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The remembrance of university days carries itself rooted deeply within his being. He learns that the world is an interesting place early on. When the classroom was freezing cold, he was forced to get up and get his ass moving into the lecture hall. The girl next to him was scratching her dry skin with long fake nails. The professor entered the room, the week beginning all over again. And again.
Now he can recall all that he has taken in over the years. Anything that has mass also has gravity. The closer the objects are to each other, the stronger their gravitational pull is. Thus, It’s only fair that he feels bonded to the sheets. George is lying in his bed. Well… he’s been lying for a while now.
Has the ceiling always been this white? On moving in day nobody spared it a thought, the space filled with yellow instead of ghostly alabaster (there are no shouts about the Nerf gun darts behind the dresser). Now it’s as clear as ever.
How has he not noticed that before? If he stares at it for a minute longer, it will surely collapse. Everything is collapsing anyways, so it wouldn’t make a difference. In need of a new sight, he closes his eyes. His body is starting to melt into the mattress. Or so he thinks.
The noises of the building are prominent now. The insects trying to claw their way inside, knocking on the window panes. The warmth is alluring and enticing. Patches warily sneaking through the carpeted corridors. The bang of the front door, a high pitched, foreign laugh. Suddenly George wishes for it to be quiet.
Sometimes it rains. Floridian heat outpouring from the clouds, a torrent. The droplets bring cool to his skin.
The surrounding sounds resonate with his bones. One loud thump and the ivory shudders. Fragile and passive. They are not his anymore. They belong to the house now.
He’s becoming the building he oh so eagerly wanted to reside in. On the merciless London days, when skin became raw and devastatingly clear dreams haunted his sleep – looming promise of humid summers and all year-round sun. Playing the steadfast waiting game.
Now he has it all. Well, almost.
And so, he lies.
-
A fun experiment. That’s all it was. It’s the way you learn about the world – constructing yourself cell by cell. Making connections.
Or some shit.
He remembers doing so many of them while in school. Of course, as someone studying what he had been, the curriculum clearly demanded just that. There is no reason to complain now, because, oh boy, had he learnt a thing or two about group projects.
A mental drawer opens, with rusty screws and the noise of wood shifting. It’s labeled “Fuck you Mr. Johnson” where he keeps all of his chemistry knowledge.
Research question: How long will it take for someone to check on him, if he stops trying to do anything. To respond to a message, leave his room, work and talk.
There is no stopping this feeling, whatever it is. Dejection. He felt how it slowly brewed, bubbles popping from time to time. His mood declined. He didn’t put out the flame under the pot. The heat was nice, toasting his soft human hands. How else would he have stayed warm?
Now when nobody has knocked on his door and he’s been left not bothered by anyone, it’s become less fun. A vanishing body, left to rot on the mattress.
He doesn’t want to make a hypothesis.
-
It was almost as perfect as it could probably ever be.
The house is full of their friends. Everyone’s buzzing around him. People spilling in and out of George’s room. Sylvee’s throwing her hands up in response to something Sapnap said. Face flushed, a small frown marking her forehead. The bleached-blond hair makes her features pop. Next to her, Hannah is trying to stop the giddy giggling, muffling it with her palms and Sylvee’s shoulder unsuccessfully. They’ve stayed connected by the hip since they came over.
“You would not do that! Nuh-uh, no way!”
“I’m telling you, if the cheddar’s coming in… everything’s possible. That’s all I’m saying.” Sapnap rolls his eyes, directing them insinuatingly at George, spread out next to him. The latter snorts loudly in lieu of an answer.
There’s not many real places to sit here. It seems, nobody has thought of the fact that a room with one chair won’t fit several grown adults. Lucky for them, when there’s a will, there’s a way – the house has been scoured for all things flat and capable of accommodating a human being (sitting on a cardboard box left behind in the living room didn’t end so well). An array of various stools and exactly one deck chair (per Skeppy’s request) creates a jumble on the gray carpet. Everyone scrambles to create a space for themselves.
From downstairs a loud laugh makes its way all the way up. Sam stepped up to the challenge and decided to make dinner for them. Despite Dream’s offer to just order takeaway and skip the hustle. He stayed determined and with a “It’s all part of the experience. Look, I’ll take care of everything, promise. We’ll have a nice dinner. Relax.” It was settled.
The bang and knock of steel pans and pots announce that there is some serious work being done in the kitchen. The bright space is big enough for Punz to help with the endeavor, who graciously offered his assistance (and if he lost a bet earlier, that’s between him and Sam). Patches is sitting on the marble counter, which definitely is a health hazard, but without the FDA present, nobody can stop her. Some humid air, that’s recently been becoming warmer and warmer, wafts through the open window, making her nose crinkle. Late evening swings inside, making itself known.
Right before the meal is served, George steps out of his room. A considerable amount of people are gathered there, instead of lounging on the perfectly spacious couch just a floor below. Immediately, the chill hits him – a welcome break from the stuffiness. A steady inhale and a freeing exhale – his eyes close. A soft shuffle follows him. There’s a tug on his shirt. Then, Dream’s behind him, a careful hand still on the wrinkled cotton. He hasn’t bothered to iron his shirts in a while – hustle and bustle taking over their days. The side of his waist is warm. It’s radiating all the way up to his tanned neck.
“Are you good?” a soft whisper in the dim hallway. Bright eyes smile at him from above. He feels the tip of his nose get sunburned. It’s nice; in London the Sun seemed so desperately distant and out of reach.
“Just taking a breather,” audible sighing making George relax, shoulders falling, the touch melting deeper and into his gut “You?”
If he held onto him just a bit longer, maybe they would start to merge together. Physically, that is. It seems probable, mentally, they already create one connected body. Wires crossed, the motherboard shared. George wouldn’t mind. Something inside the abyss of his core helplessly hopes, Dream wouldn’t mind either.
The still air is suddenly sliced in half with a call.
“Guys, eating time, I’m done! Punz, oh my god, be careful, it’s like fuming hot!” The warning comes with a loud yelp from the other.
The tension cracks, a snicker spilling from the soft crevices.
“Yeah.”
Soon, the food is being handed out. The smell of a freshly-cooked meal, roasted garlic and rosemary, brings everyone to the common area. Plate by plate, warm chicken casserole and a simple salad, make their way onto the table. Sam and Punz, clearly taking pride in the fruits of their labor, finally free to join the group. Aprons down and the oven turned off, chairs scrape the tiles.
“Oh, I’m not really… ” Dream cuts off when George puts the filled ceramic in front of him. He picks up a fork.
-
Every object moves in a straight line unless acted upon by a force.
It takes Sapnap a few days. Well, 4 days. You can only play valorant for so many hours and grind chess for some more. Especially when he’s been on a losing spree and the red carpet presents itself when opening the match history. Well, fuck that. No gym session or visit to the skate park can fix the apparent lack of… oh yeah, where has George gone? When he texts him there’s no reply. He can be a mean old man sometimes. Maybe he’s in one of his moods again. Sapnap quickly gets tired of the neglect. The absence of his roommate bugs him, there appears to be a deep, urgent need to visit the boy and annoy the living shit out of him. Or chill in their room, or eat out…. It does seem a bit abnormal. He hasn’t really seen George and even further? Eating.
George was in for a rude awakening. There is an abrupt, loud banging – a plea to be let inside. And it hasn’t shown any signs of stopping.
“What do you want?” He mumbles, loud enough to be heard from the other side of thin wood.
“George, let me in!” The person reveals itself to be Sapnap. It’s not like he expected anyone else. “I’ll punch a hole through this goddamn door.”
A smell weaves itself into the stale air. He could recognize it blind – a McDonald’s burger waiting for him just outside his room. Just because he stopped feeling hungry some time ago, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t devour the meal his friend presumably brought him. Was it concern? Or just a moral obligation?
He lies for a bit more. The sound of aggressive knocking comes to a halt.
“George…?”
He stands up, and the world spins and sways. Black dots appear, and his body hurts. Lightheaded, he moves towards the handle and turns the lock. Cold metal bites his skin with apathy.
There a sturdy body stands before him. With it shame appears. He hasn’t spared it a thought before – his ghostly, brittle frame is examined with wary, squinted eyes. No escape has been prepared before. So, they stand there.
“Can I, like… come in? I brought some food. I got your favorite. We can share. If we must… I guess.” Sapnap bites his lips, a begging, expectant stare pointed at the older.
No words, just a back turn and an unobstructed entry let the guest crawl inside. A younger brother that was finally invited to the cool kids hangout spot. It wasn’t cool, though. Or a hangout spot. It was a dim, empty hole that nobody sought out anymore. The apparent lack of light hasn’t helped in making the place any more welcoming for anyone who dared to visit. A stark contrast to the outside world.
Both men settle down on the gray duvet of the clearly lived-in bed. Sapnap didn’t seem discouraged. He laid styrofoam boxes in front of them, questioningly looking in George’s direction, his sun-kissed nose wrinkling out of habit.
“There we go,” An encouraging smile appears on his face. “I wanted Dream to eat with us, but… he was busy. You know, the usual grindset or whatever. We got groceries, though. I acquired you some oranges, they’re in the kitchen… He’s so fucking annoying. Thinks he owns this place or something. Anyways, I’m here now so we can eat.” Sapnap breathes, letting the words flow out of him. Discontent tints the walls.
All sounds get trapped in George’s throat. He reaches for the burger and takes a bite.
On any other day this would be perfectly normal. Roommates spending some quality time together, talking shit and eating fast food. He would be shouting at Sapnap about the ketchup falling and staining the sheets. There would be a shriek followed by bickering and a “Hell no, I’m not cleaning that up, are you out of your mind?”. Dream would appear in the door frame, seeking the source of those ungodly yells. A cat wandering between his legs. “Patchy’s here!” somebody would notice. And the sun would beam on the three of them, making the memory shine. A warm glare fending off vicious winter chill and welcoming human spirits. The room truly full.
There is no cat, nor Dream, nor is it an ordinary day. The sun heats the back of the black-out curtains.
“So, is there a reason you didn’t answer any of my messages? I texted you like a trillion times. A bajillion times. I haven’t seen you outside much, man.” Sapnap eats fast with his forearms propped on his knees. Worry deliberately covered with the usual nonchalance. George knows him and that boyish brain of his too well. He never had a younger brother, but this just might be what it’s like. Maybe in another life. And there are so many other lives.
“I’ve just been here, you know. Not much going on. The norm, you could say.” He finally blurts out an answer. And it’s the truth. Mostly. No lie hidden between the words - no reason to.
“Okay, sure. But if there was something bothering you, you can tell me. I'll beat them up for you.” A smirk with a knowing glare. Sapnap’s compulsion to cause chaos ever-present.
“Yeah, no need to be doing all that. It’s cool.” And there’s that.
No more words are exchanged. Only the sounds of chewing and the humming of PC fans break the layered silence. Unsaid thoughts and some offhand looks swirl the ambiance. The few bites that George takes of his food settle heavily in the pit of his stomach. When nausea appears, he consciously ignores it, scarfing down the rest of the meat. Both men are left sitting facing each other, taking in the uneasy lack of things to say. When Sapnap finishes his share, he excuses himself to bring the leftovers downstairs.
No more than five minutes later the foreign weight in George’s stomach is brought up again and heaved into the glassy, bleached toilet bowl. Salt clinging onto his aching temples, shivers ravaging his body, leaving pieces. Throat hurting like hell. His eyes drill a pathetic hole through the surrounding tiles where a distorted image, a weary fusion of eyes and skin, taunts him. Maybe there’s no reason to be angry with it, it only shows him what it sees.
It quickly becomes clear that George won’t be leaving his room anytime soon.
-
From that day on, Sapnap barges into George’s space every other day. No care for the tasteless mess that has become of it. He nags him to play chess, steals his phone to snapchat people, brings his Nintendo Switch. When he orders food always brings him “leftovers” – a meal he ordered just for the older that he refuses to own up to. It becomes overbearing at times, but always good-natured. So he decides to lock the door, just for a day, just to be in the stillness and feel the hunger once more.
A third body never appears. An expectation dwells at the back of George’s mind in a makeshift residence there. Nobody throws it a bone to gnaw on. It starves, but never perishes. He won’t let it. He’ll allow it to nibble and chew on his guts, until he becomes a vacant husk. And then, he’ll feed it some more.
There are times when Sapnap just lays with him. In the small bed, keeping him company with the “I’m so tired, I can’t get up” excuse. Sometimes he simply looks at him and can’t turn his eyes away. When George sleeps, his chest rises and falls, lungs filling with air, heart beating. He’s still real, still here. Bones and skin, white and crimson, radiating heat inside a pale body. The walls coated with primitive energy. That’s alright for now.
In the dimness of the room Sapnap has developed a mental list and he meticulously puts small checks next to the bullet points.
Black suitcase remains unpacked in a corner somewhere, phone dead and lying idly, clothes crammed inside the laundry basket, old local takeout occupying the fridge, an editing program opened on his computer, a file loaded up and aging. George is not leaving. He won’t be gone in the morning. On a plane and back in London. There are too many unfinished things left here. Right? He sure as hell hopes so.
Every time Sapnap leaves he looks back one more time, just to ingrain the bare and simple sight in his memory. For once he’s glad they share a bedroom wall. He’ll set the thermostat higher tonight.
The morning comes, nobody but George sprawled between the quilts.
Only then does he come to a conclusion - surprisingly the research question has changed in the middle of gathering the data. New riddle occurs: How long will it take Dream to express worry about him if he becomes an incomprehensive, distasteful mess.
-
The phone goes silent. Except the soft buzz between their connection. it’s hot against his hand. He can close his eyes and almost imagine it’s not an electric brick and instead human touch. With a heart for a battery. That would be embarrassing. He doesn’t blink. He’s been doing a lot of imagining lately.
His apartment is full of small noises. A fridge buzzing, the clock ticking, a humming of the PC fans. He can hear dogs whining outside his windows. He gets them - desperate and pleading. A few nights ago, one of them was sleeping outside the neighbours’ closed front door. He wanted to throw it a treat, but came up with nothing to offer. That night, they’d both stayed hungry.
George stares at his kitchen ceiling. He was observing the spider crawling up the dusty wall today, when he felt a glob of water on the skin of his head. The poor thing was fighting gravity, needlelike legs going up and up, one by one. It didn’t really have a purpose. What was waiting for it on the other side? A fly, maybe. The corner seemed bare. Did the critter know? Could George have told it?
But does anyone really know what’s waiting for them? All he knows is that the spider has been evolving for hundreds of millions of years just so it could creep up that wall.
He let it be.
If it rains again, he'll probably just give up and put another bowl under the leak.
There’s no more food. Miraculously, he managed to eat all of it. Now, the empty cardboard box is staring at him. It was good though, something healthy. That’s been a rare one, since he’s been living on his own. Dream says you are what you eat. Is George a grilled chicken salad? What are the pomegranate seeds doing on top of it? He might just never find out.
It’s pleasant to have his 5pm breakfast ordered for him. At least somebody cares. He knows, he doesn’t. His fridge is sad-looking. Metallic shine turned matt, the front bare of any family pictures or tacky magnets. The only thing inside is butter, milk and eggs. He wouldn't dare to touch them, except for the last ones. Those are fresh, unlike everything else. There’s an orange that came with some meal this week on the counter. It requires peeling, and he couldn’t get himself to do that. Now, it looks as pathetic as the fridge and all the other things gathered in the apartment. The fruit is eerily similar to the half-packed cardboard boxes in his bedroom; tape and scissors next to them. The adhesive has gone dry, unusable. They’re all waiting for his Visa to come through.
The next best thing, besides the eggs, is a box of stale cereal sitting in the cupboard. The milk is sour, so he’s been going through it dry. It’s a process.
Dream tells him he’s a growing boy and needs his vegetables. He adds something about trans fat and the carbs in the Big Mac. All of that in his stupid American accent. George calls him an idiot, which is obviously the only right response, and tells him McDonald’s provides him with just about everything he needs for a fair price. The apple slices are a nice touch. Dream disagrees loudly.
Today’s order came with a fortune cookie - hidden on the bottom of the paper bag. Maybe it was an accident. Chance or not, he’ll allow it.
It gets cracked open with a snap.
A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality.
“Pfff… Dream,” Now, that’s truly coincidental.
“Yeah?” George hears the other side of the call stir. The slide of a chair, the crack of a window. A wooden panel somewhere in Florida creaks with familiarity.
He can feel his touch carry itself through the Atlantic with white static connecting them.
“Nothing.” His neck hurts. His eyes hurt, too. Suddenly, fatigue overcomes him. He wants to go back to sleep, but there’s a reason he got up in the first place. A video waits to be discussed for him on the shared drive, and he wouldn’t want to be a disappointment. Besides, Dream needed him.
George doesn’t read him the fortune cookie paper.
For a moment, they come to a lull. It’s just them. The screen, the buzz, and the seven thousand kilometres. It’s just them. This is their favourite time; a mysterious space grows between early morning on the East Coast and noon in one of the biggest cities on Earth. They fill it with stillness and devotion. It lingers; crawls. George supposes it’s the only time he prays.
The silence gets cracked.
“What if I get like this again?” Insecurities hush into the line. George lets them hum.
“Get like what again?” Dream asks them. They’re familiar with each other, George allowing the dialogue. Lately, they’ve been off the leash.
“And me being there with everyone won't solve anything” Maybe it’s a bad day for an exchange. The words flow, just to flow. The pour amplifying. “What if this comes back. What if i'm just like this, this is me,”
George knows the notions have been consuming his mind these days. He rolls them over and over, and then uncurls.
“Broken or something.” He doesn’t have adequate words to describe the feeling inside his head. In his core, he knows it’s not right; Not logical.
“George,” Dream's voice wavers just enough for him to notice. There’s a lump in the back of his throat.
“What if it turns out I'm actually terrible and all of you will hate me, and Patches will hate me, and you just ship me back to London.” The go-to humour route. It’s a messy attempt to undo the damage done.
Pieces sharp, George wants to gather them in his fists and squeeze. Dream tries to pick them up softly and clean the warm blood from the cuts.
“George…C’mon,” He comes with gentle hands and taming words. “Everyone will love you. Patches will love you. It’ll sort itself out, okay?”
Inhale. Exhale.
“It's scary. What if nobody’s there?” There’s another question lurking between the lines. It doesn't go unnoticed.
The Sun leaves for somewhere else, America, the other side of the world. It’s late morning, and the light warms the glass of water left behind on the kitchen counter.
George thinks the radiator stopped working a few days ago. It gets so cold when the clouds come. He feels the warmth leaking through that hole in the ceiling and the gap under the door.
“I promise I'll be there, alright?”
Alright. All he can do is trust him. George’s been doing that forever now. It feels like it’s been forever. It always works out. In the end.
-
Lying down for several days straight feels weird. His legs go limp. His back is killing him, pressed into a definitely not tough enough mattress. If someone cared enough to place a vase with flowers on his nightstand, his bed would probably resemble a gravestone. Weird migraines that piss him off to no end - come and go. It’s a mixture of off and on sleep, recurring images and mindless social media scroll. He hasn’t slept so much in forever. If this reminds him of his high school days, he doesn’t want to think about it. Sixteen-year-old George had it rough. London days weren’t the easiest either. Turns out there’s been a lot of tough days.
When he’s awake, golden eyes taunt him under his eyelids. Freckled back materializes where his hand meets the mattress - composed of stars and bruises, it blinks and winks. An echo in George’s skull makes him unable to forget. He rolls over to the other side.
Shitty naps precede restless dreams. Well, nightmares, really.
He’s standing knees deep in a murky pond during the night. The sky is starless - similar to the view from the abandoned London apartment. Everything’s watching him, foreseeing each and every move. The looks send a tremble down his spine. Knowing eyes are all around and hiding isn’t an option. Heavy rain falls on his clothes and skin, leaving them soaked and sticky. Restless wind is blowing in all directions. He doesn’t feel cold or wet, but he feels like he should. Suddenly, the rough air calms and everything stills. The grayish water, the sturdy trees, the dense clouds, his ragged breath. A tornado approaches.
An eerie mass of something straight in his eyeshot. He’s never seen one in real life before. Not like he ever wanted to, though. Now, here it is – right in front of him. He’s not able to run. Of course. Feet sunken deep in the stupid, thick mud. With no chance of escape, he lets the threat near. Fear doesn’t feel like fear. Not really. He blinks once before being swallowed by the eye of the storm.
He wakes up.
Sometimes it’s on the hard ground, the dirty carpet doing little to cushion the grim fall. Other times, red cheeks and glossy eyes welcome him, but he doesn’t cry. He’s not really sure why – there’s just this sense of apathy instead of sadness or ache. Without a reason or a cause, it spurs annoyance.
When he’s conscious again, he takes a peek through the curtains. No signs of thunderclouds. The grass unmoving, scorched by the sun. The intense green paint that stains the house has been fading, the constant Sun too much. Clear skies and steady ground.
The blank walls surround him. They bulge and swell, an uncanny conviction that they’re filled with water emerges. Ready to burst and flood the whole place. They never do.
There’s a sense of dread low in his stomach. It reminds him of being 12 and coming down with the flu. Standing in the dark hallway in front of his parents’ door at night. Everything seemed bigger then. All of the lights off and the silence. The silence was the worst, though. It made room for so much noise.
Other sleepwalking incidents seem rather insignificant. He’s in the bathroom or making his bed. He tries to unlock the bedroom door, yanking the handle. Unsuccessfully. Sapnap says he could sometimes hear the knocks and thuds. It’s funny (at least to George).
The adamant nature of time shifts the clock hands second by second. It brings a pulsing headache, the periodic lack of food worsening it. Overwhelming fatigue makes it impossible to do anything of substance.
There is a point of no return. He’s too far in, spent too much time on this. The question of “will this even end” becomes scary very quickly. How stubborn of him. He has dug this hole. One day he bought a shovel, found a presentable place for a ditch and begun fucking going at it. Now he will do his time and sit in it until Dream comes and holds a hand out so he can get out. It’s always been Dream. This can only end badly.
There’s a universe where he doesn’t turn up, he hopes it’s not this one. And what if it is? After spending a stupid week and a half holed up in his obscured room, he’ll get up and go outside like nothing happened. He’ll go into Sapnap’s room, lay on his bed and the younger will say “Damn, I thought you died in there or some shit.” No one will think anything of his inconsequential absence and the world will continue to spin like always. No difference, just the sinking feeling in his stomach getting worse.
One thing is sure - he will see Dream again. Maybe in the dark of small hours, standing in the unused kitchen, catching the others' pondering stare from across the marble island and a shy smile will appear. Brown eyes rolling – an answer. Maybe they can go for a drive. Maybe they will take a nap together on the worn and loved living-room couch the next day. He misses those.
When it happens, they end up in various places, splayed out next to each other. No thoughts behind the action. Bringing divine serenity and order. Turquoise blue and forest green. It’s innate, a natural pull. Toeing the vague line just enough, that they both know what’s happening. They allow themselves to have this. It’s comfortable.
A lingering touch here and there. Shoes connecting under the buzzing dinner table. Tentative hand massaging his rigid shoulder when he drives them various places. George holds his breath when Dream accelerates. Scalding asphalt stretching before them.
“Wow, you have a knot like right there,” He reaches out.
“Holy cow! That hurts George!” A startled shriek followed by a repelling shrug. Trees pass them by.
“I’m making it better, shut up idiot,”
“You’re like actually making it worse! I’m going to crash the car and there will be no knots anymore.”
“Congrats idiot, crash the car, do it, you won’t.” And it’s just them, so clear, in the rear view mirror.
George has this wild gaze, you can hear the golden sparkles cracking. May languidly turns itself over, bringing June.
An attentive glimpse in a room packed full of oblivious strangers. Two pinkies held together in an LA club. Anonymous, swimming in the crowd. The spirit of the other that’s always near.
The vacant air in George’s bed washes all expectancies away.
A brief contemplation emerges. The one wrapped in dread and unease. He wonders if he shouldn’t have left London. Never gone to America. There exists a timeline where he stayed. The leaking ceiling of his “temporary” abode becoming more permanent. Friends from nearby cities come and go, making his apartment a bit more liveable. The cold is constant and uninterrupted. Joy always fades. Dense fog outside sneaks in through the cracked open window. A haze filling the bare room. A body unmoving on a mattress. What would he do? There are no hurricanes in London, just the ever-present shitty British weather.
And he’s so fucking happy he ended up in the one where he boards that plane. His visa gets approved, the touchdown is safe. The car doesn’t crash. George is in the house with both of his best friends.
Because he can fix this, surely.
He closes his eyes and drifts away. He dreams of the good days.
-
A warm breeze carries the familiar scent of salt water. The difference in time zones still messes with him sometimes. A pitch-black midnight surrounds him, but roughly seven thousand kilometers away the sun is rising. With eyes closed, he can feel it - bathing his tanned features in the next morning’s deathless glare.
Here on the soft wood, scraped raw by rain and daylight, George finds peace. Next to the steady buzzing and ticking of the cicadas soft thuds appear behind him.
“Hm?” George opens his eyes, throwing a questioning look towards the newcomer. His head lolls backwards.
“I don’t know,” Dream shrugs and with an ice-cold cup of water in his hand sits beside George at the edge of a wooden beam. He fiddles with his roughened fingers, knuckles scarred. Their broken surface doesn’t match the soft touch they carry.
Dream and George parted ways a few hours ago, the former needed sleep and he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He didn’t have to - George got the message. Read the way he pulled his legs behind him, white socks collecting dust or ran a hand through his hair, stretching the skin on his face. Now, when they have an eternity (almost) with each other, is the time to rest. Dog days prying the remaining energy from their starved palms.
There’s a tip and a tap. Dream props himself close. A hand just next to George’s. The space between them is full and dense. It’s quiet when Dream’s silent fingers barely skim the veins on his hand. He looks down, then he looks at Dream. He sees him. Not the blurry frames creating his image or hazy voice late at night. He sees the moon reflect the sunlight and a real mix of carbon, oxygen and other elements harvested from stars that have been dead for centuries. Dream looks terrified (or excited). The adrenaline rush goes straight into his head. Fuzzy buzz and heartbeat in the dark. Now they can exist here - no words, just them, the night and the deathless sun.
Orlando is usually warm and humid, but with July approaching the numbers on the weather forecast tip even further upwards. The hottest month is here now, making itself known. Dream said there might be some weather problems soon.
A cold wet hand presses itself right behind George’s hair and onto his neck. A grin and a shriek follow immediately. George tumbles onto the dry wood to get away, the intrusion taking him by surprise. The cold is actually really nice with all the heavy air that surrounds them, but this is a challenge. He knows it.
There is a swift decision made and he kicks his legs at Dream. Oh, now it’s on. Bare feet manage to reach his chest, the target is pretty wide, right in front of him. George hits muscles - solid and resilient. The next kick is aimed higher, at his stubble-covered cheek. He almost makes it, except…
“Let me go, idiot!” The very cold, wet hand is now gripping his ankle, stopping its movement.
“What if I don’t?” Dream’s eyes go wide, taunting. “ Whatcha gonna do?” White teeth flash, getting closer to his level.
“Oh, you’ll see what I’m gonna do,” He’s nothing if not stubborn. Born and raised.
There’s something in his words. Dashing, recognizable for both of them. Neither will investigate it, though. The dissection too risky. Now is not the time for an open heart surgery.
There’s more resistance and some more pulling.The fight is fierce and nobody wants to give up their power over the other. George isn’t losing… he just doesn’t have the upper hand right now.
Tumble, fumble, all chaotic and uncoordinated and George is even lower on the hard floor, not supported by his arms anymore. So, Dream gets lower, just to stick it up in his face. Up close his breath is warm, puffs of air striking his skin gently. The shadows on his cheeks seem a bit less sickly-purple now. Sleep still lingers in his eyes, lost in the round pupils. He blinks lazily, glowing in the night.
Observing.
The ridges on George's spine press against dead timber. A smell of the earth catches onto the wind. Fine sandy soil and acrid gunpowder. Burning wood. Life here was shaped by water flow and the Ocean’s currents.
“Soo… whatcha gonna do?” An inhale and an exhale. The grip on his ankle doesn’t waver. A familiar thumb is fondly swiping over the protruding bone. The stars in Florida shine brighter than on the clearest London days. Something, a massive self-luminous celestial body of gas, winks at him from up above.
Does it know all of his secrets? Has he been kept under the meticulous eye of something unknown?
Or is it just dead light, being seen for the last time?
He keeps his eagerness buried and folded - a trick learnt long ago, the things he needed always staying outside of his reach. George’s lips involuntarily stretch out to form a timid smile and he prays to God, Dream’s eyes won’t catch it in the dark. Wicked teeth press down on his tongue.
A loud swosh behind them makes the world spin again. Cicadas tick and Sapnap appears in the glass door behind their backs.
“Guys, I just had the most genius idea and I need your help. Congrats, I'm the goat,” Waiting eyes look their way, demanding immediate action. “C’mon, let’s go.” He opens the door wider.
Dream automatically frees George’s limb from the grasp and heads inside the house, taking the gathering condensation glass with him. Motions meant and calculated - they make the fatigue draping his body apparent. Even in the near darkness, illuminated only with the light in the living room, flickering its yellow hue, George sees Dream in his entirety. Matter and abstract. He stands up, following suit. Sapnap treading right behind him. Close enough to whisper into his ear. Just for the two of them to hear.
“I’m happy for you.” He smiles through the words, offering an honest pat on the back. His skin aches with the fleeting memory of the harsh floor. And he wants to remember.
He’s happy for them, too.
A firework goes off in the distance, illuminating the sky. The 4th of July hanging in the air.
-
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
George wakes up with wide eyes. The sky is clouded today. Whatever it is, it has been brewing for a while now. The precipitous drop in temperature, choppy waves. The roof and walls are thin, he hears the wind hit them.
The walls of the house are swaying. A storm is happening. And it's happening inside.
It’s a day when voices get louder than in the entire week.
On the outside it’s easy for them to feel observed. Because they are, and they know it. So, how could they know, in their house all of the walls have ears.
The scene takes place in the cluttered living room. Sapnap is sprawled on the couch, probably scrolling tiktok. He’s been on his phone a lot lately. Beside the textile pillows and blankets Patches timidly sits next to him. Not too far, not too close. Her ears point straight up. Maybe she knows something’s coming, too. Ultimately, she’s part of the house. If Sapnap were to try and pet her, she would surely run away. So he doesn’t. They are still, enjoying each other’s company.
Dream enters. Fresh clothes and a wide frame. A drawstring backpack flung over his shoulder, car keys in hand. The pair lock gazes.
The audience braces for impact.
“You going out?” Sapnap cranks his head towards the doorway.
“Yeah, I have, like, an um… I guess a thing. With someone,” The older struggles with his shoelaces, sparing a quick glance at the man behind him.
“Oh, do I know them? Is it business?” Without anything better to do, Sapnap pries and pokes. The usual, gnawing anxiety has been enhancing with the dire mood of the house.
“I don’t know, maybe?” Dream bursts out a short laugh. “That would be pretty funny. No, probably not. I don’t think so… No, it’s not business.” Ready to leave, he grips the door handle.
On a normal day, Sapnap wouldn’t think anything of it. Dream goes and Dream comes – as he pleases. Just like him. Trips to the mall, visits to old friends or a long-needed drive to nowhere in particular. They aren’t out of the ordinary. But things haven’t been ordinary lately. By the door, his friend seems on edge – jittery and wobbly. Shifting from one foot to the other, the metal keys in his hand rattle. There’s this unease looming deep in his stomach. An urge to know, to scratch the itch. And he’s never been good at self-restraint.
“Wait!” Dream comes to a halt, the handle in his hand cold and distant. “Clay, where are you going?” Sapnap’s tone is steady.
“Nowhere, it’s private,” A dismissing shrug answers the other.
“Holy fuck, just answer the question,” From the couch Sapnap’s scalding eyes look daggers at him. The living room gets darker with the murky clouds covering the Sun. A smell of rotting oranges paints the air.
Patches intuitively leaps from the couch, low onto the carpet. She soundlessly runs through the scene, cutting the heavy air in half. Her nose flinching at the odd scent. Ears flat back against her head.
“It’s a tinder hookup, is that what you wanted to hear?” Dream rolls his eyes and his head tips backwards with them. “I don’t- I don't get it, Nick,” Defeat visible in the corners of his lips. “Are you happy now?” He raises his brows, making space for round bloodshot eyes; Face morphing and conflicted.
“Is this a joke? Are you joking?” The lack of humor is apparent. Sapnap’s angry. He’s been angrier lately. Or frustrated. He can’t tell one from the other. It’s all messed up, tangled - wires cross here and there, causing a short circuit. Sparks fly. He doesn’t care though; blood boils inside of him pushing all rational thoughts aside, rising quickly. His face feels hot.
“How? How am I joking? What do you want from me, Nick?” Sapnap can tell he’s wrenching and squeezing him. At least anything that’s left - ache and sting. Disappointment. Good. He’ll twist him now and regret it later. He can feel the tug, too. “I'm serious, why- why would I be joking?” There it is. On the deep bottom, a raw, bitter snicker. Now, it’s a fair fight.
“You're going out just to hook up with someone? Right now?” A gun firmly held in two hands. It’s loaded with implication.
“Why are you like angry? What if I am? What's wrong with that?” With sloped shoulders he reminds Sapnap of that deer he saw on their first night here. Caught in headlights, scaring them both. They’re waiting for the crash. Tires slip on the wet asphalt.
“Have you fucking checked on him?” He knows the answer to that one. And he shoots where he knows it’ll hit.
“What?” Bullseye. “What the fuck? What’s wrong with you?” The alarm in his head turns bright red. Dream’s eyes rarely lie and right now they’re screaming. Blinding angry flashes make the white of his eye even more scarlet. Sapnap sees blood.
The high ceilings and long hallways get filled with noise. It’s almost reminiscent of something. Almost.
“What the fuck is wrong with me? Guess what? You haven’t! I have!” The plug gets pulled. If there ever was any, it’s gone now. He feels the animal part of his brain take over. How interesting can something so small be; taking control of the entirety of a 5’7’’ man. He stands up, buzzing; Limbs moving on their own accord. “I made sure he didn’t fucking starve himself! I slept on his nasty fucking carpet! I told him ‘Clay was busy with work’.” Sapnap’s hands swing wildly, accentuating all of his words. He can only hope to get through the person standing in front of him. Maybe his best friend is somewhere in there.
The waves make their last travel, before passing through and getting lost in the house walls. Air stills again. Everything’s been said. At least Sapnap said everything he wanted to. Dream is standing, unmoving, still beside the door. There’s no way to tell if anything got to him or just hit the tall brick wall and didn’t even leave a crack.
“I’m not his fucking mother. If you wanna play house, go ahead.”
He waits for more shots. As expected, they come.
“You know that’s fucked up Clay,” The words come out as a last resort. One last attempt. ”You don’t want to deal with this shit like always. You can fuck off now. Go.” And he does.
A swing, a hit and loud bang of the front door shake the frame. There’s a fist in the drywall.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” The rough cry comes along with pained knuckles. It was easier to punch through than he anticipated. The blinding adrenaline that numbed the ache plummeting. Now, he just feels empty.
It comes with regret. He punched a fucking hole in their house’s wall. Chalky pieces crumble down as he takes his hand back. There’s wet crimson dripping from his skin and onto the gleaming tiles.
It’s quiet again.
George thinks he knows how that picture looks. Well, it’s a moving picture, a bit like in Harry Potter.
Patches cowering in the corner, the air vibrating with uncharacteristic ire, forcing her to instinctually tuck herself somewhere quiet. The walls hugging her with care. She’s still a wild thing reminded of her roots.
Sapnap’s in the middle of it all. Their living room suddenly becoming so vacant and big. He feels small in the center with the rage out of his system now. When you scrape the walls off of the deep red angry paint there is blue and white. It’s been there as long as he could yield memories. Underneath everything - an unchanging ground for things to become and ripen and die. He learnt sadness and then helplessness. He's a kid again and his parents’ futile fight crams the Texas air. And he’s so fucking mad and therapy hasn’t helped again. After scratching his throat dry he just stands there. Looking at the door with the grieving eyes of something that’s been left behind too many times.
And there is Dream. Well, not in the picture. Even if George wishes he were, his brain’s unable to imagine something that is not there. That’s just his luck. Dream left it on his own accord, and will return when appropriate. Now, that George thinks about it, the younger’s as untamed as their cat. Always wondering, but still spooked by the sound of his own risen voice. Anyways, he’s left. As he often does. Through the door he came in.
The door. The door has a funny story.
—
“You should carry me through, y'know? Like newly weds.” George states in Dream’s direction with a half-serious look in his eyes. He keeps a stretched palm and an awkwardly bent arm, in hopes of covering his eyes from the light that now seemed to be lurking everywhere (taking a particular liking to the middle of his pupils).
The sound of small plastic wheels on the paving stones before the entrance has just left the waving air. In its place, exaggerated gasps and a loud consideration.
“I mean i can carry you through” Dream says as if it was as simple as picking up dinner on his way back home. He looked at the door and then at the hunched silhouette besides it, assessing the damage to be done. “I can try.” Maybe George likes these odds. Or maybe it’s the Florida air already getting to him.
“Hmmm… I don’t know if you're strong enough, I'm pretty hefty y'know" Now, he’s sure he’ll get carried into the house one way or another. "These muscles weigh a bit.” There’s no need to even try to show off; The trade-off between the slight effort and committing to the bit clearly tilting towards the not worth it category.
“Hefty, hah” The younger tries the voiceless word on his tongue. ”Okay, maybe you should carry me through.”
“I would but it's actually a rest day” It’s put as a fact, a statement, like nothing can be done about it. “Just… you do it. C’mon, chop-chop, get lifting.”
Turns out, the words of encouragement were just what was needed.
Dream charges at him unexpectedly. Bending down, grabbing his legs in a tight squeeze and standing right back up, forcing George upside down. Suddenly, the world turns on its head as he’s slung across a broad shoulder. The perspective makes the Sun shine right into his eyes, again, blinding. This time around, there’s no way to dodge it.
“Dream!” He squeaks, blood flowing to his head. “I'll get sick, idiot!”
There’s even a weak attempt at wiggling, with banging his clenched fists against Dream’s lower back. The latter’s hand is glued to the clammy skin of the back of his thigh, squeezing him harder in an answer. A pearly self-satisfied grin surely emerged on his face by now.
So.
He gets carried through the frame of their house. There’s a suitcase left on the pavement outside. It's not quite princess style like he imagined. But it’s their house and it’s them. He'll take it.
He’ll take it, because this is so, so much better than anything he’s ever hoped to get.
—
Too much pressure to face the things he fears. It’s all consuming, making his head throb and heart hurt. They unfold when the air grows sultry and his cotton shirts collect moisture from it. Growing too big to fit in his hands. Thus, he runs from them. He's been ruining a lot lately. In this case, it’s to nowhere in particular, just a dead-end. George swears he can sometimes hear the treadmill in the quiet of night.
He always has to come back.
George is not a dog, but he may as well be - the way he waits for the sound of footsteps. Under that fucking door. The door to their house. Maybe they will open this time.
They never do.
Maybe it’s a hurricane.
Maybe he’s out of luck.
–
LA is always nice. Well, always is a strong word. Los Angeles is nice… most of the time. It has just a few downsides.
George doesn’t sleep well here. He knows everywhere with his friends is home, but his bed feels just a bit awkward and big. It’s nice for something that was already there when they moved in. Everything should be good. But then, he wakes up after 12 hours of sleep and is still worn.
It’s not so nice right now, either. The nausea he feels is enough to make him abstinent for the rest of his life. There’s always a party though.
A birthday party, a house warming party, a party to celebrate a new e-sports win and a party to celebrate the fact there’s nothing to celebrate.
This trip is a short one. Just a few days for Dream and Sapnap to get their work done. Who wants to do just work, though? All three of them have made a voyage this week starting from mansions in the Hills all the way to the city clubs. Would it be an exaggeration to say the constant alcohol poisoning is not doing them well?
George gets somewhat of a routine going. He wakes up at 3pm, with everyone already out of the house, and orders something from an overpriced restaurant, provided he cares enough. The ‘breakfast’ is followed by pretending to answer some business emails, looking skeptically at the video he has been editing for the last 4 months and finally, getting ready for another round of whatever he did the night before.
In an attempt to search for a living soul in the house, George explores the sunlit space. Going from door to door in the endless maze that is the pale corridor. The sound of his feet is the only thing that fills the dead air. He ventures into the master bedroom’s bathroom and stares at the semi clear orange medicine case sitting on the counter. There’s a name on it in bold black letters. He doesn’t read it.
Sometimes George breaks the cycle, goes out to a nice shop and finds a way to burn his money. It feeds the growing void inside of his stomach for some time. He shows up in a fancy new shirt the next day and gets thrown a “someone looks lucrative” comment from his roommates.
Dream’s busy with music, busy with work. With meeting some new and old friends. And then he catches George at a party; and they have fun. That is, until he gets busy with something again. Or someone.
George doesn’t complain. Why would he? He has Sapnap and Larray and himself. A responsible adult like him knows better, doesn't he? So he deals with it; with the constant cold shoulder. He knows Dream doesn’t really mean it anyways. Besides, LA is always sunny. Now, the middle of July speaks to them through lukewarm water and heated glass panes. Blinding and hot. They’ve all fallen victim to it when they forgot to apply sunscreen multiple times in a row. Listening isn’t their strongest skill.
It catches them fast, off guard. The LA Sun scorches George’s face and leaves it painfully tender. He should learn that all the nice things can burn him. He should do many things. It makes something inside of him sickish.
This LA trip isn’t reminiscent of the first one.
Everything was so fresh and untried back then. In his memory it almost seems… green. Going out in the morning with Dream for breakfast. A cute cafe, warm flaky pastry and a phone camera pointing at his face. Meeting everyone he could possibly get a hold of. A new restaurant every night. It always came with a few friends and sweet drinks. It was all long twilight and sleepy sunrises. The nice kind that makes your head sway, lacking sharp edges and keeps your hand from being lonely.
“You’re like a work of art. Y’know?” The sentence gets lost in the sound of everything and it’s easier for George to just fake being asleep.
One time, Dream’s even taken him to see the Pacific. He doesn’t remember if he’d ever seen it before that. Not that it mattered. He felt like that was the first time anyways.
It went a bit like this. Dream threw their bags into the backseat of a rented Tesla and wouldn’t tell him where they’re going. After some bickering and mock pushing George got in. He would had gone in anyways, without the performance, but where’s the fun in that? It was a lengthy trip with the ever-present traffic jams and just the two of them to fill the space. As much as he hates long travels, he still wishes they could driven forever. Limitless and uncharted water in front of them. The two of them against the world.
The beach in January was a bit windy. It’s always cooler by the Ocean, too. Salty breeze hitting his flush cheeks. He soon felt warm, though. Big hands enveloped him from behind and held him close. A rhythmic heartbeat matching the crashing waves and Dream’s voice in George’s ear. Just like it had always been. Something to fall onto and someone to come home to. No words were needed.
They made it.
Everything seemed on the up. Now it’s different. Or it feels different. Is that the same thing? Feeling and being. What a stupid question. He’s got no one to ask. Who would want to hear about his problems anyways. Dream comes back late and tired. Why would George want to cause him trouble? Sapnap is not the one for conversations like that. He’s got NRG stuff to work on. George’s been left to his own devices.
It’s deep in his stomach. Insecurity, guilt, something rotting. He drowns them at the open bars in dim mansions. That’s one way to cope. He’s too tired for fancy drinks, so he settles for a vodka cran. For now, he settles.
Tonight they’re going to an album release party. He's never heard of the singer, but it’s probably good for Dream’s connections. LA time is networking time after all. He wonders what time it is in his London flat.
By the time they arrive he wants to go home. He wonders if he even knows what that means. He wants to go home so badly.
Maybe he could just call a taxi and maybe close his eyes, maybe…
There’s a pinky forcing itself around his. A shoulder bump follows, familiar eyes study George’s face. He wonders what’s there for Dream to find, under dead eyes and dead skin.
“You excited to have fun tonight?” Expressive mouth verbalizes the question at him with a smile. And he’s really not. But for Dream he could pretend.
Before blinking once, he’s pulled through the red velvet belt of the crowd control barriers and inside the club. There’s a line of people in front of the door, stretching into the night.
It’s stuffy and packed. He doesn’t resist being dragged around, just follows the broad back before him. The giant walls seem to be too close for comfort. Bass hits his bones and makes his head pound. He puts on a mock smile. His muscles tense up, throat closing up.
Dream takes them from person to person, greeting everyone. Awkward but charming as always. Mysterious gravitational pull surrounds him and despite its otherworldly origin, radiates warmth. People flock to it like moths to the light. Erratic and curious.
George feels like an outsider and so, he chooses to observe. He can't complain though, he's popular with everyone, too. Months of molding himself to be easy-going and just enough to swallow, working. His big doe eyes and toothy grin make things flow with less resistance.
Finally, they make it to the bar, realizing they’ve lost Sapnap on the way. He will survive on his own just fine. Probably.
Two vodka crans.
After the first sip from a cold glass, blending into the crowd is easier. Now, George is just like everyone here - dopey, with impaired decision skills. Unusually, the flow of alcohol doesn’t make words pour out of his mouth. Now, it just makes him numb, care about anything melting into the colored lights hanging near the DJ booth. Will he ever even come home?
He holds the pinky connected to his tightly. A fear that if he relaxes the touch will disappear immediately overcomes his senses. Being alone right now sounds awful.
“Are you drunk?” Dream giggles, puffs of warm breath nudge George’s ear. The statement repeated over and over again never fails to make them a laughing, delirious mess.
He forces his head up and down in lieu of an answer. A weighted nod.
After that the party goes smoother. There’s blueish sweet shots and obnoxious screaming from all directions. People spill liquor, stepping over glass shattered on the floor. Even George starts having a not too bad time. Crowd-pleasing songs are blasting from the speakers and onto the jammed dancing floor.
Dream stays glued to his side. His hand slowly making its way onto the brunette's t-shirt-covered lower back. Guiding. Boasting. It’s awfully nice.
George’s fingers itch for another sip. He bites his already-hurt lower lip.
Faces flash by them, being everywhere and nowhere, all at the same time. Shrieking voices ring in his ears. Time gets lost in the sticky, turquoise bottoms of curved cups that smell like artificial citruses. Twisted mirrors show him an upside-down world. Sweat and powdery perfume linger. Every second becomes the past. Minutes get lost.
George goes with them.
Next time he finds himself, it’s Dream who’s the light at the end of the tunnel.
He opens his eyes for the first time in what feels like an hour - and there he is. All puffy eyelids and scattered golden freckles. With blown out pupils zeroing on the shorter’s face.
He feels the chill air hit his face. He swears, that among the rumbling traffic, somewhere in the distance, he hears the ocean’s waves crashing on the white shore.
The same calloused hand that held him through it all raises goosebumps on his bare arms.
“Are you cold?” The question makes George raise his sight and glimpse into the vastness of forest green. Undiscovered woods swayed by the breeze.
It’s the hazy image at the bottom of the glass. Some sort of a twisted reality. With a house in the city suburbs and a white picket fence and a cat. With squeaky laughter heard through the walls. A dinner on the table. A foot clothed in white cotton, with the scent of the laundry detergent still clinging to the fabric, playing with his exposed ankle between their chairs. If it’s a fantasy, why does it feel more like remembering?
The thought makes him shiver. Freezing blood fills his gut.
He supposes, he doesn’t have the will to care right now.
He’s been careful for so long. He knows Dream’s been careful, too - withdrawing words and touches. It’s never ending stalemates. Neither of them able to break through the other's defence. Both reluctant to address the issue. They always share the same understanding look; White flags raised in fear. It makes him want to cry every time.
It’s not a decision, really. That would involve any amount of analyzing the current situation. He just does it, he feels it. It’s not proper or smart. It’s natural and honest.
Everything’s fucked either way.
So, why not?
A quick look downwards to fleshy lips, forming a dizzying smirk, makes him warm again. The alcohol also helps.
Before he thinks to back out, George tangles his fingers, numb from the evening, into blond waves and pulls. Resistance doesn’t come, just a quiet puff. Surprisingly, it’s not him who makes the gap vanish. Dream presses their lips with an impatient hand clutching the brunette's stiff nape. Then, there’s no more space. No more games, no more schemes, safe walls or dull headaches. There’s sunlight, coming from the crack under the door. With both of their eyes closed the world goes blank. Thin skin breaks and drips quiet desperation. Something unmistakably tangible and human. It’s the missing piece in his brain; One that connects neurons, making his body flash brightly in the dark of an LA alleyway.
George finds himself hyper-aware in the centre of the universe, just for a moment. The way curls tickle his forehead and relief blooms in his chest.
Just for a moment.
What comes up must go down.
Gravity’s there with the same hands now pushing against his shoulders, forcing him away.
“George… ” His name is heavy in Dream’s lips. He doesn’t need to be told twice. This isn’t a “they lived happily ever after” moment. “I’m sorry.” This is the moment Dream leaves him with glassy eyes, shoved into the hard brick wall next to some random street. What an awful deja vu.
He stays with his eyes closed, so he doesn’t have to watch him leave.
When he goes back, he gets enveloped in a thick smoke, the smell of something burning. It’s a perfect copy of the feeling inside his skull. A random group of people in front of the entrance are sharing the insides of a red-white pack with bold black letters. The sleek foil reflects the streetlights.
One last look at Dream paints him an image through the gray fog. He’s got a drink in one hand and some blonde girl’s bare waist in the other.
“Mind sharing?” George approaches the bunch of strangers with fingers pointed towards the rolled tobacco. Without a word, he gets handed one. A quick flash follows.
The drag and blow of the cigarette is like riding a bike. The lingering scent, sticking to skin and hair, does nothing but remind him of the one who hates it most.
Inhale, exhale; Repeated, until he feels piercing eyes on his lips from the entrance.
It’s like skipping lectures on cold mornings and sucking up to the slightly older guys in his classes and some other stuff he’d rather forget. There’s no red telephone booths or big buses. No Thames River. There’s porcelain smiles and a late-night traffic jam. The urge to sit in the middle of the dusty pavement and weep with his head in his hands hits him heavily. The thing is, it wouldn’t halt the world, stop the lump in his throat or teleport him anywhere. It would be embarrassing. There’s nothing he can do about it.
His phone sits heavily in his pocket. He should call his sister.
For now, he’ll think about it, like he’s been thinking about it for the last few months.
He does the next best thing, which is to order an uber.
People bump into him unceremoniously without looking back. They don’t remind him of anyone. They’re a face with features and he’ll never see them again.
He wonders if they were always meant to end up like this.
His phone stays silent for the rest of the night.
-
The wind calms down and so do the tempers.
“Are you ready to negotiate?” Dream holds out an olive branch, knocks on Sapnap’s door and creaks it open.
When Dream came back, the house had been as normal as ever. Except the hole in the wall. So as normal, as it could’ve been with everything that’s happened in the last weeks. Faint remains of the day were trying to paint the insides with some form of “not grey” that consumed everything else. He thought that everyone just yelling at him would’ve been so much better.
But there’s a world where he comes back to an empty home everyday.
“What if I were naked? Why would you just open the door like that.” Sapnap spins his chair around and away from his flashing big screens. His headphones are half on.
“Well, you could.” Dream stands awkwardly in the doorframe, swaying his too long arms.
“Yeah, I could.” The youngest’s eyes drill into him. Waiting.
“Ahem…” Dream presses his lips together with a pitiful look on his face. His stomach starts hurting and one of his socks feels wrong.
It’d be so easy to just slip past this. Have the hole patched and the oranges thrown out. Skip to the next part - next recording, next basketball game and party. Or would it really? God, this would be so much easier if he were drunk.
“Did you want to say something?” Sapnap intertwines his hands on his thighs with a sigh.
“I guess, I want to apologize” Dream twists the ring on his finger. Backwards and forwards.
“For?” Sapnap raises his brows, looking at his lap.
“For earlier. I’m sorry” It comes with a sigh. All the air leaves his lungs. It’s heavy. Full of so many words, but only a handful make its way out of his mouth. ”It’s dumb, I didn’t mean for it to be like- to be like that.”
“The punching the wall thing… was stupid as fuck, also” Sapnap’s just as good as Dream. “Whatever. Just - I just got so… angry. Sorry”
The PC hums in the background.
“... But I'm pretty sure you should resolve it. With him. Whatever you got going on… Just saying" The younger one bites his lip. "It’s getting like… ridiculous.”
They look at each other with understanding. Nodding their heads respectively. Dream snorts and rolls his eyes, because they’re idiots. And it looks like they’ll make it another day.
Dream shuffles out of the room, feet sweeping the carpet and leaves the other to play whatever he was playing. When he steps back into the corridor he’s still too consumed by his thumping heart and almost misses it.
He halts.
“...I’m not far.”
The sound of his own voice.
“...Chill for a second.”
That’s weird, considering he's not speaking right now. He tries to make out the words. See If it’s nothing but a twisted delusion brought on by his mind.
“...Oh my God! I’m on one heart!” There are muffled giggles coming from the room next to Sapnap’s. ”George!”
It sounds like all three of them, huddling under a blanket. Futilely trying to stifle mischievous laughter, like they’re scared of being too loud. Like George’s mum will come knocking on his door and Sapnap will get an angry call from his dad. Old microphones cracking and usual bantering. How long ago was it “usual”, though?
He hears himself wheezing, while George’s words stir with a heavy British accent.
Just like that, a piece of the past weaves itself into the present. So much of them is stowed online and on hard drives. Saved, just like they were. Frozen in nostalgic nights, till dawn splits the heavy curtains. Hundreds of hours of deep talks, playful teasing, wins and loses. It’s all there - ready to be consumed like it’s the first time again.
The video plays in the background. Dream wonders if George is sleeping through it or actually watching; reliving it all. His stomach hurts again.
–
The next day it doesn’t get any better. The ground gets soft and thick mud trickles down the perfect asphalt. Morning brings fog and a headache behind tired eyes. A green house stands sleepily, rain washing away dust from the tiled roof. It taps and knocks on the windows and the walls. It’s the only sound George hears from his bed.
Night creeps in discretely, the sky has been dark anyways. George feels it in his stomach. When he opens his eyes he swears the walls look closer than before. Maybe it’s the water they soak up and keep swelling. Maybe they’ll cave in and absorb everything inside. The space and him ceasing to exist. Will the memory of him be gone, too? Would that be better? Or will it be turned into energy and returned to the ground, where it came from?
Anyways, that’s why he makes his way down the hallway. First on the quiet carpet, then down the nagging stairs. Step by step. Questions linger in the air with the scent of wet soil.
A body crumpled in a couch blanket moves in the darkness of the living room.
The tiles are cold, but the air outside hits him, warming something inside of him. When he opens the door a gust of wind hits him with warmth. There’s something in the vast darkness in front of him, the street lights off, the power cut. The first drops begin to darken his hair. Summer days start to thin and spill on the driveway, melting him with them. Has it really gone by so fast? London him would be scared of the swaying trees and flying branches. But when he looks up, the sky shines.
He doesn’t hear the brisk wind waking up the living room. Or the steps that follow, or the call of his name. It’s nothing but water flowing and thunder.
He just feels hands tug at him from behind.
“George!”
This is not like anything he’s seen before. He’s looked at him of course; How could he not? Glazed and woozy. In the London haze and Florida heat. Good mornings exchanged in that deep daybreak voice. This looked strange and foreign on his face. Colder.
Dream had always been told to not wake up a sleepwalking person. It’s been repeated like an urban legend when he was a kid. His mother would advise to just get them back to bed; That’s the safest way.
What a weird in-between. To be somewhere so far away, but still walk hard on earth.
He kind of feels like they’d all been half-dreaming, half-awake. Since the first one hundred thousand live viewers, through the visa nightmare and all of the fake real friends. The fame, dollar bills and shining lights. He doesn’t know if he wants to fully wake up. Will their head spin around or their heart stop?
What comes after this? Or does nothing come at all.
Whatever it is, Dream can only hope he can hold George’s hand through it. To see the dawn break. They’ll eat breakfast, drink apple juice and talk about the dumb things that came to them in their sleep. Pet Patches, fold the laundry, make the grocery list.
“George, you’ll get a cold” He doesn’t want them to wander aimlessly; With closed eyes or tracing the wall in the dark. Dream’s arms make his way around George’s middle in a hug. “George, wake up.”
He’s still looking up, when he realizes it’s Dream. Dream’s voice and Dream’s arms gently rocking him sideways. There’s this strange sort of sense to it, like the time you wake up after a fever.
With the power out, way up and above, the stars wink at them. Curious onlookers, experiencing the world of weird human stuff. For them, they’re just light-years distant specks in this whole creation thing. This burn in the sky. What has it seen?
When he grieved into the cold frayed pillow, his edges coming apart. For the daring next-door boy with whom he sneaked out at night to ride bikes through the narrow, vacant suburban street. Only the brick houses had been a witness, when their hands met. Who found a nice, appropriate girl that kissed him on the cheek and made him hide his metallic blue cycle. He never went to see the lakes with George again.
That time he looked into the bathroom mirror with one question in mind. “Why not me?” When there was the guy he had spent countless hours playing Minecraft with. Alone or with their little group. He made George the butt of every joke. He could cope with that, he liked the way it made him laugh. That was the way the world worked; his skin began to thicken. When that guy quit and got a normal life. A job, a picket fence, someone to come home to; who made him laugh just as hard.
During growing pains, but with no more delusions.The smart uni friend who helped with his programming homework that made the ache dissolve. They kissed in tiny dark bathrooms with pounding club music in the background. They fooled around in his deserted dorm. Then, they never did anything again. George understood the assignment and played his part perfectly.
Because, that’s how it goes? Isn’t it?
Every time he feels a little bit more pathetic and a little bit more like this is it. He got called a star a couple of times in his life, which is amusing, because his insides really do burn.
“George, I’m- I’m sorry” The whisper gets to him. Hits his ear, causing his body to shudder. “Listen… Just- yeah, I owe it to you. An apology. For this whole ordeal. I promised to be there, y’know? And I wasn’t… not really, not how I should.”
George feels the warmth change. Something blooms inside of him and it feels real; Ripe. Not in the rotting way, but just ready enough to tear from the stem. One touch too much and the cells would be crushed.
The air smells of oranges.
“Y’know I love you, right?” Dream tries.
He separates their chests, sticky with wet from the downpour cotton, but Dream’s heartbeat can be sensed through the tips of his fingers. His eyes mirror the sky and George can make out the faint freckles that mark his skin.
“Yeah.” The words are stuck in his throat. Suddenly, his eyes feel hot.
It’s crazy how life is just a series of loops, doomed to be repeated like clockwork. They just wear different clothes and call themselves different names, but spin his world all the same.
“I just needed some space after…” Dream hits his nose with shaky breaths. George knows.
“Yeah, and I gave it to you” One of the few times George really did what Dream asked for. Maybe not out loud. But when you live 7000 kilometers from each other you develop some sort of sick clairvoyance. Even now when Dream’s hungry George feels his own stomach growl. “Do you feel like you had enough space?” And he has outdone himself.
“But you needed me.” It’s simple in its ache, really. Dream’s right, but that’s just a fact. The sky is blue, the Sun shines. George needs Dream.
“So, what now?” George’s back hurts from all the tension. His shoulders won’t stop trembling; it makes him feel all the bones in his brittle body.
He gets ready for the crush.
“I want us. The real thing.” Dream squeezes his icy hands with certainty. Not to break, but to mend. It reminds him of them from so many years ago. He said to “come with him” then. And George said yes.
He’s nothing if not one doomed idiot.
“Okay.” Maybe Dream needs him, too.
When the kiss comes it’s George that pulls this time. And just to be weird he keeps his eyes open. From here the stars don’t seem so far away anymore. They’re right in front of him.
Dream stills for a moment. But just like before, he quickly gets it. How could he not?
He feels them gravitating towards each other. It’s always been unavoidable. George thinks that’s just physics.
“You’re an idiot.” Between the words there are warm breaths and more kisses. The cold is there, but more bearable now. His blueish nails get a little more rosy, where they reside on the taller's face. They deliberately skim over his stubble. It scrapes his chin and if he likes that, he’s definitely not telling Dream. He’ll complain about it, just to kiss him harder.
George’s thumbs caress his undereyes, tips lightly touching. A mix of blues and yellows. Seems like both of their sleeps were uneasy. With nightmares and a heavy head. They always rested best with the other’s heartbeat in their ear. He hopes they’ll get some peaceful shut-eye soon.
It seems like the State of Florida has decided to be merciful again. Maybe they’re not the only tired ones here. With the first rays of sunlight, the dribbling from the rooftop tiles and trees comes to a gentle stop.
The air smells of petrichor and a new day.
-
It’s been a few days since the sky lit up again.
They come to each other over and over once again - like the waves returning home after a long drought. With looks and hands and mouths.
George knows it’s good when it’s good and knows it’s not forever. Dream will fall victim to the low tide soon, but he’ll always return. George understands - the rain comes and goes with clouds, thunder and wind, covering the sky. It doesn’t mean the Sun disappears. He’ll get burned in no time.
On the afternoons that only unfold in the middle of summer, their skin is warm and pliable where they lie on the couch. George likes how the dust still in the air melts light between itself. It shapes and bends the hot season, just the slight breeze slipping past.
In the following days the Sun prevails - everything’s golden and Dream shines bright.
When you close your eyes you can still see it. Sometimes George still thinks he’s dreaming. It’s that crazy dream in a dream type of thing. The long dream. Dream.
Anyways, he hopes he doesn’t wake up from this one. And if he does, he hopes it’ll be here. On a humid August afternoon.
The house is yellow, full of laughter, his bed is made, the blinds open with the Sun in.
Love stays.