst the stupidness, there's one particular source of even stupider stupid: Dream. His beloved yet infuriating husband. Stupid Dream indeed. 

Because – well – if George had a dollar for every time he tried to hold Dream's hand this morning – and ended up playing a one-sided game of charades – he'd have at least like… five. And he’d be laughing all the way to the overpriced water bottles. 

Dream's hand gestures towards Sapnap are like choreography, and he points at the stupid big screen like George can’t read the flight-off time. Or, he’s grabbing two different stupid bags, or he’s eating or whatever else. Every time, George's outstretched hand is left lingering out in the air like a forgotten thing, uncertain and hanging like a puppet, so very lonely and pitiful. 

His mood only slightly improves once on the plane, after the quiet turbulence above the clouds wakes him up, head nestled against Dream's shoulder. He’s about to snap and tell his husband to stop shaking, but it’s also then that George stumbles upon a revelation like a flicker of light in the dark: Dream never actually told him his phone's lock code. 

Still, the digits flew from George’s fingertips that morning effortlessly, instinctual. It’s the kind of intimate knowledge that burrows into your subconscious, like that one phone number of the long lost childhood friend he had, the one he’ll take with him into the grave. Zero, seven, one, four–

Oh.

He didn't even know that it was there, that it had escaped through the slip in the door.

It’s coming back. It really is.

More things than his childhood are staging a comeback, and George feels it in his bones, rattling like a key trying to find the keyhole to that attic. A restless anticipation.

There's that one fateful night back in London, but as much as George wishes it was, that memory is not the key needed to open the attic door to the rest of his memories, no matter how many times he tries to jam it in. It's like trying to cram a square peg into a round hole – it just doesn't add up. He can’t stop thinking about that night and also can’t make sense of it. 

There was this nervousness, this nauseous delicacy to his interactions with Dream, one he’s never experienced since waking up. One so very unfamiliar.

There is something… something he’s missing. Something that just doesn't fit… 

His heart beats wildly in his chest.

The pieces of his identity have been falling back into place. He contemplates the fragments he's regained, the rooms he’s gained access to. And then there's this very odd sensation, like he’s gained something, the exhilaration of discovering a hidden room in that familiar house. 

One he didn't think he'd ever find. 

Meanwhile, the girl in front of him is engrossed in the Vampire Diaries, subtitles flickering across the screen. George switches shoulders, joining Sapnap in leeching off the drama unfolding on the tablet. It’s a nice distraction, even if it's a little dumb.

“Dude, I know the sound isn’t on, but I swear I can hear their voices in my head, like the pictures talk,” Sapnap whispers after an hour of silent viewing. A whole hour of witch-induced headaches and that one perpetually crying girl. 

“Why is she always crying, and like that?” George whispers back.

“I know right? If my lover killed my brother I’d be like: ‘Ok, whatever. What’s for dinner?’”

“Forget I asked.”

Another minute goes by before Sapnap adds, “I agree though, she’s a little self entitled.” 

“A little?”

“Oh that’s rich coming from you, Buddy.”

“I wouldn't use you as bait to catch some super-vampire – is what I’m saying. I’d use someone I wasn't friends with.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“There was actually no need to be that honest.”

After about ten minutes of appropriately high-volume commentary, not fighting – he swears – the girl in front of them has the audacity to switch off the subtitles. 

What an absolute bitch.

𖤓 ☾

The late hour doesn't dampen the city's vibrancy upon landing. 

The clamour of rowdy drunk voices dances in the air, street lights twinkling, the only kind of constellation-like sight in the polluted city, and the taxi’s window frames it like a painting, he thinks. Like Van-freaking-Gogh.

The Taxi really didn't do it justice, he thinks, looking out of the floor-to-ceiling tall window in the hotel, dropping the one carry-on bag he bothered to pick up – on the floor. 

He takes out his phone, trying to take a photo of the starry sky, moon and all, but it never does it justice, and as much as he should hate not to be able to document it, that he might one day forget it, he actually respects it, because of it’s intimacy – escapism.  

The stars resolution to not be caught on camera. 

He stands by the thick white curtain, wrestling with it to get the ornate white wooden balcony door open. 

"Why the hell are there three rooms?" he grumbles to Dream. 

What are they supposed to do with the last one? Rent it out? Sounds illegal, he muses.

"I didn't – like – want to assume, your majesty." 

Your majesty. He… rather likes it. He certainly is the sovereign ruler of their bed. 

"Are you stupid? Try and throw me out of our bed, see what happens," he threatens. 

And oh, how he'd love to see Dream try to evict him from their bed. 

Loves to see Dream throw him around in any setting, actually. 

George finally wins against the child-lock on the door and steps onto the balcony, his fingers grazing the black metal fence like a pianist's touch on cold raven keys. At least, that’s how he imagines he looks. His gaze gets captured by some lively partygoers on the street beneath, their foreign tongues. The wind is almost non-exsistant and he thinks he might be fucking up the air-conditioning in the room… but he really missed Europe. Even if the heat on this day is the same as in Florida, something about Paris is starkly different. He didn't even know it until now. 

Suddenly, two large arms bracket him, big hands appearing beside his on the fence. George smiles and leans back into the secure chest, thinking that he really doesn't mind the warmth so much. He must be used to it.

"It’s pretty. A pretty city. You can see the moon."

"Yeah, I guess. I do like the moon," Dream agrees, though Dream isn't even really looking, just staring at George, so how would he know? His beard scratches George’s neck, who twitches though he insists he’s not ticklish, because that would be to admit a weakness his husband would definitely use against him and George will stab him or something, push him down the stairs maybe. Not that he’s prone to overreacting… just mildly maybe. 

"What’s up with you and Sapnap, by the way?" The twist of conversation whisks George away from the view, like a sudden gust of wind that changes the direction of his body, he turns in Dream’s hold. 

"What? What do you mean?"

The words hang between them, suspended and non visible like the stars.

"You two act like you used to when you were like twenty and you thought he was way younger than you and not really worthy your time. I don’t know what happened between you two, but I know you, you both, and he’s worried he did something – like something wrong." 

"Worried?" The word escapes George's lips, a fragment of surprise tangled in the night breeze. George stares at how the lights reflect and glimmer, float upon lilypads of curiosity and concern in the ponds in Dream’s eyes. It’s very distracting. "I didn't know he felt that way. I…" 

Sapnap is undeniably the most annoying friend he has but he lo-... tolerates him almost more than he does Karl. 

Oh – who is he kidding? He likes him. He’d love not to like him some days, but he really does. He admits it: the boy-man is family. 

Something, maybe the extreme exhaustion, maybe the city of love – makes him brave. "You’ve been on my mind, Dream. Like all the time," he admits in a low tone, licking his lips. "I guess – well I didn't really consider how Sapnap feels, if he wants to be included. He lives with us after all."

"He’d never admit it, but he feels left out. Like he’s just kind of stringing along lately. You’ve been doing your own race and I don’t even know what it is, or how you’re thinking right now and I wish you’d just tell me."

"I’m not," he admits, laughing. "Thinking, that is. It required a lot of unnecessary effort."

Dream laughs and George feels – suddenly – like he just won a competition. "But seriously-"

"I’ll include Sapnap more, don’t worry," he says, stroking Dream’s arm as a thankful gesture. "Thank you. Now get your man to sleep or I might fall over the balcony or start saying some very weird things. You don’t want to know what I messaged your mom," he groans remembering it, burying his face in his hands, digging into his eyes until a kaleidoscope of colours appear behind the lids.

"Sure- Wait, what?"

"It was so embarrassing, Dream – she didn't even answer. She’s going to think I’m stupid."

Dream just chuckles sadistically, and says, "You know – she’s loved you since I was eighteen and you messaged her ‘Hi, this is your son's boyfriend.’ She won’t ever shut up about it. It’s a Christmas story at this point, a tradition. Every one of – even – my distant relatives have heard it. They ask about my boyfriend all the time. And my sister?... Actually-... no comment. " 

Since Dream was eighteen? They've been together that long? George smiles smugly. 

"Okay let’s sleep," Dream says, and suddenly George is whelping because his feet have left the smooth stone floor and his arms find purchase on Dream’s back. "Fragile princess." 

George bites against the smile, because he really shouldn't encourage that term of endearment and he’s not fucking fragile. Yet every time Dream says it, George can see flowers bloom in the air, petals falling onto the concrete like he’s in a stylistic anime.

"You should have jumped George, now I’ve thrown you over my shoulder like a brute and will fortify you in my bedroom forever and ever and always."

George huffs in dry amusement and wonders if that was Dream’s wedding vows. 

He hopes so.

𖤓 ☾

Irl-streaming is… an adventure. The attention is never ending. George muses about how he's uttered more hellos in a single hour than to his half-deaf old grandma over a lifetime. Oh…

The memory gets swept under the rug with the rest of his family. 

They are currently in some brand-name store. After the first time George pointed at something and Dream picked it up, bee lining to pay for it, leaving a blinking George behind – wondering if he should tell his husband he was about to say ‘look what an ugly hat’ – he sets out on an experiment. He tests – once and for all – just how far he can take the sugar-baby thing. As luck would have it, quite fucking far.

And boy, does he hit the jackpot. 

Turns out, those secret exchanges of looks with Dream don’t just work to make him hard – they're a currency more powerful than Bitcoin, and George finds himself the proud owner of some rather expensive acquisitions. But beware, even the sweetest deals can leave a bitter aftertaste, especially when Dream plays the oblivious card. 

Yet, in the game of playing with fire, he discovers that even the most innocuous flames can singe. The burn materialises in the form of Dream ignoring him, and he can handle just about anything else, so perhaps – for the first time, he just drops the game.

The camera that clings to his shoulder is heavy – like – complain-worthy so, yet he carries it with a newfound patience. He is a new man, one that does not push his husband until he locks himself away in some tower where George can’t reach him, so he pretends the weight is inconsequential. Tough he really does think that he should get some credit for that effort, so he makes Dream pay for brunch. 

Small steps. 

He ends the stream before they go to eat because he really doesn't want to flood the place. It would make ordering quite inconvenient, he thinks. The camera equipment lay beside him in some patio couch where they can sit obscured by high hedges that smell like pine, at a restaurant he only suggested because it was the first one he saw.

And although pizza in France is exquisite and the experience is unmatched, with good company in a charming little pizzeria and live street-music being played nearby, it does not compare to that day in Dream’s car.

Though as it turns out – food is not always so greasy as it is in the US.

No one here speaks English, or at least doesn't want to, so they rely solely on hand gestures and Google Translate, and it works fine. No anchovies on any ordered pizzas or anything. Do other people know this? It feels like cheating the system. Why do people learn whole new languages when they don’t need to? Beats him. Google Translate is his new bestie.

George, well, he hasn't misinterpreted a single thing yet. 

But alas, with his friends, he is the butt of a joke at brunch, all thanks to one infamous photo.

Turns out, his friends just bloody love to tease him about that picture.

"What was that?" Sylvee giggles, between bites.

George shrugs his shoulders, rubbing flour off his hands onto a napkin. "Let's call it a social experiment."

"And the orange emoji?" Hannah asks deviously.

"A misclick ," he accentuates the word playfully.

Suddenly, right next to George’s poor ear, Sapnap gasps unnecessarily high, like he’s having an orgasm. George drops his pizza slice at the thought, his appetite vanishing all of a sudden. He shoots Sapnap a bewildered glance, expecting to witness the apocalypse or at least a Kardashian-level scandal unfolding on his phone, maybe a car accident through the bushes. 

But nope, Sapnap's just there, staring wide-eyed like he's seen a ghost in the pizza parlour. “Oh my god, the orange- the picture-,” he whispers, like he can’t decide what's worse, like he wasn't there to gloat in the aftermath.

The picture, oh the infamous picture. George rolls his eyes internally. The picture really wasn't that funny… or scandalous for that matter, just a back. Sure, it was a nice back, a picturesque back, if you will, a very pretty gasp-worthy one – sure, but a married one. And definitely not a dickpic or anything. 

Now he’s even pointing between George and Dream, whipping his head like he’s at a fanatic at a fucking rock concert. It takes seconds of everyone staring at him, waiting for an explanation, before he bites his lips and looks away, but not before furiously doing some childish gesture at George.

What the hell did he do now?

Hannah soon takes the reins, and she’s just as bad as Karl with the jokes. 

But as soon as the chat changes topic, comes the interrogation. 

"You and Dream? For real?" Sapnap whispers with the intensity of a conspiracy theorist, pulling George closer, making him seriously cringe by the hold on the back of his neck as Sapnap leans them further away from the rest. "Oh my god," he adds. "You were in on the piss thing," he whisper-shouts with wide panicked eyes.

"It was not a piss thing."

"Obviously!” Sapnap stresses like George is the stupid one. “I know it wasn't a piss thi- know what? It doesn't matter, stop distracting me. You and dream? For real this time? It’s not a joke?"

This time? Is he talking about the ‘fake joke moan’ on stream? He's never faked a moan with Dream.

"It was always real," he smirks. "Suck on that. Actually, that’s weird. Let's not get too cosy with that mental image, okay?"

"Well fuck." 

Is that sentence encouragement, or a statement of shock? What the fuck is this conversation?

George shakes his head in disbelief. He promised to take Sapnap more seriously but he sure isn't making it easy. In fact, he’s making it weird for the whole group, who’s now picked up on the tension.

The waitress comes to check on them and George gets an idea. Walking in, he saw a little blackboard out front, and if google translate isnt lying to him, it was a free dessert offer for newlyweds. 

"Everything good?" The waitress asks, heavily accented.

George points to the blackboard out front and then to him and Dream, moving to occupy the armrest beside his husband and displaying their chains. "We’re newly married." 

Sapnap chokes for some reason and the table goes quiet. 

Does the girls know they’re married? Well… they do now, he supposes. 

"Oh, new marry. Okay." she nods in understanding. "Wait little."

"What was that?" Hannah exclaims once she’s gone. "George? What, are we lying now? Good thing she doesn't know who you are or how to google you." 

So they aren't newly wed. George isn't sure when he got married, so it technically isn't lying, he wants to add but that would be incriminating.

Laughter breaks out, and it’s contagious. “George!” Sylvee gasps out.

"What?"

"That’s… I mean… well done, I guess."

Dream looks up at him, blinking stupidly fond, like a puppy. "I could have just bought those for you."

"Everyone knows that free shit tastes better. It’s not for you anyway. It’s for me and Sapnap – sorry darling."  

The girls laughs again. He didn't think that was so funny either. George sure is on a roll today. 

He’s not sure what he did to Sapnap, but at least he doesn't protest once George goes to stand behind him, or more like hanging off of him and breathing in his scent. It’s familiar and since little else is, that is so nice. 

Sapnap tenses, probably because he wasn't expecting it but soon relaxes back into the couch, silently being a pissy little bitch, George thinks. 

“That’s not fair,” Dream protests. “Since I am the one you’re married to, my lovely spouse, shouldn’t one be for me, and you can give yours away to Sapnap instead?”

"I can share my free desserts with whomever I like, take it up in marital court." 

Once arrived, the little lemon tarts are delicious, though super tiny, the cheapskates.

But he lied. 

It would have tasted better if Dream paid for it. 

𖤓 ☾

Sapnap joins him for a bathroom break, jumping on the offer really weirdly like they’re girls about to gossip about their school-crushes. George braces himself, wondering if this is going to be another episode of "Sapnap's Wild Tales," where he lets George know everything he’s ever done wrong.

"So, George... Remember TwitchCon last year when someone tried to auction off Dream’s used underwear?" Sapnap's tone is dead serious, sending shivers down George's spine and he’s staring, something you usually don’t do in a bathroom. This isn't the setup for a joke, that's for sure.

George tenses. What the fuck? Is he joking? It doesn't sound like it.

"Yes?" he finally says, as expressionless as possible, nodding cautiously. 

"I know we have security this year, but you know – you should watch out. Some people out there are a little," he gestures to his head, swirling his fingers, " delusional . Off their rocker, you know what I mean?"" 

How come George hasn't heard about this underwear thing? George's mind races. How did he miss this? Was it hushed up? Does Dream not want to worry him? But Dream shares everything, good and bad, right?  

"Sure, yes. Yes. Thank you Sapnap," he mutters distractedly.

""Great! Hey, let's revisit that vineyard where you and Dream tied the knot this summer, huh? You know, to relive the memories?"

"YES," he says just enough excited and loud, not parrot-like or anything, head snapping up and eyes frantically meeting Sapnaps eyes in the mirror.  "I mean… sure, I’d be down for that." He really would. It might spark some memories. Like that day in the kitchen. Like that cup. Maybe he should just go around touching more things, see if they-

Wait. They got married at a vineyard? That’s news to him. Weird. A tad too bougie for his liking, but hey, love knows no budget.

Sapnap's demeanour shifts suddenly, his expression grave, looking almost older in a weird way, and suddenly George regrets asking for that. "Right. Ehm… fuck.” He looks like he’s thinking something over, for several seconds, until George is sure he’s washed his hands to a clinic-like point. “Well…” He finally says, but it cracks, it’s rushed, and it’s grave. He sounds like he just opened a bag of souls and they’re all escaping at the same time. “Listen… I’m just going to let this week play out and hope that’s the right decision because I don’t know where to fucking start. I need to think and I don’t want to ruin this trip for you, but like – you and I need to have a long talk when we get back, like real badly. Like, seriously serious. Remember that," he emphasises, tossing the paper in his hands away.

“No, we can talk right now,” George insists, but Sapnap is already patting George’s back on his way out.

"I actually don’t think I can.”

“Did I do something wrong?” George rushes out just before Sapnap’s hand would have reached the handle.

“No… no.” He shakes his head, tries to smile. Tries – that’s a keyword. “Love ya man," he says, and throws the door open.

"You too," George mutters, utterly perplexed. Did Sapnap also bump his head or something?

As he makes their way back to the table, the waitress intercepts George, making him starkly aware of his outside surroundings again. "Pay?"

"Oh – Yes," he confirms. Once back at the table, he’s exchanging hugs and goodbyes with the group,  since they all want to get ready for the convention in time. Dream needs to buy something – superglue – for whatever, so it’s just them two who stay behind.

"You want to know what?"Dream asks.

“Your bank code,” George reiterates unnecessarily clearly, all teeth showing while repeating exactly what he just said, having snatched the card out of his husband’s hands. Judging by Dream’s bafflement, George probably should know that already. Shit. “I forgot,” he adds. “Sue me." When nothing happens, he starts preparing a righteous monologue, inhaling and starting, "Are we not married?" Daring him to disagree with him whilst the waitress scrambles to fit all their glasses on one tray.

Dream groans, most likely recognizing the tone as ‘you will lose if you continue’. 

"Twentynine – thirtyseven," he mutters.

"Thank you, darling," George chirps, flashing a winning smile. " I bet the bill is over a hundred euros, game?"

"Deal."

With a quick peck on Dream's cheek, George skips off to settle the tab, feeling like all is right in the world again. 

But as they leave the restaurant, they're accosted by some old hag that stops them by extending her arm across the walkway, and then with a very weird hand gesture – like she’s trying to summon dracula – she’s asking "So you gay?" in the wrong tone for George to be nice to her. 

What’s with people today?

"Well – he is," He says, pointing towards Dream. "I’m just attached to his dick for fun, like a roller coaster ride. Free admission and all. Did you want a demonstration?" 

She doesn't seem to like that answer.

𖤓 ☾

The hotel room's bathtub is like an ocean in its own right, a vast expanse that George absolutely adores simply because he can leave the door open and sprawl like a mermaid, watching as dream walks past the door a million times, being caught and looking guilty. But he also finds that he can’t get enough of the serene sense it provides to just hang his arms outside it and feel the porcelain dig into his armpit as he floats. The only reason he doesn't fall asleep is because he’s scared of water-boarding himself unintentionally.

Next time Dream walks by, George is a siren on dry land, propping his elbows up on the tub's edge like an enticing temptation, signalling Dream with a flourish as he points at the bill. 

Because it is – as you would have it – a whopping £102.09. 

"Well well… look at that, Dream." 

With a twist of his neck, George offers up his porcelain-smooth skin and puckered lips for his reward, an upside-down kiss.

Dream tastes faintly like strawberries, thanks to George's generosity in sharing sweets.

Things quickly escalate, George attempting to lure him in, reeling slowly, so very close, he can feel the willpower of a very stubborn man grinding to dust in his fingers, resulting in a completely unintended soaking, he swears. 

And at this point, George thinks that Dream could easily give in to the situation and just disrobe, accept defeat, get his dick wet. 

But as always – he’s too stubborn for his own dick’s good. 

𖤓 ☾

It is early in the afternoon when they get to the venue hosting Twitchcon. 

As they enter the event, George isn't entirely certain what to anticipate. Everyone seems to assume he's privy to the intricacies of the planned games – and he's not – so he simply stands there and waves, putting on his best pretty-boy demeanour. But he quickly catches on; after all, he's no stranger to streaming any longer. 

And the man who never stray from his side for long, he's certainly no stranger to either.

It's mostly the physical crowd that sends a delightful shiver down his spine, mingled with a touch of unease. What also adds to the surrealness of it all is the fact that they're flanked by not one – but two colossal bodyguards affectionately referred to by the chat as Bink and Bonk. 

Or more maybe – the fact that they need them. 

It's all enough to make him ramble and occasionally leap up from his chair to dart around restlessly, getting involved in whatever games his friends are playing.

GeoGuessr is one of the games George actually remembers hearing that they were forbidden from playing. So guess what he finds dream doing? It should be no surprise, he muses. That man can't resist the temptation, George knows that little fact firsthand. 

He soon finds himself hanging off his husband’s chair, being so very graciously helpful by surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder, keeping an eye out for any lurking Twitch staff. Also, by eagerly offering good advice, definitely not taunting his husband’s absolutely awful geographic skills – or more – his awful clue deciphering skills. 

"Just look at the signs! Dream! Stop looking at the cat!" He wants to snatch the mouse away, but Dream blocks him with his ridiculous body.

With an exaggerated mimicry of George's voice, Dream retorts in a high-pitched tone, "Just bleedin' look at the blinkin' signs, Dream! Blimey, stop starin' at the fluffy kitty!" 

George retaliates swiftly, pinching Dream's arm, because he sounds absolutely nothing like that. 

"Ouch! What the hell was that for?" Dream protests just as the timer on the screen runs out. "That's entirely your fault," he grumbles.

"How is that my fault?"

Dream responds with a raised eyebrow and incredulity aimed squarely at his own husband of all people.  "How?" 

George splutters, feeling the weight of Dream's challenge. "You were looking at the cat!"

"Different parts of the world have different cat breeds, you know. You don’t know shit, George. Stupid British fuck. You’re full of it, actually," Dream retorts, his words dripping with playful aggression.

Fed up with Dream's quibbling, George decides to hit low. 

He leans in, his voice barely above a whisper, and says, "If you'd just let me be..." The words hang in the air, and he’s never seen Dream stumble over his words and fiddle – like he does after that statement. "I thought you weren't allowed to play this. How are you going to fuck me if you’re in twitch prison?" He mumbles, barely audible – then quickly exclaims, so everyone around them hears – "Let’s make a bet Dream. Let’s play a game," and giggling sadistically.

Dream protests with a resounding "No," coughing awkwardly as he swats George away. But it doesn't matter, George notes with pride. He’s totally pushed the guy off his high-as-empire-building-sized pedestal. 

Escaping the icy looks being  thrown at him, George instead shifts his attention to Sapnap, finding him in some booth across the room, busy signing autographs and texting Karl. George lays his head across his shoulder, definitely not spying on the conversation. 

But because George had vowed to always keep Sapnap humble in spirit, he asks, “Who would win in a fight, a lion or a hippo?” 

“Hippo.”

“Wrong, the lion knows karate.”

“Oh go fuck off,” he says, finally looking up at George’s giddy face instead of his phone. “You totally stole that off the internet.”

“So?”

“Do you think there's such a thing as an extreme pillow fight tournament?” He asks.

“Why? Is Karl asking?” George teases. Everything seems to be going swimmingly. “Probably. Not so sure that isn't porn th-” Until it isn't. 

Until he looks up and his smile drops as quickly as the glass in the kitchen floor that night. 

It all starts when George spots a  – well he’s not entirely sure of the individual's gender or identity, and right now, George couldn't care less. This person, whoever they are, deliberately bends over the monitor desks, thighs provocatively exposed, ass almost fucking winking at George whilst this person reaches for a slip of paper or whatever. Their pink dress rides up, and they perform this entire act – this audacious display – in Dream's personal space, halfway across the room from his husband, or in all these people’s minds – his boyfriend . And it’s all happening right there on the stage for all to see. 

What adds to his frustration is that Dream is smiling. He doesn't even seem to realise he's committing an utterly atrocious act right in front of George's eyes.

“Um… Hello? George? What do you think?” Sapnap asks.

"Um-" George cuts himself off and huffs like an aggravated bull, the sound summing up his feelings rather aptly.

He’s baffled.

No, he's utterly flabbergasted.

He’s flabberbaffled.

The fucking nerve!

The audacity!

"Oh," Sapnap exclaims, taking in the same scene just as Dream takes a step closer, invading the person's personal space, and firmly grasps their upper arm, as if to say, ‘Hold on a second,’ before fucking helping them retrieve the slip of paper, handing it over with a smile. 

"Dude," Sapnap croaks. 

George meets his eye, feeling his brow twitching and realises he’s been practically strangling Sapnap with his hold around his neck. He loosens his grip around his body. 

"What are you gonna do ‘bout it?” Sapnap asks. “Divorce him? Good luck finding the marriage certificate." 

Sapnap's right; Dream is a terrible keeper of documents. Horrible paper-filer.

What is he going to do about it? Right now? Nothing. 

But in his mind's eye, he briefly envisions slapping Dream across the face. Although, George suspects that Dream might secretly enjoy that kind of punishment. 

He watches his husband laugh heartily at something the dress-wearing slut says, and just before George is about to make a very embarrassing but telling scene, he’s walking away, heading toward a Spanish streamer George actually really liked. 

"Oh shit, dude," Sapnap mutters, correction – warns – George thinks, as he jolts his attention forward and spots the slut steadily approaching them.

‘Good,’ He thinks. They should apologise for this discretion. Perhaps even bow down and kiss his fucking shoes. 

"Hello!" the person greets, waving enthusiastically.

"Hey," Sapnap responds. Five seconds of silence follows where everyone stares at George. And – just because he’s related to the devil or something – Sapnap elbows George right in the ribs, right where he's still kind of nursing an injury. 

Americans, he thinks.

"Hi," George says curtly, his tone far from friendly.

"Congratulations, it looks like you're going to win, hah?" the person starts. "You know, your friend is kind of handsome behind the mask," they fucking dare to add, talking about George’s fucking husband whilst totally fucking ignoring George. ‘Your friend;’ He’s clearly speaking only to Sapnap and doing it in a way like he has no fucking idea who Dream belongs to, like anyone is that unfortunate. 

Um… Excuse him? Very, very, very rude. 

Is George supposed to know this witch?

What the fuck is in the air in Paris? 

"Mh. He is," George asserts, although in his mind, he adds, 'To me – for me, he is,' and feels just a little better.

This person's attention once again drifts toward the unmistakable figure of George's boyfriend. Honestly, what do they think this is, Tiffany's? George wants to snap at them to stop fucking window shopping reserved shit. 

Owned shit. 

George snaps his fingers, displays a literal snap of annoyance, and demands, "Did you want something?"

They – in turn – snap out of their daydreaming, or perhaps more accurately, their dick-dreaming, inner George adds, and for once, outer George totally agrees. 

"Ehm, ahem, well – do you guys want to come to dinner with us, maybe?" They gesture their breakable little head towards a group of four streamers quickly eliminated from the competition going on around them.  

He'd rather call his mother.

"Sur-" Sapnap starts to agree, but George yanks on his hair so forcefully that he ends up with a handful of dishevelled strands, and Sapnap earns himself a well-deserved sprained neck.

George is not one for subtlety, as Twitter can attest, so he fixes a disdainful stare ahead and blurts out, "Dream and I have plans that won't work in public." Sapnap, in response, throws his hands up and hides his face with a squeaky sound as if he's utterly embarrassed to be seen with George, even though he's certainly heard them fuck, as Twitch can attest.

"Oh... well, you're cute too," the person says with a smile, flipping their long brown hair over their shoulder with their pretty blue acrylic nails that have this cute little design of seahorses, trying to be all coy and shit.

Sapnap's head rockets upward so quickly that he practically knocks George's jaw into a third lifetime, displaying a textbook example of domestic abuse. George, teeth gritted against the pain, prepares to unleash a verbal torrent on Sapnap, something that'll resound all the way to Luxembourg, when it dawns on him. 

Is this person really insinuating what George thinks they are? 

A… a what? A threesome?  

That's downright preposterous. 

It’s laughable. 

Why on Earth would he ever entertain the thought of sharing Dream?

No, he doesn't dignify the statement with a response. It’s not a damn question anyway. 

And as luck would have it, the silence that follows becomes so unbearably loud that it finally spooks the intrusive person away with a meek, "Okay, well think about it George and message me on Twitter if you’re interested." And George isn't sure if he means the dinner offer or…

"Oh my god," Sapnap hisses when they’re out of earshot. "Jesus, did he mean what I think he meant?" 

He, then.

"What else?" George hisses back. "Your detection skills are Impeccable, Sapnap." 

"I know, right?"

"Are we bragging now? My husband worships the ground I walk on, I win," George snaps.

"Relax Godzilla, I’m not the one who wants to sleep with him. And to be honest…  it doesn't look like it. He’s all the way over there and the ground you stand on doesn't look holy or anything. No crosses, no water, no-" 

"I’ll throw the phone into your head," George threatens, reaching to snatch it.

"Okay – okay! I’ll stop. You’re like the most annoying little shit. Dude, you can't be both annoying as hell and Dream’s husband , Georgie. You have to pick a struggle."

George refrains from biting him, a mercy on his part, and instead just glares intimidatingly.

But Sapnap takes it to another level when he adds, "Paris, dude. Love is in the air. Cupid shot the guy. Keep an eye on Dream." George slaps him over the head without any remorse and storms off. 

The hypocrite. 

Like he wasn't lurking in his and Karl’s chat, waiting for a response in real time like a goddamn football reporter arriving fifteen hours before the match even starts.

𖤓 ☾

The unabashed audacity of this rat is truly unmatched, George has to admit. The slut just won't quit with those sidelong glances and hushed whispers with his buddies. George's curiosity – no, his survival – is compelling him to uncover the master plan that’s evidently being hatched to pilfer George’s husband from him. So, he unleashes a red hot glare, locking eyes with this brazen Lothario’s icy one as though it's the grand finale showdown between Harry’s and Voldemort’s wands in the Harry Potter saga. 

George is so winning, he can feel the magic giving, he can feel the wand crac-

Did he just wink at George?!

Then, Sapnap, nursing his tender head, a testament to his stupidity, strides into George’s personal space as if he was about to unveil some juicy secret. "We might have a slightly awkward situation," he announces just as Dream finally joins the rest of the team by the screens.

"Let me guess-" Dream deadpans. "-You two caused it." 

Oh, George will fuck. him. up.  

His fury is simmering like a pressure cooker. He's plotting a reckoning of epic proportions. Dream will need one of those old people's personal electric golf carts when he is done with him.

"If you mean the staring being done by mister Casanova over there, Spam-mail," George remarks pointedly, casting a scathing glance in Sapnap's direction, threatening him with his eyes not to even mention what just happened. "That's the solution to another awkward situation – no, problem – I was having, not you . Or no, not me either actually. Everyone else seems to have a problem. A moral problem – actually, Dream." He seethes.

People are grouping before the stage. They're anticipating the announcement of the ultimate showdown. George, however, huffs derisively in his husband's direction and defiantly crosses his arms. 

"Wait." Dream leans in with enthusiasm, clearly excited by the unfolding drama,  then he actually glances at the slut.  "What did he say?" he whispers. 

"He said," George deadpans, pausing for dramatic effect, "that you're bad at minecraft, and that you smell bad," He punctuates this with an exaggerated shrug, aiming for an Oscar-worthy performance.

"What?" Dream bellows, not yet realising the crowd's attention until George hushes him. "Yeah, yeah,” he whines. “Are you serious?

“Why do you care?”

“Well – how did you respond?" he asks, eyebrows raised and something whiny in his voice George doesn't like. Why does he care? 

"That you also have a small dick," George hisses under his breath.

"What the fuck? Say again?" 

The man on the stage is rallying the teams, so George strides away briskly, with Dream trying to tag along. He’s manoeuvring the crowd only to feel a familiar grasp on his wrist stopping him and peppering him with questions like, "What’s your deal? What's – like actually – What’s up with that? Actually?" Like he doesn't know.

"How many points do we need?" George asks instead. "Well if we put yours and Sapnap’s IQ scores together we might reach it."

"Oh my god! Are you jealous? You’re jealous!" Dream hisses.

George halts trying to get away and pivots to face Dream. "Jealous?" he asks in disbelief and shakes his head in equal denial. "Seriously? That's absurd Dream. No," he punctuates with a head-tilt. "Why would I be that?" 

That’s so stupid. George is the husband, not the whore. So untrue. Slander again, and he’ll sue Dream too for defamation of character – not just hit him over the head.

Dream looks almost panicky, glancing at the stage, yet paradoxically smug. George notes that he frantically does that ring-fiddle thing he always does. "Okay George, bab- ehm," he clears his throat. "You’re acting like – really – angry at me right now. So okay, let's play a game," he insists. 

George visibly freezes. That’s the first time he’s said that. This is the first time Dream initiates it.

"Alright," George agrees with a sinister grin. "I bet… I bet we’ll lose the competition.”

“What?”

“Yes. But let’s up the stakes. If I win, you have to fuck me," he murmurs slyly, noting that the crowd have all gathered further up. They are missing the rules being read. 

What George said is manipulative, sure. But they’re not going to lose because the other team sucks ass and is behind and Dream knows it. So really, this is pointless. A power play. It is simply a reminder of who's the bigger simp in their relationship, and it sure as hell isn't George. 

Dream doesn't even respond. 

He remains silent in their staring competition, biting his lip and fiddling with his rings before George sighs and turns to follow Sapnap's call. “Forget it then.”

Together, they spruce up that little ‘car’ thing.

In George's humble opinion, he's the chief contributor, dishing out hand sanitizer and stickers, focusing on aesthetics. Even looking very pretty himself, like a flag-girl. You know, the vital stuff. He's the guardian of the brand image.

And that damned minx in the skirt won't stop with the ogling. Good grief. Oh my god. 

At least the competition is immersive. 

The blue and also maybe purple lights along the dark room are enchanting and the air is comfortable; crisp and clean because of the air conditioning. Dream's infectious delight and banter with their friends is a potent drug, like ecstasy, letting him forget about his husband's discretions for a time, a welcome respite when they are live.

Finally, it's their turn. The little car revs up, and he watches it all from his screen, chair twirling it back and forth. He wonders what Dream is thinking about, why he looks so serious.

He hears a countdown start.

Three… two… one…

And they let it go…

For a second he thinks maybe they didn't.

Because… well – it keels over. 

Immediately.

His eyes bulge as he leans closer to the screen. What just occurred? 

“What the fuck?” He hears Sapnap say. Indeed.  

Someone is retrieving it, and it doesn't take long to find the culprit. There's a sticker wedged inside one of the wheel's mechanicy things, whatever they’re called. 

"Oh, for the love of- It didnt even roll once! Once!" Sapnap grumbles. "How did that get in there? George?! Sticker-boy!" 

"No, no, no. It wasn't me!” He protests. “Don’t look at me! I was just handing them out!" He throws his hands up, glue free and everything.

It appears to be a mishap, an unfortunate one. The sticker isn't very big and it could have gotten transferred accidentally… except.

Except…

Well except there was kind of a body riding on this.

Wait… 

George’s eyes snap to his husband’s, finding him already staring, thought trying not to, badly.

Did he throw? 

Did Dream just throw the whole competition? Torpedo their entire shot at winning?

Something manic is bubbling up inside him. 

The stream can’t end any quicker, he's counting the seconds until it does, and then, he's on top of Dream, not literally, but at least planting himself in front of his husband like he's a human barricade, covering the screen and basically offering his ass up to the keyboard, smashing every button it feels like as he leans down. 

His sole mission: to get Dream's undivided attention so he can’t claim to not see or hear George. 

"Dream – did you fucking throw?" He hisses.

Said man leans back into his chair. "Now…” he begins, ringed hands gripping the armrests as he swivels it a little, humming in ‘thought.’ “Why would I do that, George?" Dream fires back. "What would I have to gain?"

But then, he stands up and George is looking up into the lily pond quickly being enveloped by the night sky with an open mouth. There's a hand snaking around his waist, soon spreading almost completely across his back. 

It’s only now that George remembers why Dream is doing this. Not because he wants to. If he wanted to he would have jumped at the blatant opportunity George presented in the bath.  George remembers that he’s doing this because those fingers are tainted red with betrayal and Dream is somehow scared to anger George but not to break him by rejecting his every advance. 

Yet his smile lingers, because – deep down – he can't quite believe that Dream would stoop to such a level to play George’s games. And yet, he revels in it. He loves it. BUt not like this, but also exactly like this-

He is so conflicted. So torn.

He shies away from the touch to think, “We’ll talk about this later,” he says, prying Dream’s fingers off. Minutes later, out in the hallway, he’s running his hand through his hair and pacing, both seething and wanting, craving destruction in such a loud silent way that makes him almost understand his mother’s detachment. Because this is how she feels anger too, and she was actually abandoned so maybe feeling nothing at all would be better because this is venomous, life-ruining. 

It is disgustingly ugly.

It’s all accumulating. All these weeks, month? More? He doesn't even keep count anymore. Doesn't want to know how far over the doctor’s guideline they’ve gotten. it’s all about to spill over, ready to shatter like a dropped vase. 

Perhaps that's why he decides not to inform anyone that he's heading back to the hotel early. He's vaguely aware of posing for some photos, someone screaming once he steps out into the lobby and him smiling nervously in return. 

Once the taxi door slams shut, silence descends like it was the lid of a casket. He sits there, trying to decipher one single thought until he realises he’s almost at the hotel, then hastily typing a brief excuse in the group chat on his phone after he remembers he realises he almost got mobbed on his way out of the convention.

He feels his phone vibrate a mere second later, but does not check who’s trying to reach him, because what’s the point? He knows.

At this point – he is the living equivalent of ‘it could be worse. It could always be worse.’ He’s on his way to worst-town though, sitting on an express-train. He thinks he’ll send Dream a postcard, an invitation even. How could he resist?

But only when he gets there.

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

As he crosses the threshold into the hotel room, George is a man with a mission. 

First things first, he's in dire need of a gulp of fresh air, so he swings open the balcony door with flourish… and promptly chokes on a full wall of warm air that feels very much like a sauna towel snapping him in the face.

"Delightful," he mutters sarcastically to himself, coughing, and slams the door shut again. Predictable, in hindsight – he thinks, considering he was just out there and his ass was being slow roasted. 

But then again, his brain really isn't braining at all. 

Instead – it’s doing this thing where it keeps relentlessly repeating pressing questions – like – ‘Did dream throw? Did he give in? Why now? What’s happening? What now? How the hell does he play this game? Should he go back to the venue? Do they have soundproof bathrooms? The taxi might still be down there. Should he move to Cuba?’ and it’s just exhausting. 

Not wasting another moment, he sheds every layer of clothing except for his plain white T-shirt and – of course – pants. He's not about to give the folks in the neighbouring hotels a free peep show; he's not aiming to star in ‘Naked and Afraid: Hotel Edition.’ So they stay on… and he promptly ignores it when inner George naggingly calls it the ‘Walter White getup.’  

One dramatic swing of the mini fridge door later, he's got a miniature champagne bottle in one hand and its whisky counterpart in the other. A minute later he’s thrown himself onto the couch, perched with legs folded beneath him. 

Cradling a fluffy white pillow on his lap, he chuckles, strokes it, and begins pretending it’s a cat and he’s a supervillain plotting world domination. A very dramatic turn and the words ‘so you’ve finally caught on,’ are ready to jump off the tip of his tongue… 

Only to remember that he isn't here to see the – perfectly acted out – bit… so there’s really no reason to perform at all.

And then his brain is chanting ‘ Dream Dream Dream’ again, fantastic. 

He should open every overpriced piece of nonsense in the room – vandalise it – so that his husband has to pay for them, footing a hefty bill, he contemplates… And it's a tempting thought, but for now he simply twists off the top the little champagne bottle and listens to the cap roll under the couch somewhere into oblivion. 

He most certainly does not guzzle it down like a desperate sailor, no; because he's fine – and that would imply he's not, and we can't have that. Instead, he takes measured sips, the bubbles tickling his nose, and the mug he found to pour it into – poised with all the elegance of a debutante at a royal ball, pinky finger out and everything, he swears.

Brown eyes wander over to the bed, all pristine and white and immaculately made folds like it's auditioning for a magazine cover. Still, it does not beckon to him like their bed at home. Inner George is quick to point out the stark differences; no tech and its million cords thrown around haphazardly, no hoodies mingling around, no cups, no candy wrappers… no indent from one very large husband and no sandalwood. There's just a sliver of light streaking across a pillow, and it feels so offensive in its loneliness – that he rolls his eyes at it; nothing like at home where the Florida sun floods the room like a golden wave crashing through the big windows. 

It feels too impersonal, sterile, like a hospital, like most other things in life right now – and suddenly he’s asking himself what he’s even doing here, why he’s still bothering with this charade at all. 

It feels stupid. 

He should have told them. 

Alone and far from home, far from sacred ground, he’ll admit his fault. What he’s doing is cruel, but he’s way too far in and with the way that Dream talks about the past with such loyalty, with such importance, George is so selfish that coming clean now is simply not an option. 

Furthermore, he wonders why he woke up thinking of their house in Florida as home and everything else as foreign territory .

The whole ambience of the hotel room around him carries a kind of distinct European flair. The walls aren't made of cardboard, for one. A flair that should make him long for England, for London, for the home he actually remembers, right? For familiarity, for family, for blood.

But no, instead he feels guilty. This whole trip is a guilt trip, in fact.

Partly, because he abandoned that life and everything in it. And though he logically knows that was a long time ago and that things with his sister probably solved itself somehow, for all he knows that was last month, she’s dying from addiction and he’s here… in Paris, swimming in luxury. 

Isn't that funny? He thinks sarcastically, wiping sweat and fatigue alike from his face.

And so in part, the guilt is there because this kind of money is too good to last and too undeserving. 

He feels like an imposter among the white ornate wood panelling and golden framed paintings; it’s too much, it’s too weird to wake up into this kind of opulence. It makes him feel too much like he’s living someone else's life, regular George’s life. He feels like a stranger in his own skin, and he’s getting more and more certain that that feeling isn't ignorable; that it isn't going away.

The intrusive symphony of traffic and foreign languages wafts in through the window, car horns and rapid-fire conversations. It’s such a stark contrast from the quiet suburbia he’s been basking in all summer, where he is safe from ghosts, from childhood, where he is halfway across the world from every face he can’t even remember but also – paradoxically – somehow thinks he could never face. This environment is so different from home – that without Dream there – it’s turning unnerving. He doesn't even like those ridiculous good smelling sticks in the bathroom that makes him feel like a wizard when he wafts them around. 

He misses the familiar scent of their shared space.

He wants to go home. 

A home vacant of reminders of England, vacant of impersonality… 

A slutless home. Key-word: slutless.

The kind of energy needed to be this tiring of a person all the time is actually currently more than he has, somehow, he muses. It does not bode well. Maybe he should just sleep again. 

Half an hour later, whilst trying to pour another glass… Well, mug, he discovers that nothing comes out. 

Huh? He shakes the champagne bottle… 

Empty. 

Another thing he glares at as if it's personally offending him.

The whisky is uncorked with determination. He’s ready to drown his sorrows like all those bearded men in blue-toned movies, but as the liquid hits his tongue, he recoils in disgust. It’s like swallowing liquid fire, burning all the way down and leaving a bitter taste in its wake. He’s unable to force himself to swallow the golden liquid quick enough, so it dribbles down his chin onto his shirt before he can catch it. Some kind of sound escapes him, pure revulsion perhaps, and great – now he smells like the stuff. Disgusting.

"What sick people make this?" he whispers to himself, trying to see if poison is listed in the ingredients. He only finds ginger. Who puts ginger in whiskey? Pretentious Parisian assholes who pretend to like this, he decides, his lip curling in disdain.

He even gives it a second chance; tries to smell it again, thinking maybe he overreacted, but nope, definitely done with that forever. He can't help but grimace and shudder, even at the aftertaste, even at the bare memory of swallowing it. 

With a desperate leap, he bolts to the bathroom, his feet pounding the floor, and rinses his mouth vigorously in the vast sink, gurgling water to banish the wretched taste. 

That was such a bad idea. 

Actually, whoever made that is a bad idea, he decides.

Straightening up, he accidentally catches sight of himself in the mirror… what he sees is not reassuring.

His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his cheeks red and warm, and he feels wet and shivering. He stands there, still, convinced that the whole world has frozen, except for the subtle sound of the air conditioning blasting, and realises that he does not recognize himself. 

In his limbs exists a brand of irrational trembling panic, and it insists that there’s something beneath in the drain that’s waiting for the right moment to pull him down into it.

He gags without any warning, catching his forearms on the cool marble – and as loose limbed tipsy as he is – it hurls his whole body forward until his hip hits the edge painfully and he swears at his misfortune.

“It’s the alcohol,” he tells his mirror-self. “Disgusting.”

Yet – even mirror-him seems to know. Seems to be judging him even – with a silent reproachful stare he can’t help but look away from.

They both know that those petals inside of him – those sweet floral offerings he planted in that symbolic flower garden for the only God-like thing Goerge has ever known – are being picked up just like the leaves are, by the wind. 

And sooner or later, they will get stuck in his throat. 

They scratch. 

They don’t go back down anymore. 

Not with water, and apparently – not with alcohol either. 

The only thing alive in that house is being swept away and he mournes them with such agony. 

What if – one day – there’s nothing left? And what then? If they’re all gone; if it all withers away?

He can’t even really remember when they were planted, why he did it or where they came from, or even what they mean any longer. Just that he woke up cradling them and insists they belong in the very heart of that house despite a very clear poisonous quality. He thinks their meaning might have changed and escalated and swirled and twisted upon itself long before he woke up, years ago… to something… else.  

Different… worse?

He can’t remember, and yet he can’t breathe.

He feels his chest constricting, the air thinning. Frantically, he scrubs the bile off the sides of the sink until it shines, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He scrubs his hands after until they smell enough like a blooming rose garden and there’s a sizable dent in the – presumably pink – bar of soap. 

It’s first when he stands brushing his teeth and scrubbing his tongue that he feels the urge to scream bubble up from the depth of his chest, threatening to burst through every crack and crevice. That familiar anger grips down on his insides vice-like, and a sharp piecing stab goes through his heart. 

He wants to make Dream never look at anyone again. He wants to develop some kind of tech that blurs his vision as soon as he tries… gives him an electric shock maybe, something subconscious – like they do with dogs. Does he have that kind of money to fund that?

Well… maybe he’ll just put Dream in a cage, he muses. 

Maybe he’ll actually threaten divorce.

Wait… what is he even thinking? 

He breathes out of his nostrils in frustration, face scrunching up in horror, and wants to scream ever higher. That might possibly be the most desperate plan he’s ever conducted, and that says something. 

Mirror-George seems to be judging him even harder now.

Instead of letting it explode, he clenches his jaw, determined to swallow the scream down like bitter medicine, like the whiskey. After all, he’s no stranger to swallowing things he’d rather not – emotions, truths, the bitter taste of past mistakes.

He doesn't quite grasp this sadistic – or maybe more masochistic – want to hurt Dream back. To punish him, to just push him away, to ruin what they have irreversibly and just go live in the wilderness, become one with the bears. 

Yet, he's exhausted by this bitterness, this spitefulness, and besides, the woods doesn't have Wi-Fi, and he doesn't actually want to ever hurt Dream. Not really.

One blink is all it takes to receive a spine chilling flash image of a cat-print mug. The image itself is innocent enough, but in just a single blink, he's suddenly staring into his past – frantically thinking, ‘No, no, no. Nope, do not wanna end up like her.’ 

The glaring absence of her name in his phone proves that her path was a dead end. Where she stands is some place lonely, some place so far from the things she tried to control and keep under lock and key… because he escaped, didn't he? 

And he's not in the mood for a scenic route to nowhere. 

He's weary of this all-consuming need, this possessive streak that morphs into anger whenever he can't bear to share, like a child unwilling to part with their favourite toy.

Because Dream is not a toy.

If anything, he’s more that of a limited edition action figure you keep pristine in its original packaging, a valuable, a collector’s item – never to be played with.

He does not want to toy with Dream… well – anymore.

How did he do this before? He asks himself, racking his brain trying to see how he managed before the amnesia hit. Because… well he was happy, wasn't he? He found himself two whole best friends that somehow liked him, wanted to live with him. He even got married to one of them, and became somewhat famous. 

Surely he must have found some coping mechanism along the way.

One long breath and a lot of resolve later, he stares back into the mirror, something he's avoided for weeks. He stares straight into those chocolate coloured eyes that always seemed to hold truths – not secrets – that he's not yet privy to.

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, don’t they? 

So maybe – just maybe – if he stares long enough, regular George will betray something... anything.

"How did you do this?" he murmurs to his reflection, the words escaping his lips softly, barely moving, fearing that they’ll echo against the tile and come back, that he’ll have to bare truths too. 

“Mh, idiot? What kind of stuff are you hiding in here?” He taps his head, or tries to, somehow nearly poking himself in the eye. 

His arm must have grown a centimetre overnight, he decides. 

“What else are you hiding? Why don’t you want to come out and play? If you’re anything like me, you love to play games. Wait… are you playing with me? Is that why the door to the attic just won’t budge already? It’s not iron, it’s practically splintered, I can peek inside!” His fingers twitch, almost as if they're itching to reach out and shake some sense into his mirror image. “Hello? Mister regular? Are you guarding it like a little gargoyle?” As much as he tries to sound harsh, it all comes out slurry, all jelly-like.

He leans in closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who knows all the answers he’s desperately seeking. But regular George must be some expert spy because he betrays nothing except for stubbornness in the form of silence. A pout happens upon his lips, frustration mounting with each passing second – because this is not a fun game. These rules are not fair. He doesn't even know them. 

He wonders if this is how Dream feels like in their games.

“Come on, old me – well technically younger me, Right?” 

He gets temporarily lost trying to work that mindtwister out… 

Wait, where was he? 

Oh regular George must be playing dirty, trying to distract him, he thinks and huffs in disbelief before adding in spiteful mutter, “Don’t know what’s so regular about you anyways, but Okay! I'm willing to grovel if that's what it takes.” 

He waits, and waits, and yet… sees nothing in those eyes he didn't wake up with. 

Frustration turns to desperation as he tries a new tactic: threatening. “Alright, mirror-me. I’ll cut off a toe if you don’t open it.” 

Eyeing the drawers beneath the coffee machine, he wonders if he has suitable utensils and thinks that… well you don't need all ten toes, surely? And getting banned from one out of a thousand hotels in Prais? Who cares?

But alas, still no recognition in those eyes, just a one-way ticket to the black abyss. An escalation follows, “A finger – two even?” No reaction. “Hm… I’ll go bald, that’s humiliating. Imagine the pictures online. ” He nods at himself in the mirror, trying to look convincing. “I’ll do it. I have clippers bitch,” he says, eyeing Dream’s beard trimmer that both him and Sapnap keep stealing.

Nothing.

He deflates, leaning against the sink, digs his fingers into his closed eyelids until he gets dizzy, and wonders what the fuck he’s doing, if he’s actually snapped, and exactly why he thought this would work. 

He’s out of options, and the last step, the one he hates, has always been bargaining. “Come on. Please,” he pleads into the mirror and watery tired eyes. “Your husband really misses you – I think – though he doesn't really know it and…” A little self-deprecating laugh escapes him, morphing into a half-sob he barely catches, before he admits, “I don’t know what I am doing, I don’t know this game, and I am going to lose… lose everything,” he whispers, sight going blurry as he freezes in contemplation, mind running at lightning speed considering all the worst scenarios of how this will end, and in all of them… well – he ends up abandoned.

And then something…a noise; a door opening.

Eyes widening, his heart skips a beat, and he stops breathing so that he can listen. 

His brain is screaming: ‘ oh my god – it’s happening, it’s finally happening.’

“George?”

Oh… 

It’s not happening.

Somehow, he’d forgotten that Dream had a keycard to their hotel room, a fact that becomes exceedingly clear once he hears the familiar footsteps nearing. He really didn't think his husband would follow so soon; Dream was supposed to be wrapped up in a full-day itinerary at the venue.  

You know, inner George reflects, being sceptical isn’t all bad. If Dream hadn't come back, George would have been right, and now he’s just oddly flattered, and George really thinks he should shut the fuck up because that’s not helpfull.

He points at himself in the mirror with a clenched jaw, swiftly and lowly threatening the beautiful man that stares back. “Sober the fuck up, stop being such a crybaby and burden for his husband. It’s like five pm, nowhere near acceptable drunk breakdown hours.”

"Why aren’t you answering my calls?" Dream's voice rings out from the main room, and George cringes. 

It’s loud. And it is as fast as it is sharp with anger. 

Not the fun type of angry where George is the provocateur, pushing buttons, pushing things off the bed, pushing their bodies together until Dream pushes him off, but rather the one where Dream pushes for answers that George either doesn't know himself, or doesn't want to give. 

It’s the worst type of Dream there is. 

It’s a nightmare, he muses with puckered lips.

“You… called?” George asks mock-surprised, and perchances just a tad too quickly. 

He shifts, letting his own form go out of focus as he catches Dream’s eye in the mirror. 

There he stands, in the doorway, outlined by sunlight. Like a lion with a mane, inner George adds, and though still not helpful  – he fully agrees.

Whatever Dream gazes back at – it makes the angry lines in his face slowly change into another kind of tense. One George doesn't just dislike, but hates. It never fails to make his blood turn to ice.

He takes back what he said before, pitiful Dream is the worst kind there is. It is the single ugliest thing he’s seen his husband wear. Considering George has sneakily been updating that fucker’s warderobe by tossing at the very least five shirts in the trash in the last month, that says something.

"Are you okay?" Dream says, breathing harshly – with measured heaves. It’s like he’s out of breath yet for some reason trying to hide it. 

Peculiar, George thinks. 

“Yes?” He asks, like Dream should be the one to explain why he wouldn't be, and thinks it’s a rather genius play. 

However, at the same time – he forgets to hide his shaky hands, and he can point out the exact moment Dream notices it, simply by the way he goes still. Face like stone, like a statue – in that way that means that he knows Goerge is lying – but not if he wants to call him out on it. 

George drops his eyes on instinct, hiding, and in an effort to change the subject, can’t help but remark, “you’re still wearing shoes,” staring. 

His husband doesn't seem to deem that statement response-worthy, but he should know that George despises it when he does that, when he tramples dust and dirt into their bedroom at home. 

He much prefers him barefoot.

Preferably with a chain and ball around one foot, but you can’t leash humans to your bed. Well… Dream did do that to him, and he loved it, inner George reminds him, but the point is – you can’t do that forever.  

You just have to trust that – at the end of the day – they’ll come back to you, and that’s why this whole thing is so hard.

He gathers courage like a squirrel amassing acorns for the harshest of winters, sucking in air until his lungs are about to pop before letting it all out. Lately he’s been feeling like however big breaths he takes, his lungs are never full. Like it’s not enough.

"I think I’m…” He looks down at his bitten down nails and fingers clutching the marble of the sink and tries again to push the words out. “I think I’m… afraid," he admits cautiously, half of him hoping that Dream didn't hear that.

Before George can even catch up to what he let slip himself, there are fingers prying the toothbrush from his hand as Dream tries to ardently spin him around with a dictating hand on his waist. 

In a single stuttering breath, he hears the toothbrush clattering against the sink, almost gets whiplash, having to clutch Dream’s sleeves to keep from tripping, and finds himself staring straight into his husband’s face. 

At the moment, he is the subject of all of George’s anger, yet… that lily pond is the only thing that has ever helped clench it and he finds himself quite stumped. 

"What happened? Did someone hurt you?" Dream demands, seizing George’s wrists, positioning him as insistently like a sculptor moulding clay to fit his vision – before taking a step back and inspecting his work. 

George opens and closes his mouth several times, too many trails of thoughts threatening to escape – before he settles on a simple,"No, Dream."

All he'll find is the faintest yellowish discoloration on George’s side, like always. It would be gone already, a week ago, if George didn't keep pressing down on it, because as far as he can remember – he was born with that bruise… and – well – without it there is no physical difference between him and regular George, and that’s wrong. 

It’s a birthmark.

Dream acts like he doesn't hear the denial, and at last, once all other possible places George could have been magically harmed have been examined, his eyes search George's face. 

Gently twisting out of his husband's grip, George takes a step away from Dream along the sink and lowers his arms to cross before him, so as to not feel so… naked. 

He’s actually naked and afraid. How comical, he muses.

"You’re not hurt?" Dream repeats, scepticism oozing from every pore. When no answer comes, he bends down, desperately trying to catch George’s sight that – in turn – is currently plastered on the chequered floor. 

"No." George is not necessarily avoiding the conversation, no. It’s a very interesting floor. Looks like a chessboard, and if he unfocuses his eyes, it swirls.

"...You’re sure ?"

"Yes." He tries to huff out an amused sound as reassurance, like he finds it all trivial, but he thinks it comes out more tired than anything. Though judging by Dream’s reaction – namely, crowding George into the sink behind him, it must sound mocking. 

George stretches back in surprise, instinctively meeting Dream’s eyes with hands anchoring onto the sink behind his back, padding it, and thinks ‘Oops.’

"So what happened? Did someone threaten you? Why didn't you tell me you were leaving? Why didn't you take one of the bodyguards with you? I literally told you to, I said Bonk-" he rushes out, words spilling like water.

"I know, duh," George interrupts, rolling his eyes. Dream must have mentioned it about a million times, like a broken record. It was quite annoying.

"And you totally ignored it," Dream seethes.

"Yes. I’m not fragile. Contrary to what you believe, I can take care of myself, I just…” He forces a smile and shrugs, tone casual. “-prefer not to.”

Dream clenches his jaw in that way that will never fail to get George mezmerised, and bites out, “I know all that George, but I’m starting to wonder if you’re actually brain-dead – thinking anyone can take on four hundred people, or if you just have a fantasy of getting trampled to death.” 

Swallowing, George shakes his head a little, trying to get his brain to catch up, to stop being so horny, because he refuses to lose this argument. He should probably psyco-analyse just why Dream scolding him gets him so turned on, but he’s not so sure that he would like the answer.

George laughs a bit – just barely sadistically – and decides to play up the verbal battle, because at least he knows this game. So, he looks squarely at his husband and bites his lips together smugly before cheekily taunting, “Would you miss me, if I did die, if I just… disappeared?”

He is – however – wholly taken aback when Dream doesn't find it funny in the least, but rather gets all up in George’s face until the latter is having to climb up on the counter, cold sink against his skin where he sits in only pants and a T-shirt, with a metal tap digging uncomfortably sharp into his lower back.

Dream’s hands brackets his thighs, and something steely forms in those green eyes. The pond freezes over until George can’t see through any amount of depth. Dream is entirely unreadable, and that is how he knows. He knows that some kind of statement soon will hang in the air. Something that instinctively makes George want to slap a hand over Dream’s mouth before it even begins; something too honest. 

He braces for impact, watching Dream lean over him until he covers all the light from the window and George feels ant-sized. 

But then – in an instant – it goes clear again. Surprise or something more like realisation, the bad kind, doom – takes its place, and George is suddenly weary in a completely different way.

Did he figure it out?!

“Wait,” Dream backtracks, face scrunching up, and nostrils moving swiftly in little inhales from where he’s perched over George – who slumps further into the mirror behind him until he’s almost laying down, feeling like he’s trying to smuggle crack through airport security with a sniffer dog over him all of a sudden. 

Terrifying… So hot.

“Are you drunk?” Dream asks loudly, and in disbelief. “When the hell did you get drunk?” 

It seems to be Dream’s turn to laugh humorlessly, and George is stricken by how chilling, humiliating… attractive – it is.

“No,” he responds too quickly once again, and maybe that points to him really being – just a little – tipsy.

“Oh my god.” With newfound vigour, Dream starts articulating every harsh word that leaves those sinful lips. " What. the. fuck. did. he. say. to. you ? Really. And don’t fucking lie to me, don’t try to tell me he said that I’m bad at minecraft again. Don’t even try because I know he wouldn't say that. Also, we both know that’s a lie considering I used to kill you over and over in pvp. We both know that I used to wipe the floor with your ass until you begged me for mercy. So I swear to god George, what did he say? Spill it." he hisses, venomous. "I’ll cancel him."

As Dream speaks, a small sun – blazing with all its heat and density – is born in George’s stomach. With it comes the urge to climb Dream, rising just as swiftly as the return of his anger. It’s radiating out in all limbs – and if this continues – he’s going to have a very visible problem, and also maybe try to shave a strip through those locks he loves so much. It would be painful, for George, but the lesson might be worth it. 

Mainly, because he does not find it amusing at all that Dream assumes he's reacting like this because of that absolute vixen, mind jumping straight to the slut. And what does he mean ‘I know he wouldn't say that’? So he knows him now, does he? It’s not funny, no, it’s infuriating. 

What George does find amusing – however – is Dream's threat to "cancel" him. For a moment too long, George remains half-laying – frozen and wide-eyed – and entertains the idea of lying, entertains the idea of pretending that he indeed did say something worthy of being cancelled, only stopping himself by physically biting his lip, listening to inner George’s screams about his ‘career,’ like he cares. 

But, he is already the villain in too many people's tales. He really shouldn't want to cancel someone who did absolutely nothing wrong because George is… well – jealous.  

Oh how he hates the sound of that. He wants to banish that word from existence.

"No Dream. No, it's not like that. He didn't- Well, he didn't say anything worth mentioning anyways," George says nonchalantly, physically shaking the thought out of his head. He’d rather not pass along a threesome invite to his husband. Instead, he’s much more interested in reaching out tentatively. He's not quite sure if he’s allowed to touch, yet he always finds shameless little excuses, and big ones, to do so. Dream is so close and George wants him so much closer still that it is irresistible. As his fingers graze those curls, he thinks one word – like always: soft, and it’s very calming.

He also wants to jank it hard whilst Dream rails him into the mirror behind them until it cracks.

"So why are you scared then?" It’s whispered – as though Dream himself is terrified, afraid of waking the monster lurking in George's mind. Except George suspects his fear is more that of the monster retreating. That some prettily masked thing will come out to take its place. That the honesty in this conversation will be replaced by sarcasm and later, an act about it never having taken place in the first place.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't considering it. 

“I-” George blinks languidly, wills his blood to go up, not down, wills himself to stop staring at Dream’s lips so close, and thinks about it. Truly thinks about it. Maybe for the first time since he woke up – he lets himself. Or perhaps, the bubbling champagne swirling in his veins does. Or maybe, just maybe, it is the serenity of this man in front of him – allowing him to delve into the depths of his own psyche.

Either way, it’s a fine line, thinking about all that anger and the agony and the fear, analysing the theory behind it without subcomming to such an irrationally devastating anxiety that his heart insists upon. 

“-Do you think I would be different if I wasn't so spiteful? Do you think I would be a bore without the sarcasm and the sharp tongue and the little hint of… something maybe a little… destructive that comes with it?” 

“What?” Dream does a little confused head shake, looking exasperated.

“I think maybe... I think maybe it’s not such a bad thing, I can live like this,” he tells himself – no – he means Dream. “All the most artistic people are tortured, they say. I think I was different, better – yes, maybe – but boring. Before… you know.” 

“No, I don't, I don't know.” Straightening up with his hands clenching above his head, Dream looks about ready to rip his beautiful locks out, if George had to guess. But instead, Dream reigns his own monster in and tiredly sighs out, “I don’t understand George,” so honestly.

“Oh… right…” he trails off, remaining laying on the counter, going boneless. Sometimes he forgets that Dream in fact does not know all of him and his secrets, and yet still offers such deep perspectives to ‘theoretical’ problems that George brings up. 

So… more to himself than his husband, he adds softly, “-you don’t.” 

He wonders what regular George did in life, because he can’t figure it out, not past following Dream around like a housecat, pushing things off shelves for attention, only to get scolded – not a single pet in sight. So sad. Did he used to have some kind of drive? Was he one of those - the peppy, in-bed-by-nine, just-water-for-me-please types who say: ‘water aerobics? Oh sounds fun!’ Gross.

Is that why Dream isn't attracted to him anymore? Is he too much… too dependent?

“You liked him better, didn’t you? I don’t think I like him at all. I think he’s an asshole and he’s also a gatekeeper, just so you know,” he tries to sound as convincing as possible, less bitter, and prays that Dream does not try to defend regular George. 

He’s not so sure he could act indifferent to it.

Dream's response is swift, the harsh flick of a middle finger aimed squarely at George's forehead. George’s own hand rises to massage the pain away, and an ardent protest is just about to escape him when Dream actually puts a muffling hand over George’s plump and perfect lips – that he should be kissing instead, ravishing – to shut him up.

Dream speaks without hesitance. “I literally live with you, and you think I would pick some guy I’ve met tops five times over you? And yeah – no shit you don’t like him – you were shooting daggers at him all afternoon. So what did he say, George?” 

George pulls the hand over his mouth down his chin, down to his lap. “What?” he asks, confusion mirrored in his furrowed brow. He feels around for the pulse and clutching the wrist in his lap instinctively, keeping Dream from slipping away. 

Oh… right, they were talking about the slut, the devil’s kitchen rat – from earlier. 

At the thought of him, George’s blood heats up and the alcohol must amplify it, because before he can even stop himself, he’s blurting out, “Why won’t you have sex with me?” 

Promptly, he feels his own eyes widen impossibly. He needs to sew his mouth shut, alternatively never drink again, join a monastery, he thinks in panic.

And the thing is – he would take it back, he would laugh it off with a coy smirk… 

However…  

He finds that he does not want to go another month without knowing. That this is more important than his pride. 

The hold he has on the wrist must turn almost bruising. It’s just a percussion, keeping his husband from running away, if he were to try. 

Except that Dream doesn't leave, or feigns ignorance like George would have done, instead he expertly sidesteps the question, saying, “I have had sex with you. And did you forget that I just threw the game to get to fuck you George?”

George ignores the very real reach for attention his dick attempts at that proclamation. He wishes he’d recorded Dream saying that, so he could have played it from the speaker at the venue and watched the slut cry himself to sleep. 

Dream is getting better at subversion and George wants to kick himself for teaching someone so moral this game.

“No – I mean yes,” he corrects, because Dream isn't technically wrong, but… “-but before that, and you know what I mean with sex, like all the way,” he persists, or more forces himself to after several seconds. With cheeks aflame, he muses how – ironically – it gets harder and harder being shameless the more Dream makes himself matter.

The wrist moves under his fingers – and soon – George gets aware that with that strength, he couldn't have stopped Dream from leaving even if he gave it all he had. 

What are they doing? George wants to kick himself all the way back into the hospital for being depressing.

He won.

They could be fucking right now, terms and conditions applying.

So what if he can’t stand any version of himself or anything he’s ever done?

Palms are being spread out on top of George’s thighs, trapping him in return. It's followed by a little sadistic smile and any hope that Dream wouldn't notice that George gets turned on by literally just talking to his husband is being forgotten. 

Mortifying, but at least Dream is not running away. 

In fact, he is inching closer – so close – to where George wants him, only to stop at the high of George’s thighs.

Finally, the freaking super sadist utters a challenge. “Know what – if you tell me why you’re scared, I’ll tell you why I’m hesitant.”

Oh… well shit. Dream’s got him there, like fully. 

George can not comprehend how the hell he became the one being hunted, manipulated and yanked around. 

Well, it’s not like he wasn't going to try and talk to Dream anyways – eventually, because he promised he'd communicate. And he promised himself to not be like her. 

But trust his husband to wave the carrot over a  fucking cliff. 

"Alright, fine,” he mutters with an obvious fake smile on his lips that soon is being responded to by an even faker one flashing on his husband’s. 

Isn't Dream supposed to be the empathetic one? 

George feels as though he's cornered, like a trapped little mouse with a hawk looming overhead. The hands on his bare thighs are like heavy weights, pressing him down, glueing his skin to the marble. His mirror on his back is cold, and frankly, he might have been a bit too zealous with the air conditioning settings, but admittedly, the shivers wracking him have nothing to do with it. 

Oddly, there's this sense of relief flooding through him, because even if he won’t like the answer Dream will give him, he’ll at least finally know. 

It’s tough to start talking, so he casts his gaze into an upper corner of the room, searching for the words, for courage, and for a few seconds everything seems to be balancing on an edge whilst Dream waits patiently.

"I feel like I am being haunted by my past… you could say – like… like a lot, almost like that’s… all I know. There are certain… voices , statements, regrets-” He clenches his eyelids shut hard, exasperated of trying to make sense of it to even himself. “-that are- it’s like they’re on a loop-” he motions to his head, swirling his finger, trying to visualise it, because that’s the only way it makes sense. “-they echo in- in these corridors in my brain. And they won’t leave me alone, Dream.” 

He swallows dryly, lets the tension in his frame go loose and leans his head back against the mirror for a breath. Eyes stay closed, because it’s easier to be vulnerable without an audience, but it also means he’s super aware of the hands touching him. And then, of where those hands have been.

Then, he blurts out, “And then I am afraid that I am losing control of… things, well this one thing I did, or said.. or more like didn't say because I thought that it would kinda solve itself but it’s been a lot longer than I thought it would go on and it hasn't. I am afraid that I am making the wrong choices, and I am afraid of facing them and I don’t think that I want to be in control of anything at all anymore .”  

After several seconds of silence, he forces his eyes open, finally looking. Dream seems to be listening intently, his brow furrowed in concern, or maybe… anger? Defeat? What?

“There are so many things that I am running from and I’m not even that fast,” he tries to joke, hoping that that haunted look in his husband’s eyes will leave simply because it’s not one he’s ever seen.

Dream’s hands slowly leave his thighs, and if George wasn't – admittedly – a little tipsy, he’d have yanked him right back. When his brain finally catches up to it, it’s instead the cautiousness in his husband’s tone that makes him pause. 

“Regrets, huh?” Dream's words drip with scorn. “Okay, yeah – that checks out. You never exactly were a fan of confrontation…” He looks out the window and shrugs like this is trivial, adding, “or the truth.” 

Is Dream really judging him? 

George glares at him, mouth open in disbelief, favouring crossing his arms and wondering how the hell he deserves this cold defensiveness when he literally just poured his heart out after what feels like forever. 

It actually – for real – hurts, like he’s going to cry and he actually wants to let himself. What the fuck? 

Dream continues being grinchy, “You were the one who told me to stop being so loyal to the past, and now you’re the one stuck in it. Don’t you find that ironic?”

George snaps back, anger boiling over, teeth bared, tongue sharp and eyes wet. “And you were the one who said that being loyal to the past was unmistakable, because I was in yours, like I-” He swallows down the burning ball of fire – so much worse than the whiskey – appearing in his throat. “-Like I was worth being loyal to. And, if you want me to be in your future, I would shut up right now if I was you!” He hisses, because if he screamed, his voice would crack to sobs and he wills the tears not to fall.

Dream’s head whips back from whatever was so much more interesting outside the window than George is, a second slut maybe. What follows is a much stronger reaction than George anticipated; a white clenched fists and a whip-like answer, spoken so quickly he’s sure that anyone else wouldn't be able to understand Dream. 

“That’s not fair, George! You actually can’t keep playing with me like this. Something you didn't say? Regrets? Wrong choices? I can think of only one thing in your life that changed a month ago!” 

George has a very scathing, very low blow – response – stored up, and is very ready to point out that the change in their sex life a month ago was certainly not his choice, but the thing is that Dream sounds just as close to tears as he feels, so for once he simply opts for the truth.

“I am not playing with you.” Voice cracking, he forces himself to continuing after a pause. “I haven't been playing with you since we talked about it. I am trying here! Can’t you see that?” He gestures wildly with his hands like it will make it more convincing or maybe he just wants to choke Dream until that disbelieving exasperated expression evens out. 

It’s beyond frustrating how Dream so easily falls for his biggest lies yet refuses to believe his most adamant truths.

“You know you absolutely are playing with me. If you’re backing out because this just got too – I don’t know – much? Heavy? Again… Whatever it is, you owe me to look in my eyes George and tell me so directly. This is your game we’re playing. You started it, not me.” He walks all the way back into George’s personal space, intense like he’s the King and George a peasant who dared to steal bread from him, like he’s the God of George. He gets closer still, until the latter has to look up through dark lashes. “You can’t be this fucking vague and think that I-”

George interrupts him.“Wait- wait- wait, Backing out?” One hand tries to push back on Dream’s chest so he can fully study him, so confused. “What has ever even implied that I’m backing out of having sex with you? That I don’t like heavy?”

Both Dream’s jaw and fists clenches impossibly tighter, this time he’s the one to grip George’s wrist and push him off, and he speaks through just as clenched teeth. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“No! I- I don’t know…” George laughs wetly, in that panicked way he often does in favour of crying. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. But you know, apparently, right? You have this picture of me in your head, and what I’m like, so just tell me. Tell me what to say. Tell me – what is my purpose, Dream? Please tell me. What do I like? What do I want? Who can I trust?” he begs, nodding fervently.

“Me! You can trust me!” He bites out, growling as though desperate, as though they are a tragedy, as though George doesn't already.

“I do! “ George bites back, just as harshly, and they are definitely going to get a noise complaint.

“If you’re not backing out, then what is this? Is this whole thing-” he gestures to George like that means anything . Dream stubbornly and angrily wipes his red eyes free of wetness, and George finds his fingers twitching, like that’s their job. How dares he? “-is this some punishment because I just talked to someone else? That is still playing with me, controlling me. Are you really that petty?”  

The want to deny it is strong, but if Dream sees through it in that way he often does, if one white lie makes him leave, George will jump out the three story high window. 

“Yes, know what? I am that petty!” Admitting that flaw visibly throws his husband off. “But I am not trying to punish you right now, I am trying to genuinely talk to you, you- you Dickhead!” He gets all up in Dream’s face for a change, and he’s so mad, so scared, scared of the tears that stream down his cheeks and what he looks like that he doesn't even know what he’s screaming anymore. He just wants it to end. “This has nothing to do with us, not really. Just me, I’m the problem, I’m the fucked up one! You don’t understand how terrified I am of being abandoned, of being helpless! But yes, you’re right, also of forgiving peop-” 

He cuts himself off, buries his head in his hands whilst memories flood his mind and feels haunted again. 

He thinks of that childhood friend whose landline he remembers, but not his face. He thinks about how he wouldn't recognize him anyways – almost twenty years later – because he liked to dress in princess dresses. But most of all, he thinks about the one that made that decision for George; to not play with him anymore, but can’t see her face either. Only jet black eyes and red nails and a too big yellow house and a voice like a whip. He thinks of why he can’t stand drinking Earl Grey tea nor eating sugar biscuits. He thinks about how his sister must be thinking in the exact same lines about him. How she’ll never forgive him because they were carved from the same stone, him and her.

He thinks about Dream’s lock code. 

He thinks about the small snippets of his past he has, when they were younger – shining through the springs of the attic door. He’s staring at the gold feet of the bathtub but it’s foggy. Just like the warm light from the window. Just like the faint traffic. Just like the swirling chequered floor.

I’m afraid it won't come back, inner George insists, and he can’t even bring himself to argue anymore, what’s the point anyways? 

But on the other side, he’s also afraid that it will come back, terrified, because there’s a chance that those memories will still feel like they belong to another version of him. 

He’s afraid that that George – regular George – is one he’s lost touch with a few versions back, little more than some old email friend from middle school. 

Why did he build this wall between himself and himself? He wonders. 

He snaps back to reality, surroundings coming back in a fast inhale, and rushes out his thoughts. He rushes out things he can say to Dream without outing himself as a fake, lets them fly free, desperate to bridge the gap between them with words, since his hands once again howers hesitantly. 

"I don’t want to be this petty either. I am afraid of missing out on things… well – happiness – because of my unyielding spite, of my endless anger and my unwillingness to forgive . I’m afraid to end up alone because of it. But also forgiveness, forgiving. Terrified of it. It’s not the same as justice, Dream. But what if I held onto all of it for nothing? What if all this anger and anxiety has all been for nothing? And I don’t know if I want it to be or not. I don’t know if I can take it if it has been, and I just want to stop, to let someone else take over. I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I want to do, if-"

"-if this is what you really want, " Dream finishes his sentence, or what he believes it to be anyways, gesturing between them.  

It’s clear what he means and George is speechless at his stupidity.

Dream stands gripping the cool white marble on either side of George’s legs, caging like he is the one afraid that George will be the one to run. At the same time, he also sounds so casual… but not like it doesn't matter, more like the world is going under in five hours and he can do little else but accept it. 

"I… I understand," he states methodically, no emotion escaping his tone. All of them are running down from his eyes and also – apparently – veins, making all his muscles tense in fight or flight. "You don’t have to give me that whole ‘it’s me not you’ spiel. Everything changed after you were in the hospital. I should have known. I understand that you had an actual death-scare and that it may have changed your perspective temp-”

"Are you dumb?!” George interrupts, screaming once again to stop that idiotic and beyond offensive train of thought.“What is wrong with you? How the hell did you reach such a farfetched extreme conclusion?" He insists, and finds himself digging his back into the crane, because he needs the sensation to remind him what he is, where he is, how far he’s stretched his marriage to make his husband think he wants to divorce him… twice. This is the second time. “Do you want me to leave you? Are you trying to get me to?” he asks, serious and perplexed.

“What? No… no,” Dream sighs honestly, tired, and George suddenly gets a sneaky suspicion that they are misunderstanding each other. That they both are dumb. As easily as they can read each other, emotions do not come with a slip of paper stating their cause.

Pulling Dream to him with a hand on each cheek, George throws away caution by restsing their foreheads together and finally strokes his husbands cheeks free of wetness, trying to reassure him, trying not to scream at him, because apparently – somehow – that was interpreted wrong. 

"Listen, you are the exception, how have you not yet understood that? It’s not a question whether I still want you or not. You need to stop being such a Florida man. That’s the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say. What do I do if you leave? Hm? Who else can I depend on, who else would ever practically live my life for me? Who would make my doctor's appointments, or give me video ideas, or edit my videos, or upload my videos, or make me food, or make me stream, or shower me, or- well you get it… Who?  Sapnap? That is crazy. I am telling you all of this so you don’t leave me because I promised you to communicate. " 

"What am I supposed to think when you pull away from me after I did that? How the hell am I supposed to read your mind?” 

George would say he’s sorry, if it wasn't so hard. Instead, he wipes more tears from freckled cheeks, hopes the message comes across and finally understands the poetic nonsense about wanting to bottle them. They are his, after all, he thinks. 

“What we have is not that fragile. I thought you knew that. I am bound to you, and you to me, after all.” 

Dream buries his face in the crock where George’s neck meets his shoulder. All that hesitancy that arose earlier dissipates, and suddenly – even though Dream is crushing his ribcage – George can breathe again. It’s glorious. In turn, he buries his hands into those locks and pulls Dream closer with his legs looping around his middle and inhales sandalwood desperately.

Dream continues, every word muffled and rumbling against George’s neck as the latter scratches his scalp in reassurance. “Well, I have always known that you don’t forgive people easily, because being betrayed is unacceptable to you. It scares me a lot, it scared me today, but I didn't really know that it scared you too. And I have always known that you had a past you don’t talk about, but not that it was haunting you. I know that we, you and me, scares you sometimes. That you have a problem being vulnerable-” The fingers goes still, just like George’s chest, and Dream hugs him tighter, stuttering, “-and- and – like- like- – thank you for telling me how you feel, that’s great, you know – because I understand better now. But – like – here’s the thing, you’ve been dancing your little rain dance around whatever is plaguing you, describing how you feel, not the situation George – and then I can’t solve it. Not if I don’t know the root of it, and maybe I don’t even really have to know what it is, but you can’t assume that I just know what you need or want. If you want me to leave? That’s fine, but you have to tell me. If you want me to-”

“No. Don’t leave. No matter what I say, what I do… please. Even if I ask you to. ”

Dream pauses, puts his nose against George’s skin and just breathes, seemingly thinking.“Just tell me how to help you, tell me what you want from me, and you will get it. " 

"It’s…" George licks his lips and thinks about how he wants to do this, how much he wants to give away. But then again… why think? "It’s bad," he shrugs, tone lighting up, a little sheepish laugh at the end like he’s not about to crack his ribs open across the dining table.

Dream straightens up and looks at him with a hint of a smile. "It’s okay. Whatever it is – it’s fine, George." 

"No, it’s not.” He shakes his head, humourless smile and wet eyes on display, he’s sure. “That is what I’m saying, it is so fucked up, just like me, and if you actually agree to it, so are you." 

“Tell me.”

He smiles through what he says next, but his voice betrays him, it cracks… badly. "I want to be… craved, kept," he whispers, staring up in the corner and cringing severely at just how awkward that sounds. Again, he’s trying to bury his head in his hands in embarrassment and giggling nervously. He hates this feeling, didn't even know anyone could be this mortified before Dream made himself all God-like.

The hand that does come up to hide his face gets captured, grip stern but gentle – and pulls it away, even manhandles George’s face by his chin up to look at him openly. 

"I crave you, I will keep you," he accentuates, leaning all the way forward until they are practically crushed, until George has to cling onto his back to not slip down, and with just a glance at George’’s lips, Dream has scrambled George’s brain.

It’s like his superpower and it’s stupidly effective.

"No," George persists at last. It’s monotone, it’s final, determined like his mother’s tone of voice. It’s not hope – it’s not disappointment – it’s a fact. 

"Yes," Dream insists, almost hissing like a snake and tightening his hold like the more he does, the more George will believe him, and once again, Dream controlling him ironically makes George feel more powerful than ever… and very turned on, very extra scrambled.

“ You’re literally the one who didn't want to sleep with me anymore,” he claims, and though he still desperately wants to bring that up again, to know, it is very much a distraction, because some things you keep to yourself into the grave, even from your husband.

“George – you… were so persistent, – like – you were full on hunting me literally hours after the hospital when that shouldn't have been on your mind at all, one would think.”

“And one could argue back that you’re just hot and I am just horny.”

“And one could argue back again that it was a bit irrational, and so were you, more than a bit actually, and you’d just had a death-scare and were… severely off somehow, and that’s taking advantage. And I just…if you one day woke up and regretted anything we did or might do, and leave, I might as well be dead. And I know it’s been like a month since then but something still felt off and now you're asking me what I would do if you disappeared,” He swallows audibly. “-and that scares the shit out of me, and the truth is-” He rests his warm forehead against George’s temple, hides. “-I have always felt like we were too good to be true.”

George believes him. 

He can’t even describe how relieving it is that the reason Dream was resistant was the same reason George was so adamant – insecurity. He wipes away the moisture that once again threatens to fall from his lashes and breathes out shakingly.

Dream held up his end of the bargain in such fairness that George thinks it’s downright unfair.

So, basking in euphoria – George makes the split-second decision to stop biting his tongue, swallows the sugar that was coating his words, and lays out the truth for Dream to ogle at. Shows him the chamber of his heart, cobwebs and splinters and holes and all. 

"What I want is to be chased and caught and kept and chained and never let go, Dream. I want to be helpless with you. I want to live inside your clean brain, and never mine again, because it scares me. I want to not have to ever think, I want to forget everything except this, us, and not have to make any choices and want you to tell me what to do, not the other way around." 

Dream’s eyes widen, wary, concerned, and yet there is still resolve in there, like George’s heart is liveable despite it all. Despite the state of it. 

"Okay,” He breathes out. “I can do… all that, whatever."  

George snorts derisively, bitter as old coffee, pushes him back a bit and watches a muscle in Dream’s jaw pulse. He tries to be delicate, to not lock their horns again, but he’s afraid Dream just doesn’t understand at all. 

"Not just in bed, Dream. Anything and everything. I don’t want to play the discovery game anymore. Just tell me what's worth liking and not. Dress me, feed me, put me to bed, drag my ass out of bed. Tell me which games to play, and when to go live. And when I do, what to joke about, and what's off-limits. And what's real, what's made up in here-” 

He points at his head and he can see – real time – with every word said how Dream is starting to understand just how fucked up George is. 

He still continues digging. 

“-who to be friends with, who to steer clear of, who to let into my messed up heart, and how to keep them, that one’s important. Fight me when I disagree with you on every turn like I do just because I want to watch the anger in your body as you force me back on the right path. I need you to – basically – spell everything out like an instruction manual, because well I fully missed the part where I was supposed to have all the answers. And just please, please touch me sometimes and tell me I did… g- okay.” 

At that, he truly feels just how humiliating this whole thing is. 

There is absolutely nothing hot with mommy issues is there? 

“I want you to force me to give up control. I have been trying for over a month to manipulate you into doing so,” he admits. “ So yes, I guess you’re right, I do want to control you. And I never want to share your attention. I want to scream at everyone that gets close to you, to raise hell. I want you to post the fucking audio on twitter of us having sex, like you threatend, your dick inside me – if that’s what it takes for people to back the fuck up. So, tell me, Dream – what the fuck are you supposed to do with all of that, exactly?”

Some things you do for money, others only for relief, and after a smidge too much alcohol. This kind of undressing – he thinks this is an example.

Dream doesn't say anything, eyes unfocusing on the goldrim of the mirror, so long George feels the need to justify his disposition.

"This is my fucked up little fantasy. This is what I want. I want you to an unhealthy degree, so tell me why I can’t and shouldn't have it, so we can move on. Deny me, I don’t care, as long as I get you, in any form.”

That’s for the best. George does not consider many sides of himself fit for most human company, after all. A few ring a bit too close to that of a giggle at a funeral, inappropriate, childish, chilling, offensive but yet… hurt and desperate and probably in all kinds of denial. 

He doesn't even know where he wants to get with this conversation, understanding? An ‘I told you so, I told you it was fucked up and undouable’? To inevitably put a fuse to his marriage and fuck regular George’s whole life up? To punish himself in the long run? 

Dream very likely doesn't know where to begin to decipher in all the fucked up ways George has latched onto him, steered him, and how he will ruin him one day. But now he knows the trap he’ll be walking into if he keeps indulging George. He knows as close to the ugly truth as George is willing to give. 

It tastes sugary sweet like victory, and it tastes thick and heavy like blood, like he’ll choke on it. 

Dream will probably run away one day, and now he knows to make it somewhere where George can’t find him to actually break his legs and drag him back, he muses.

Oh. This whole thing might be a warning, George realises. Like a death beyond this point sign. 

He must really like Dream, giving him an out like this.

Dream snaps out of it, almost robot-like, like he just got turned on. "Okay," he says. “Yeah, okay.”

"Okay?" George questions. “Wait, what? No long lesson on how I am being toxic as hell? You do realise that I want you to take my life away from me in a way that’s not death but still beyond any kind of living.” 

Dream is suddenly leaning back and it gets so cold. Was the world always this cold? He wonders. But then he’s fishing his phone out of his jeans, and the taste changes in George’s mouth to something too sweet and oddly bubbly. Is he about to have George thrown out? Is he calling Sapnap to come get him like some child?

"What are you doing? Dream?"

"Getting you back for the picture, I think, and some."

"What?"

“I don’t do things half heartedly, baby.”

“What. the. fuck – is that supposed to mean?”

Chapter Text

𖤓 ☾

“What. the. fuck – is that supposed to mean?” George demands, and can’t for the life of him discern whether it’s excitement or foreboding – or both – that he’s feeling. "What in the world does that even mean?"

The phone lands with a foreboding clink on the counter, glass clinking against stone like a bad omen, akin to a death knell. Gesturing, it’s almost as if Dream is submitting it, himself , handing something over. Something final, closed, settled.

“You know what it means.” He shrugs. “ Okay, ” he repeats slowly, accentuates even. “That’s my answer. I told you – if that’s what it takes, what you really – truly want, then… I would give that to you, for you, for you -” he repeats as if those aren't the same. “-from now on until you don’t want to be by my side anymore. George, I’m all in.” 

It’s so earnest, a declaration… George truly believes him, and yet there’s a taunting quality to the statement. He gets a feeling this is another bet, higher stakes. 

His hunch gets proven when Dream asks,“What about you, George? Did you mean it?” 

When George carefully looks back at him, taking his eyes off the reflecting glass of the phone – there’s this intense look. 

Intense, he thinks. 

Intense is the word he uses in his head for all the expressions that crosses Dream’s face that he can’t name. 

It’s usually the only adequate way to describe them. 

He knows his husband’s mannerisms so well at this point, and yet there are no words for what he sees. George sometimes wonders if – what Dream does when he looks at George – has ever been felt by anyone else. If the words for it have even been invented yet, because he can’t find them. 

Then he thinks about what a pretentious poetic piece of work inner George is.

With this particular look, there exists a hunger, a blaze, something mean… but it’s murky. He gets a feeling that Dream’s holding it all back, reining it in with something as tenuous as rope, can almost smell the charred material; something wooden like tar, the scent of burning flesh on those large hands. It’s being held back from ravenous, from fiery, from sadistic. 

Because the action is supposed to mean something else.  

It's supposed to mean something. 

George glances at the phone, thinking about the many millions of people inside it, that it could reach. He inhales air through his teeth, quickly, jaggedly, and cringes against the toothpastes menthol-induced chill. 

Surely Dream doesn’t mean…

George has come to accept that within himself lies an almost instinctual, defensive, even creative urge to destroy, to blame, to lie, to exaggerate his way through life. 

Now Dream is calling his bluff, and this is very much still a game.

Except, George isn't so sure he himself was bluffing.

With careful scrutiny, he stares into those verdant eyes, straining to see through the dust particles suspended in the air between them, illuminated by the faint strip of light filtering through the window. Dust suspended like time has frozen. He thinks back to what he just spewed out, all of that raw confession, and one sentence sticks to his cornea like a damn post it note.  

‘I want you to post the fucking audio on twitter of us having sex, like you threatend, your dick inside me – if that’s what it takes for people to back the fuck up.’

It’s the only gesture Dream could grant him in his obvious pursuit to prove how he can handle all of George’s unmanagable fuckeduppness that could possibly involve a phone. But that wouldn’t just be a gesture, that is not equal to buying someone flowers.

Maybe that’s too far, even for George, maybe it’s too much. Maybe Dream is just saying that to get George to back down and lose the argument; to prove a different point, to prove that the anxiety George is feeling is temporary. Irrational was the word he used, wasn't it? 

Or maybe, just maybe… he’s serious.

Maybe George told him he wanted to die and Dream is handing him a pen to sign his own death certificate.

Maybe George is misunderstanding.

Does he actually want to live out his fantasy? In the long run, he means. Will he, once the alcohol is out of his bloodstream and this attack of anxiety has passed? It’s escapism. Can he be happy under Dream’s wing? Can Dream be happy like that?

“I- I did…,” he mutters honestly, because he did mean it. The followed ‘ but…,’ does not leave his lips .

Before he even has time to unravel it, Dream lets go of the reins. 

In a heartbeat, he’s pulling a wide eyed George’s legs forward, leaving the latter absolutely nowhere to grasp. An elbow collides with a bang against the mirror and nails scrape the glossy surface, his own jeans, Dream’s arms, shoulders, shirt, desperately clinging to anything within reach.

"DRE-" His panicked scream is abruptly muffled as one of Dream’s hand slots across his back, steadying him. Simultaneously, the other hand cups his neck, soon cutting off his air supply by – accidentally or not – fisting the collar of George’s shirt until he can practically hear the little threads screaming high pitched in protest. 

Despite all his critique of his mind's poetic inclinations, when Dream pulls their bodies closer, lifting George upright, he surges with such fluidity from his previously crouched position over him, that George has absolutely no objections to picturing him a tidal wave at night.

For a fleeting moment, as he struggles to steady himself with his hands around Dream's neck, George experiences a very rare height advantage. One single glimpse of Dream looking up at him from under his lashes, eyes dark and stormy is all he gets. Yet, at that precipice – before the wave hits – George is certain: Dream is unstoppable, and this thing between them: a force of nature. 

It lasts only a millisecond before their lips collide with the force of a tsunami.

Dream gradually, seamlessly resumes his towering position, tilting George's head upward. 

Then there’s only him. Everything else is removed. George floats somewhere in an ocean, some third plane of existence made only for their lips to slot together, slotting again and again and again. Relentlessly. 

Enveloped feel the cold clear blue salty water of the wave crushing over him, hearing the sloshing sounds, tasting the salty tang on his lips, feeling the hands pulling George deeper into the swirling motion between their bodies, leaving him breathless and disoriented, head underwater. He’s not even sure it’s drowning; he’s not fighting it, just swirling back and forth by the force of the water. It’s oddly peaceful in its hostility.

At some point, the chain around his neck unexpectedly gets yanked backwards with the shirt, and Dream's fingers slide underneath, cluthing until George feels the sharp sting, not all unlike a knife. 

It will leave a red line, he vaguely acknowledges.

The collar of the shirt is fucked. 

He’ll have it framed. 

He’ll hang it outside the window like they did in mediaeval times to show off the consummation of marriage. 

Between gasps, the minty taste between them is striking, like menthol cigarettes. It’s very fitting, considering that this man is the death of him. 

Heaving, George reluctantly pulls away from Dream's lips a beat later than he probably should have, and purely for the sake of survival. It’s only then, panting like crazy, that George realises he’s got both legs locking Dream in tight, both arms folded over his husbands shoulders like pretzels, fingers clutching at blondish hair with the same ferocity that Dream holds onto him.

It’s comforting – in a way – to finally confirm that they are both equally feral about this.

Being harder than he’s ever been in his life is less comfortable.

Wait.  

Some oxygen is being brought back to his brain and… what did Dream say again?... There was something…

It suddenly doesn't matter, the thought gets evaporated – because there are hands roughly stroking down his back and prying between the sink and his ass, pressing him forwards into something very hard and very sizable that George has spent many nights praying for. 

"It’s absurd, and offensive – not to add, that you think I wouldn’t gladly join you in hell to burn for all eternity,” Dream gasps, his words punctuated by breathless pauses, his chapped lips moving all distractedly. “That I wouldn't agree to anything at this point."

A second of silence – filled only by the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, and then George knows.

He knows what that look meant.

The word "devotion" materialises by the dust particles before him. He can see it form in the sunlight of ash and fire. It’s not even an epiphany; he is simply made aware of what he’s known all along. One moment he is ignorant, the next he is fully cognizant.

He gets a feeling that this man in front of him would bury a body for him. Not only that, but also that once the ordeal would be done, he would thank George for having told him, for having confided in him, for having been vulnerable. There's an unshakeable conviction that, just as George keeps comparing Dream to the God of his being, in turn – he can do nothing wrong in Dream’s eyes.

Then he’s scared for a whole different reason.

Scared for Dream, scared of himself – and of all the ways he could exploit it.

He finally made Dream snap.

“You think I'd let you?" he puffs back, the words stumbling out like a drunkard.

Dream's response is swift and commanding. "Why would you stop me? How could you stop me?" With a flex of his muscles, he demonstrates the strength of his grip on George. His touch – George realises – has always been a paradox of sharp and velvet.

The moan that follows is one of pure unadulterated surprise, George swears. His dick most definitely does not leak like a faucet at that. Don’t let the new word flashing in his mind: slut, glowing neon and insistent – fool you. 

Actually – correction – not snapped, George thinks he broke him. Shattered that round goldness that Dream is. He thinks he rebuilt him into something just as molten, thick and shiny, but that it’s now slowly escaping through spiderweb cracks in the porcelain surface, through sharp, dangerous and glinting edges. 

And it only took… everything.

Another image materializes in his mind – the sun burning out, leaving the universe shrouded in darkness. Not blackness; nothingness.

Regular George will undoubtedly loathe himself for what he's done to his marriage. It seems fate has chosen its favourite.

Yet, despite any repercussions, he craves the searing. Despite everything, he loves the liquid heat. Inside him exists a very profound reverence for heat, for fire, for the sun, for his husband. He thinks back to the day at the hospital; he thinks he likes summer, he’d thought. Likes… no. He basks in it like an altar, but he’s not sure how much more of his body is left to burn, and when all the bone and tissue is gone, so will the fire be… dead. 

And yet, he is so greedy he can’t possibly step out now. 

“Are you actually drunk?” Dream inquiries, and his hand continues its journey; trailing past George’s ass, down his outer thigh until he grasps at an ankle, and stops. “Have you drank?” he presses, a stalemate, clearly waiting for another answer George doesn't want to give.

“I have drank but I’m not drunk and if you back out now you will wake up to dead things in your bed.”

“It’s your bed too, isn’t it? Yeah?” Dream smiles, genuine and radiant, and there the sun is. 

Reborn, George thinks. 

But his reverie is abruptly interrupted by a squeak when Dream decides George’s leg should defy the laws of physics and test the limits of human anatomy by raising it upwards and folding in a way legs can’t fucking bend. Or maybe they can, but George is nowhere near as flexible as his… repeated lofty claims. That was baiting, tall tales of acrobatics – and now it’s biting back, hard.

Dream flexes again, but this time, he presses down on George’s lower stomach, fits their bodies together and rolls his hips. 

A moan slips out, unbidden, causing him to arch his back, which only results in him falling backwards – and great, now the faucet is jabbing into his lower back again. 

The leg raises until Dream looks way too smug and George finally protests, "Dream! Aow, fuck! Dream!" 

It goes ignored, probably because – despite his protests – George is actively, enthusiastically,  grinding back into his husband's rock-hard erection. 

Just when the leg goes a tad too high and he considers kicking his husband away just a millimetre, still in grinding-range, he feels chapped lips softly kissing over a scar on his shin; a memento from a dog bite he received as a too curious child. All protests die on his lips. There’s a dent near his kneecap from an old broken bone that healed wrong, Dream licks his way up it. Like connecting the dots, he trails kisses between the many moles on the inside of George’s thigh. A thigh that is right now burning from the position, but he’s not stupidly about to lower it and ruin a month of seduction work.

Except that Dream stops of himself, his voice muffled against George’s skin as he mumbles, “Pick a safeword.”

George’s head gets wiped more clean than when those stupid broken roller skates made him fall. 

“Oh my god.” That is the single hottest thing he’s ever heard. Impatiently, he tries to steer Dream’s head where he wants him, and responds, "No, I don't need one. Why would I need one? Whatever you want to do, I consent. Try it. I can take it.” 

Breathing over his dick like a fucking tease, Dream hooks George’s whole leg over his shoulder, which is contradictory because that action makes all of the words in George’s head go very unsafe.

“Why would we need one? Because you like to say stop every two seconds even though you don’t actually mean it, so pick a safeword. You can’t tell me we shouldn’t already have done this last time,” he asserts, tone non-arguable to probably anyone but George.

“I don’t need one. I can take it,” he stresses.

Geore swears that there are actual little electric pulses from where Dream’s fingers are sliding just under his pants, fingers mapping every inch of his waistline like he’s charting a new world, and whatever the new world looks like, it involves playing the drum somewhere right around his lower belly. 

“Pick one, or I stop.”

“Why can't you just tell me? You pick it! It’s for you too, isn't it? Either of us can use it.”

“Sure, we can both use it, but if I pick it, you won’t remember it. But here’s the thing, you’ll pretend like you do because… you’re insane,” Dream mouths over George’s dick and George is the insane one, sure.

“Fucking fine…” He looks over Dream's shoulder, mind racing… and other things rising. “Bathtub.”

Dream licks a broad stripe over George’s dick through his pants, and George does not mewl, that’s false. He groans, slightly, manly, and with grace, especially when Dream continues upwards – licking over the coarse dark hair by his pants hem, under his shirt, up his heaving chest, over one nipple – until they’re breathing into eachothers mouths again. “Pick something else. Something you’ll never say accidentally.”

George gets his leg to slide down to the crook of Dream’s arm and tries to pull his body in further, by the hips, shirt, pant loops, with his legs, anything, everything. He even props one struggling hand up against the mirror so he can desperately grind into the man, but is met with no help whatsoever. Furthermore, his kisses go mostly unanswered. Rude. “Yes, because I always accidentally blurt out ‘bathtub!’” 

He licks over Dream’s lips, teeth, tongue, and feels very slight pressure back. George giggles into his husband’s mouth. The man almost gave in, and probably is currently cursing himself in his head for it.

“We could fuck in one, idiot.”

George’s whole body and his current expert seduction attempt stutter. 

Unfair play, he thinks.

Surely Dream knows that George would get pictures of himself riding his husband in that bathtub, thighs bracketing his hips, bodies so harshly pressed together they actually become one entity.

“Eh…” Damn both his husband and Isaac Newton, pushing all his blood downwards. Wait what?“Myrmecophilous.”

With a harsh grip on his chin, Dream keeps George from attempting to devour his mouth again. Straining against it, just to see if he can, George’s jaw almost dislocates… Okay, maybe not – but it’s anything but a loose grip… 

George has never been harder. 

One moment later, his eyes are rolling back into his head and a hand is gripping his dick equally hard as his chin. Although he hears the mirror shudder, for a fleeting moment panics, thinking it will fall down, and feels pain in the back of his head, none of it is concerning right now – because correction – now he’s never been harder.

“Why do you even have that in your brain?”

It takes a while for him to rediscover the alphabet before he gasps out, “British school system. You wouldn't get it.”

"Idiot," Dream hisses, the fondness in his voice underscored by a smile that belies his unrelenting grip. “Pick.”

"Fine! Fine… ehm… Attic! That’s good, right? I’m guessing we’ll never fuck in an attic.”

“I guess… I mean if that's the best I'm gonna get.”

“That's right, I’m the best you're ever going to get.” For that little quip, his leg once again finds itself hiking up Dream’s arm. “Okay, okay. My thigh is starting to cramp, seriously."

"Well, are you safewording out?” Dream smirks, already knowing the answer. Bastard.

“No,” George grits.

“Then I respectfully don’t give a fuck ," he smiles and finally, like hallelujah finally, grinds his hard dick against George’s ass with determained, strong movements whilst he feels George up with equally fervor.

Not one retort can be conjured up in George’s mind; just one word: "Bed." He applauds himself, because if that isn't the perfect word right now, what is? He gestures for Dream to pick him up, but his husband merely squeezes around the shape of George’s dick. George never thought he could come from just that, but he feels like he’s about to be proven spectacularly wrong. You really do learn something new every day.

"You think you deserve a bed? I think I could manage right here," Dream taunts, body pressing George’s other leg into the cool marble whilst rutting against him until the edge digs into flesh. 

Clutching Dream’s shirt by his hips, pulling and pushing with the rhythm, urging him on, George asserts, "I do deserve a bed. I was perfectly obedient last time, Dream.""

"Oh, c’mon.” Dream leans in close, his breath hot against George’s ear as he bites his earlobe and whispers, drawing out the words, “You literally threatened to  fuck someone else ."

George means to turn and catch his eyes, and instead locks eyes on his spitlicked lips."But that was empty, I never would have," he whispers, mind speaking for itself as he can’t resist pulling Dream in for a feral kiss that’s mostly teeth and moans and wandering hands bunching clothes up only for it to fall back down when they move onto the next area. When Dream’s hands knead his ass and his dickprint presses against George’s thigh, 404 flashes before the latter’s eyes, and he truly thinks that Dream is going to break his poor husband with that thing between his legs. It’s lovely. Pulling back again, their lips smack loudly. "Never."

"And you never will again."

"Yes, exactly, yours, just yours, so get me into bed and let me prove it, yes?" George smiles as innocently as he can, slipping a hand between them to cup Dream through his trousers,  savoring the moan it illicits and the way Dream's movements falter.

Inner George starts actually singing hallelujah when Dream takes a step back to manhandle George off the counter. That is, until he lets out a loud cry one second later as his cheek is pressed harshly into the mirror, hip digging into the counter's edge, ass out, and one large hand stroking his hair back from his eyes.

It barely helps him understand what the fuck’s going on, but when he does, George thinks that Dream better be joking. The first time he actually remembers them fucking better not be in a bathroom with an empty – five star – hotel bed fifteen meter away tops.

"I’m going to eat you out again – and if you behave – I'll take you to bed," Dream purrs into George’s ear. With a swift, practised motion, he grapples with George’s white T-shirt, riding it up and making George hold it up, fisted against the counter. His other hand sneaks into George’s underwear, fisting his dick with an almost lazy confidence. 

"Yes, yes – whatever," George finally manages, though his voice is shaky.

A thumb sweeps over the head, smearing the precum before gripping the length and giving it a generous stroke. The mirror in front of George’s mouth is fogging up and there’s some kind of scratching sound he thinks he might be the culprit of, but he’s not sure… the breathy moan he makes is fairly blatant though. He goes to pull down his underwear himself because his husband isn't getting on with it but that’s probably not good boy etiquette, so he stops and just groans.

That is so unfair. How is he supposed to behave with the promise of Dream’s tongue in his ass and hand firmly around his cock?

When Dream finally do lower his underwear down his thighs and drops to his knees like a fallen fucking angel sent specifically to torment him, George’s doesn’t cry or anything pathetic like that; he’s just really worked up. 

Suddenly, there’s a tongue against his rim and George decides here and now that he will never get used to that. This is probably Dream’s thusandth-something time fucking George, but George thinks he himself will never not be mindblown by his husband’s tongue in his ass. It’s just… the way he sucks on the rim, the way he massages the skin just above it – teases his prostate, making him unwittingly grind into the counter hard until he’s bruised without doubt. It’s all of the thousand little details George never will remember unless in the moment because his brain’s short-circuiting.

"Yes, yes, yes – yes," George gasps, almost delirious. He wouldn't mind forgetting that part.

It’s the loud – wet – sucking noises, oh my god. His legs are shaking and if his husband doesn't carry him to bed after this, he will have to crawl there and Dream might just be that type of sadist, let's be honest. 

Dream licks a stripe upwards, all the way up George’s spine, holding his shirt up and George thinks fucking finally, but then there’s a spitlicked finger poking at his asshole, sinking in so easily and curving against his prostate and somewhat filling out that feeling of emptiness Dream induces in him by his mere presance. The window outside is open, so the noise that follows most certainly came from an injured allewaycat, not him.

All of a sudden, Dream’s other hand appears before his eyes and though George tries to suck the fingers into his mouth, it takes an embarrassing amount of time to comprehend that Dream is actually tracing a heart in the foggy dampness of the mirror by his mouth and chuckling at george’s desperation.

"I’ve been good," George croaks, his voice raw, like he’s been screaming. Has he been screaming? He clears his throat and tries again. "Dream, you promised." 

More laughing at his eagerness follows, a.k.a Dream acts like an insensitive asshole before he’s pulling the finger out, spinning George around on unsteady legs and stretched out limbs, pushing his underwear completely off. 

The sadist in Dream seems to luckily have gone for lunch as he takes hold of George’s thighs and hoists him to straddle his waist, carrying him out towards the bedroom. But then the faintest mutter, “Princess treatment,” escapes into the air and George muses that it was a short lunch. Only then does George realise Dream is fully clothed – what the fuck? He starts pulling on the fabric, trying to get it off before he gets rudely thrown onto the bed so that it bounces and everything. Like he’s not fragile precious cargo. 

He should have held on and ripped that stupid shirt off, he thinks.

He gets a stupid phone thrown at him too.

Again.

The angels heard him; Dream’s shirt and shoes are being discarded in a flurry before he crawls up and after George on the bed like he’s hunting. With a firm grip on one ankle, Dream pulls a grinning George down from the headboard he’d taken refuge by, laying him out beneath himself. Hands glide from George’s ass to his waist, dragging the shirt up with them as Dream pulls George’s upper body into a heated arch, fitting their chests together.

At that, George can’t be blamed for initiating a truly desperate kiss, though it becomes a paradox in motion when he tries to get Dream’s T-shirt off, tearing at it from over his husband's shoulder, and managing to get them both stuck in it. He knows has to break their liplock – but his tongue won’t stop invading Dream’s mouth, teeth won't stop biting his lower lip with fervour, mouth won’t stop huffing, offended at the shirt for interrupting. 

George is not about to let anyone or anything stop him from getting this dicking.

In the end, Dream is the one that breaks the liplock, raising to his knees and tossing it aside. George scrambles up, seeing an opportunity. He immediately starts working on the button and zip of Dream’s trousers. When his husband takes over and momentarily gets off the bed, George panics. He knows he should have followed through on that chain and ball thing, in afterthought. But there’s no need for concern – Dream’s trousers fall, and he fishes in his suit bag for… ah, yes – lube. 

George was fully ready to become bedridden again, but it looks like he doesn't have to.

But when he comes back, bringing colour back into the world, he's also holding a box. Presumably, a box of condoms and George doesn't like the ideas of that. No ma'am. Not the plan. They’re married, and completely in lust with each other, why would he need those? Cleanup? Does he think George wants clean after last time when he found fruit meat in his hair for a week? 

And really, the good boy act was only during the eating out part, so he Dream could just as well take that box and hurl it out the window.

But he wont, so George does it for him.

He grabs the unopened, plastic slick and offensive little square box and aims for the open window in the bathroom. He misses, hears the box clatter against the wall somewhere to the left, but he almost got it, he swears. It’s quite an impressive shot.

"What the fuck?" Dream jerks like he’s about to run after the box like a dog. 

He kinda is a dog, George thinks, and so he holds him back with a grip on his wrist and asserts, "Nope, don’t need them." 

"What if you made the shot and – like-” Dream makes some little exasperated headshake, “-someone got a box of condoms in the head?" 

George laughs at the image before throwing Dream a sneer.

"Stop derailing," he demands, seizing the lube bottle from the bed and thrusting it into Dream’s hands. It's expensive lube, he notes, looking over the label. Oil based, because of course Dream would buy pricy lube. "Now, get back to the railing… Oil based shit won’t work with condoms anyways, genius."

"Wait, really?" Dream asks, inspecting the bottle, but George can't hear him because he’s too busy watching his big slender fingers drip with oil. 

Those hands… Hands like a doctor. He thinks understands now. A scalpel in a surgeon's hand, slicing George open, baring his feelings in such a way that it feels forced and whorish yet if no one knows what you feel, what you want, you’ll probably never get it. 

Therefore,  George makes damn sure to show what he wants by discarding of the duvet somewhere by the foot of the bed and laying back down against the white cloud-like pillows, dragging Dream with him until he’s nestled between George’s legs. Because you come for the accent and stay for the pillow princess tendencies. And-

Oh my fuck, why is the idiot still wearing pants? 

The imprint. It’s so fucking big, oh fuck.

George is pretty sure he’s staring, maybe drooling, dick most definitely jumping. "Take. them. off."

"Why should I?" Dream teases, pulling George’s legs over his thighs. Soon, he’s stroking George’s dick with that wet, maddening hand until George’s spine arches more than a half circle and he’s not gasping, not panting, not anything, not breathing at all. When he closes his eyes, fits the sheet and throws his head back with an unaltered moan, the world turns white, not black. As if mind numbing white hot pleasure really is a thing.

"Dream, Dream," he urges, gripping Dream’s forearm tightly, trying to guide his hand lower, to where he needs it. "I’m not waiting anymore, I’m not fucking waiting another second. I fucking hate waiting." It comes out with something a bit more solemn than planned, and that something, whether in his tone or face – he thinks is what ultimately makes Dream comply with such soft eyes. 

It doesn’t take long for two fingers to be pushed in, to the hilt and without much preamble. George is whining, panting and sweating, watching droplets trickle down from Dream’s hairline, down the side of his face, down his nose, lips, all the way down to his chest. Watching him stare back. That smug smile is all gone, no amusement, only fire left in Dream’s rapidly rising chest. 

At this stage, when Dream finally pushes in a third finger, it’s actually too early. It burns, but George will be damned if he voices it. Pitying Dream is his least favourite, while Desperate Dream is his favourite type of Dream. He loves it, he’ll burn with it in hell. Throw petrol on it all, he wouldn’t care at this point. He’ll go down with this. 

But then the burn subsides and Dream is still hitting his prostate like it’s a game where he pushes to get George’s dick to jump. 

Sex with Dream is so natural, but not easy, George deems. It is very much a game. 

But he’s not sure which one of them comes out the winner. It’s a bending of rules type of cheating they both apply until the original rules have been stretched so far he can’t remember what they said anymore. 

With that in mind, George pulls on his husband’s trousers until he hears them rip. “Off.” Dream’s fault for daring to leave them on. It gets the point across. The fingers leave him, and the trousers get dragged down, pants too. Then he stares. Stares at that perfect fucking dick regular George married as a stroke of genius. 

Then he bends the rules again. 

He shoves Dream backward until he’s teetering on the edge of balance, finally collapsing flat on the bed with his head almost hanging over the end. Grabbing his husband’s dick, George uses whatever lube he finds on the inside of his own thighs, a whole fucking tap of it – because Dream is nothing but generous, and smears it over the length until Dream throws back his head into the duvet, exposing his very vulnerable, very handsome neck. 

Eyes widening, flying open, he meets George’s own as soon as he feels his husband shifting, positioning, but he doesn't stop him. In fact, Dream does very little but loosely place his hands on George’s hips, no steering, no shouting attic.

George takes a moment just to be sure, makes his intentions clear, and then he’s sinking down, rim giving way to the big head. The loud gasp that follows is incredibly loud and a little wounded, and just maybe Dream wasn't teasing or stalling after all; it burns. 

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” George asserts, maintaining eye contact all the way down, and swears that the blissed out expression on Dream’s face has pain medication-like properties, yet he still has to maintain a slower pace than he’d like until he bottoms out.

"Oh my god," Dream gasps. His expression is pure ecstasy, and one hell of an ego boost, George deduces: head blown back, mouth open on a silent moan, hands fisting the sheets, eyes rolling back. It’s everything. George is buried to the hilt in no time after that because impatience is his virtue. 

He gives a little roll of his hips to gauge how far Dream’s buried, answer: far. 

After that, he’s vaguely aware of getting swiftly pulled down and kissed out of his mind. Delirious, seeing northern lights dance beneath his eyelids. Dream’s barely pulling out and thrusting back, it’s more like an experimental roll of the hips – and yet they both moan like it’s a fucking porno. George would be embarrassed, if it wasn't so authentic.

No one else will ever be able to knock the wind out of George, not like that. Not like him.

Obj-

Subjectively.

It triggers him to start moving, pressing his forehead against Dream’s and nearly going cross eyed trying to read his expressions while he rolls his hips faster and faster. Leaving the sheets, Dream’s hands take a bruising hold of George’s hips and directs them up and down, touch burning. Burning like rum on a fire.

Seeing his chance, George instinctively leans down and sucks a claiming bruise on Dream’s neck, just beneath his beard. 

It proves to be the single best thing he’s ever done because his husband’s hips buckles up as if electrified and his cock hits George’s prostate perfectly, sending his body thrashing. He might have to apologise for the half mooned scars Dream will have etched into his chest. 

It soon becomes impossible to rise. George’s thighs burn, his body rebels, and he collapses on Dream’s chest, letting him do the work. There are guttural groans in his ear and George lets out another moan he’ll be embarrassed about later. Right now though he couldn't care less. It's all prima ballerina.

Sitting up with George in his lap, Dream wraps one arm around his husband’s waist, pulling him up and down. As snug as a bug in a rug, inner George adds, tangling his fingers in curly hair, and then there’s giggling intercepting George’s moaning. Suddenly, Dream is smiling and laughing all bubbly too, joyful. That is, whenever he’s not licking into George’s mouth, swallowing his loud moans and letting his taste dissolve like spun sugar on George’s tongue. Nothing’s even funny, just good, so good, everything’s so great, he thinks. 

Now, George has spent many hours imagining this moment. None of his smutty daydreams, however adventures, compare to the real deal. Maddening is what it is, Dream moving inside him, dick massaging his insides, his prostate – while George’s own dick drags against Dream’s stomach. He feels like he’s got water in his lungs, he can’t fucking breathe and he’s sure the sounds escaping him proves it.

“Bite me,” he urges, the thought shimmering before him like something golden. “Sign my skin with your teeth.”

Dream does exactly that. Follows order so well. Riles up so fast by teasing, biting hard. It hurts, yes, but George’s hips stutter, his form thrashing in Dream’s grip. It’s a direct hit. He almost comes, his dick jumping, toes curling, calves cramping. 

He would have, had Dream not stopped thrusting. 

After moments of trying to claw his husband’s arm loose from his waist to keep moving, to keep bouncing, George realises it won’t budge, and results to begging. "Dream, fuck – Dream! Please please please."

The sadist just bites his lips against a smile at George’s horniness and swiftly flips their positions. George’s head lands amongst the pillows as Dream reclaims his seat between George’s thighs, sliding back in slowly, all casual as if George's legs are armrests on the edging asshole’s throne. 

Eyes rolling back in his head and claws scratching his husband's scalp, George asks, “I know what is wrong with me, but what happened in your childhood to make you such a sadist?"

“Maybe you made me this way,” he groans into George’s knee moments later, pressing a kiss there before bending George’s legs between them until Dream feels impossibly bigger. 

George would come up with a rebuttal but all that’s going on in his head is whiteness, and ‘yes, oh my god, there, right there, Dream, Dream, Dream,’ and none of those work. He’s sure he’s been screaming some of them out loud, judging by the state of his throat. 

The part of his brain waxing poetry returns when the sunlight streams in just right, and Inner George muses that their shadows dance on the far wall like demons in the flickering candlelight following the eastern sun. What does that even mean? Before he can figure it out, the ‘yes, yes, there, Dream, Dream,” voice takes over again for maybe a minute, maybe an hour. Right now, he’s finding it really hard to tell.

There’s an artful quality to their game, to pushing and pulling the other whilst not falling over the edge yourself. Prolonging this pleasure requires a delicate mastery, an instinctive one. Dream possesses an uncanny ability to read George's body like a manuscript, where each twitch and gasp is a line he’s already read. Or maybe George is just that bad a liar, but with Dream, with this, with sex, sex with Dream, this has never been about acting. This has always been raw and visceral. With Dream it was never that easy to act, and always way too easy to stay true, poetic. 

George doesn't know much, but he knows that he wrote his name all over Dream like he was a toy he was bringing to preschool, not a person. He knows that Dream left his dirty footprints all inside that house in George’s mind, inside him, back when they were young. Those imprints, both innocent and sinful, have only deepened over time, and now, after this, he gets a feeling they will forever exist in his bloodstream. That scientists in a million years will dig up his cadaver and find Dream on him, in him. 

Rapidly, Dream starts muttering, "Every single day George. For years, every single day. Every single goddamned day," and George doesn't have a single clue what that barrage of words is supposed to mean, and right now he doesn't really care. He doesn't really care for anything beyond the glorious friction, the perfect alignment of his spine that allows Dream to hit the right angle and suddenly, Dream’s right hand intertwining with his own, settling across his lower stomach. The tears escaping his rapid fluttering lashes doesn't matter, he pays it no mind, not even when his face starts thrashing back and forth across the pillow. 

The watery blurry world outside this bed can fuck off. 

"Breathe," Dream commands, like a pissed lifeguard, taking George aback – who wasn't aware he wasn't breathing, but then his husband won’t fucking move until George does so. "You’re doing so good. So good for me, Princess." 

Now, he has a name and it's not that, George believes. 

He just… can’t remember it right now.

Like he can’t help himself, Dream bends down to kiss away the trail of wetness trickling down George’s cheeks the best he can during methodically rough thrusts. George feels their hearts align every time he breathes, Dream’s chest gracing his. 

"Harder," George says, yet it goes on deaf ears, so he tries letting out little sobs, and because he married a freak, that works… for a while.

He wants Dream fucking feral.

"You want to know what he really said, Dream?" George asks, licking the shell of his ear. Dream stays poised, and George smiles with anticipation, tugs Dream’s head back with his free hand, meeting his eyes, feeling in control, albeit teary and probably manically. "He propositioned me," he admits cheekily, feeling heat touch the top of his cheeks. 

It’s true… it’s half true.

Seconds pass, hips slow down. Just when he thinks that Dream won’t react, and he’ll have to count his losses, fingers settle in a grip around the base of George’s throat, lightly pressing him down into the pillow, just holding him still, scrutinising every expression that passes George’s face, surely. 

"What did you answer?" 

The hand holding his tighten like he thinks George will change his mind and try to leave to go fuck that fucker. His pupils are dilated. He looks like a fucking animal; a lion. Dream’s thrusts become erratic, speeding up, making George toes catch the sheets, as if they’re playing horny pingpong or something.

George laughs, both nervous and in glee, it worked. In a singsong tone, he begins, "That I’d think-" 

Dream stops. 

Just completely stops moving. 

The complete opposite of what George wanted. 

The hand around his neck lowers to grip a tight hold around the base of George’s cock and for a second, he’s scared Dream will try to rip it off. He completely backtracks. "Basically – that you’re mine, that I’m yours," he sobs out quickly.

"Yeah? Are you sure he didn't proposition… me?"

"Why would he?" George huffs, not liking the direction the conversation’s taking at all.

"I just got the feeling he'd love to switch places with you right now.”

He can’t pinpoint exactly what drives him to do it – well, that’s a lie – but regardless, a second later george’s palm is tingling and there’s a distinct red hand-shaped mark on Dream’s right thigh. Then, George finds himself digging his fingernails so hard into the skin of his husband’s shoulders in retaliation, to stop himself from doing something truly stupid, that if Dream were to try and leave, try to pull out, George would cling to him as if his nails were hooks.

“If you ever think of another man again, I’ll remind you who you belong to in ways you can’t imagine," he bites out. 

So much for objectivity.

That apparently does it; Dream has had enough of holding back. 

He loses himself between George’s thighs, breathy moans escaping him, eyes rolling back. One second, he’s clutching the pillow; the next, he’s gripping George’s hair; then, he’s pinning George’s wrists into the mattress. He really is unable to decide what to do with either George or himself… Or his mouth. It roams wildly, biting George’s shoulder, sucking hickeys where jaw meets neck, licking… everywhere, frantically. And all the while, doing his damn best to pull George to and from him, Thrusting until it’s not thrusting, until it’s something animalistic. 

There are so many sensations, among them drops of sweat running down George’s back of his legs from the crease, anchoring.

He’s not sure when he closed his eyes, but regardless, George opens them wide when he hears rumbling amongst the sheets as Dream’s clearly looking for something. He finds something, it. There’s a glint of metal against the strip of sunlight as he pulls it out. One very sexy flick of Dream’s wrist, twisting the phone the right away around, and a swipe of a thumb later, and before George fully comprehends, he straightaway finds himself being the subject of Dream’s debut shoot to amature porn. 

"This is what you wanted right? This was the requirement, right George? How does it feel knowing I’ll release a fucking porno just too get to fuck you?"

George has half the mind to say that this wasn't the requirement, just the audio, instead… 

Instead , he just might gather up some of the lube of the inside of his own thighs and tugs his cock once, twice…

And come. 

All across his own stomach. 

Feeling his insides tightening, pulsing what little he can around that big dick, he thinks, back arching until he’s almost beckoning Dream off, trembling, legs cramping up, toes clutching the sheets, nails digging further into Dream, likely beyond painfully but he doesn't complain, not a peep. 

All those muted outside sounds fades away completely, and he goes boneless, floating.

He feels as though Dream has pulled him from the black river he crawled out from all the way up to heaven. Dug up his grave and diminished two metres of dirt that had been holding George down.

When he comes back down to earth however, it’s to overstimulation. 

"Who the fuck would have thought you were like this?" Dream groans, snarls almost. He’s close, the muscles in his thighs and stomach going taught, visibly so. George wonders why he’s even holding himself back anymore. 

It’s not like it’s the first nor last time they’ll do this.

"Only you." George giggles, ecstatic. A sound that turns less mirthful when his sadistic lover abuses his prostate past comfort. "Dream, Dream – I can’t again."

"Then don’t come so fast."

"Says the one who didn’t come at all." 

A breathy moan turing into a laugh, then back to moan – type of sound escapes Dream, rumbling under his warm skin. "Stop making me laugh when I'm inside you." George decides to listen and instead plays up all of the sobbing mess he is because if he didn’t think Dream could get more desperate, he’s quickly proven wrong when the hand holding the phone almost drops it and his hips falter. 

“Come,” george tries to demand.

"But you can take it, right babe? Isn't that what you said?  That you’ll take it for me," dream goads, looking through his phone.

At that, George’s dick tries valiantly to fill in interest, but it’s way too soon. He simply nods and swallows, entranced in the way Dream is moving, moaning, everything. There’s perpetual river running down the sides of George’s face by now, and yet he is utterly entranced by the one, single and lonely – salty teardrop that escapes one of Dream’s eyes as their eyes meet, and he’s not even sure why.

His mouth moves without permission, mouthing more than making a sound, "Love you."

OH! 

Oh fuck, oh fuck no . I don’t, regular George does, he thinks. Yes, sure, he… he needs Dream like breathing, but he doesn't l-...

He doesn't expect it to trigger Dream’s orgasm, the younger neither, judging by the way he drops his utterly too warm phone onto George’s stomach to dig his fingers into his supple thighs and look like he’s gotten fucking shot. George can’t stop looking, can’t help himself from posing one elbow beneath himself to reach, to pull on that chain around Dream’s neck, pull it downwards and swallow that gasp. To swallow those pornographic fucking sobs that follow with his own mouth as he feels Dream throb inside him. 

Many deep heaving inhales later, Dream pulls out and collapses, burying George into the soft bed with his head over George’s heart. It takes minutes of heavy breathing for the smell of rose scented soap on George’s hands to come back, the taste of mint, the sandalwood smell of Dream, of sweat. The faint sound of traffic. 

Sleepy, George wraps his arms and legs around Dream comfortably and lets his eyes close. 

Having just given Dream a piece of his body… George is sure that he could take that back. So sure that he’s almost convinced he’s done it before. But what he just let slip is a different conundrum, an intimate piece of his mind that Dream can walk away with. It’s separate from his body, from regular George. 

And even though he’s not a hundred percent sure that those two words apply, that it’s what he feels when he feels so much. Sceptical that two words can possibly capture it when he’s so often anxious, unfamiliar and scared, when Dream is the only familiar thing…  when Dream is everything. He’s not so sure it’s the truth, but he’s almost certain it’s not a lie. 

That doesn't mean he isn’t still a liar.

He feels like a liar.  

He is married to Dream, but he, this George, never married him. Dream is his husband but this George… is not Dream’s husband.

It’s a heavy thing, love. 

Dream loves, Dream hopes, Dream dreams. And George is the vehicle of all those things. It is heavy. There is so much expectation. He does not feel worthy of it. It has not been added gradually, it was dumped there overnight. He is unsure what to do with it… how would you even return it? 

But here’s the thing, George trusts him. He trusts this man he’s known for a month so inexplicably. Dream hoards his secrets like a dragon hoards gold, and telling anyone, even Nick, would cheapen the prize. It is because of this that George takes on the impossible task of trying to be understood at all, even when lying. 

"I only know how to exist when wanted, and when I think you dont… I-" he slurs, so tired, so overwhelmed, on the very verge of sleep.