Chapter Text
George sat playing with his mashed potatoes on the plate. Clay stared at him, wondering whether it was his cooking that made the boy so unwilling to eat. He swore he made the best mashed potatoes, even Nick said so.
George finally managed to scoop some food onto his fork and put it in his mouth, he immediately closed in eyes in satisfaction. Clay, seeing this, smiled to himself. I still make the best mashed potatoes he said in his head.
"What do you put in this? It's really good." George complimented, hastily stuffing more of the potatoes into his mouth without having finished chewing the last bite.
Clay, unlike George, finished chewing before answering, "Momma's secret recipe," he pointed at George with his fork, "nothing beats it."
George nodded, "Not going to disagree." The two ate in silence, the dining room only being filled with the sounds of forks clanking onto the plate. George wiped his face with a napkin, looking at his plate. It was so cleaned off of food that it looked like it had been washed.
Clay finished his food a couple minutes after him. He had been more of a slower eater, and wasn't that hungry. "I can wash that plate for you," Clay got up to grab the plate and he saw how empty it was, "although I'm unsure it needs washing."
George looked at him apologetically, but Clay smiled to insure that he meant no sting in that statement. He watched as Clay took the plate to the sink, and stayed sitting at the table alone with his thoughts. With the sound of the sink as background noise, he glanced at Clay, who was humming a song while washing the dishes. He smiled to himself, how was this man not in a relationship?
He immediately shook the thought, wondering why it came to him in the first place. He could have been in one, and it was inconsiderate of him to assume he wasn't. All of that aside, they never talked about anything personal anyway, so he'd have had no way of knowing. There cou-
"Need anything?" Clay had asked. George hadn't noticed that Clay was looking at him now, eyebrows raised.
George fixed his posture, "What?" He asked.
"Oh," Clay dried a plate with a towel before putting it on the dish rack, "you were staring."
A look of false clueless-ness replaced George's expression, "Had I b-been?" He asked, "I tend to do that a lot. Apologies."
"Apologies." Clay mocked playfully in a horrible impression of George's accent, "You're so formal." He chuckled.
"Well you're always mocking my accent." George countered, and Clay furrowed his brow.
"Always?" Clay asked in confusion, "This is the first time I've done it."
The two stared at each other for a second before George spoke, "Must have you mixed up with someone else, then."
"I'm sure you have." Clay agreed.
---
Dream sniggered a little, which confused George as to what he found funny, '"Quite lasting effects."' Dream mimicked in a horrible impression of a British accent, "I like that."
George held the phone in his hand, smiling to himself. He twisted the cord around his finger while he spoke, but felt it disappearing. He looked down, the cord's wiring was burning and suddenly what was left of it was cut.
He was alone in darkness and silence, holding the end of the phone that was detached from the body.
He spoke into it, "Dream?" He called worriedly, "Dream? Answer me ple-"
George awoke with a jolt, a pain searing the space between his eyebrows. He pulled out a packet of ibuprofens and took them with water, hoping the ache would ease.
"Speed bump," Wilbur announced, "sorry for that."
George rubbed his eyes with the edge of his palm. Tommy was leaning against him, asleep, while Dave was busy texting somebody on his phone. Dave was reading the phone for a while before smiling and rapidly typing back. Seeing Dave happy made him happy, but he was also severely jealous. He remembered when a phone used to make him smile like that.
He tried to shake the thought, not wanting to ruin the trip by being so down. This vacation was to unwind and enjoy living life, like Dream's last request had been.
A week prior, he had called Karl for advice on how to maintain the Calendula flower in his home if he was going to be away. Karl told him to speak no more and give him his address, and he'd take care of it himself.
He couldn't bear parting with the flower, but there was no way he could bring it with him.
"The flowers are you and me." Dream once said when he explained how things had to stay in their own place.
Nonetheless, he trusted Karl. Though he couldn't check in with him since Karl did not know how to text.
Niki turned to look at the three of them in the backseat, she smiled and rubbed Tommy's arm before looking at George, "We're almost here."
At that sentence, Tommy awoke, looking out the window. "Are we going to ride rides today?" He asked his mom, who shook her head sadly.
"We're only checking in to the hotel today, Tom." Niki explained, "But we will tomorrow."
"Can I use your phone to call Tubbo later? I want to tell him." He pleaded with puppy dog eyes.
"Sure, Tommy." Niki smiled in agreement, and Tommy celebrated by throwing his arms in the air.
Wilbur and Niki had both been easier on Tommy since Dream's death. Wilbur dreaded the afternoon where he had to sit Tommy down and tell him that grandpa wasn't coming home. It broke his heart more than anything since the two had just gotten close. Tommy ran to his room, refusing to talk to anyone but Tubbo. Wilbur immediately knew it was a mistake to promise Tommy that Dream would come back only to break it. He just made things worse.
They had dropped their car off in the valet in front of the hotel. George helped Wilbur carry all the luggage. Dave's phone had died, and he groaned as he trudged his way into the hotel.
George was talking with Tommy about their favourite Disney characters when suddenly George caught sight of the planters outside of the hotel next to the revolving door.
Calendulas. Over a dozen of them along with other flowers lined up beautifully across the planters like a bouquet dropped from the sky.
Tommy was speaking to him, but he had unknowingly tuned him out. His eyes started to become glossy with tears, trying to turn away but finding himself staring.
Dream really was everywhere. There was no escape from him.
It was the universe mocking him. Telling him that somewhere out there, in another life (as Dream had said), things had ended up working out.
He just had to be in the one where Dream was gone.
---
"I'm here!" Clay called from the living room, and George walked toward the sound. Clay looked at him, wondering why he had called.
His smile faded when he saw George rubbing at his temples again. "Another headache?" He got up and walked over to George worriedly.
George nodded, but the movement just burned the pain even more.
Seeds
He saw seeds.
His hands were covered in dirt as he groaned. This shouldn't be that hard to do.
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
A man was watching his struggle, and walked toward him.
The rest of the conversation was a blur, he couldn't understand anything.
His mouth was moving, but not of his own accord.
Then his hand.
His hand rose without his control, as if being pulled up by a string.
His hand shook the other man's hand.
"-name is Wilbur So-" The man's voice came out broken and cut off, and his face was covered in some sort of black censor that prevented any visual insight on his appearance.
"Wilbur?" George had repeated out loud.
"What?" Clay had his hand on George's shoulder, holding him steady.
"Wilbur." He repeated unknowingly.
"Who's that?" Clay asked, "Is it someone you remember?"
George shook his head, "Yes." He replied, "N-no. I don't know." He was stuttering over his words, each sentence killing his brain more than the last.
Clay shrugged, "Well it's a nice name." He tried to make him feel better, but George still seemed to be crumbling. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault." George reassured, slowly regaining his balance. "I've been such a pain."
Clay rolled his eyes, "Stop with that. No you haven't."
"I've stayed at your house for days, eating your food, using your clothes. Why do you do it? Why have you helped me so much?" George asked, and Clay thought for a moment.
"I told you," Clay began, "I'd have wanted someone to do it for me."
George nodded, the ache almost completely gone now. "Thank you."
Clay looked him in his eye, something unfamiliar washing over him. "O-of course."
He led George to the couch, where he showed him his plans for the design of Patches' house. It had eased them both a little bit. George made suggestions, Clay thought he had great ideas, asking him if he wanted to help work on it the next day.
George agreed, before bidding the man goodnight and falling asleep in the guest room peacefully