Chapter Text
Have you ever sat, staring at the vast openness of the world around you? Ever thought about how small it makes you? Have you ever truly thought about all of the space in the world; so much, yet so little all at once. People run into long-lost acquaintances at the grocery store; laugh and say “it’s a small world after all!” and on their way they go, the meeting in its core nothing but a bit of spice in their day. Nothing but something to tell the family about, if there is a family waiting for you when you open your door, bags in hand.
But the world isn’t small. It’s not small at all; countries and continents stretch across a vast mass of water on a planet in a galaxy that’s beyond our comprehension, in a universe that stretches forever, on and on into nothingness. In that regard, when presented with the concept of infinite void in all directions, perhaps Earth is small. But when you’re Dream, when you’re just a small man with a small corner of land in a large state in an even bigger country, Earth is the vastness beyond comprehension.
When one of your best friends lived states away for so long, the distance between everything seems to amplify yet decrease all at once. The drive to the grocery store seems long in the moment. It feels like wasted time, which only makes it seem longer. Does anyone really pay attention when they’re driving to somewhere they’ve been hundreds of times before? The time and space in the car just gives you a moment to breathe; it’s nothing to focus or put energy into, other than internally complain about the time it sucks out of your day. But when you think about the drive it must be to somewhere like, say, Texas; the grocery store trip seems short as a blink, and just as unconscious.
But perspective is a very funny thing. The space between Florida and Texas had felt long, yes, but then imagine the space between continents. America and the United Kingdom? It’s very far. And there’s zero debate about it. Dream has nothing to compare it to; there’s no one he cares about and no thing he cares about that is further away than George. He might as well be on the complete other side of the world, rather than the other side of an ocean.
Now there really was no comparison, even one that was smaller. Sapnap moved in with him, and as much as Dream was thankful for the extra company, it made the guest room that was across the hall from Sap’s room all that more melancholy. And...anxiety inducing, knowing who it was there for. Knowing it wasn’t a guest room at all—knowing it already had an inhabitant, just one that couldn’t be present yet.
It was on a night like tonight that Dream finally came to terms with the thing he’d been repressing and denying for over three years, under the same starry sky in the big-yet-small city of Orlando. He sat almost in this same spot, on a dock with his feet dangling and slowly kicking in the water, staring at an identical sky when he allowed himself to say the simple words “I love him” out loud for the first time. At first it was suffocating; the confession felt taboo and horrible, like the balance of the Earth itself had shifted. And then there was a gust of wind, and it carried the words away, and took the suffocation with it.
Sometimes, Dream wondered how far those words really traveled. He wondered how many ears “I love him” had passed through in a quiet, cool whisper that stirred hair and raised goosebumps on skin. Sometimes, Dream wondered if it drifted all the way to England. He wondered if George ever heard it. Wondered if he ever thought twice about it. Wondered if he knew.
That was a year ago now. He wondered how much the stars had changed since then, if they’d changed at all. It felt like the world was always changing—every day there was something new. Every week it felt like there was a new technological advancement, an iPhone seventy-nine, a new even slimmer laptop with all the RAM you could ever need, a pair of headphones with even better noise cancellation and even better bass boosts. Dream could hardly keep up with it all—how could anyone? The rest of the world felt like a hurricane, nothing was ever the same longer than a few days.
Except for one thing.
Dream stands at the edge of the dock now, the same one he’d first breathed his confession to—the only witness—and he slowly eased himself down. He sat, and slowly lowered his feet into the water. Deja vu screamed in his head, and he let a nostalgic smile take over his features. He’d known, even years before the words were ever spoken, that he was in love with George. Friends don’t think about other friends the way he thought about George.
Of course everyone around him noticed it, too. Twitter was one thing—they shipped anyone with anyone else that so much as breathed in their direction. That was Dream’s defense for a long, long time; that Twitter would ship anyone with anyone and say that Dream had just as much chemistry with a rock as he does with George. But it reached a new level when his friends started asking questions. Even Sapnap had asked. He’d told them no, but he couldn’t ignore the gentle prodding that settled low in his chest— was he in love with him? Would he even know?
He’d pushed it aside for years. Pretended hushed laughs and spreading warmth in his chest, in his cheeks—it was nothing. Ignored the fact that no one else made him feel like this, and hadn’t in a long, long time. And even then, it hadn’t quite felt like this. Hadn’t felt this right. It should be criminal how right it felt for being so wrong. But what he ignored more than anything was the times he felt similar to this, he was dating the person. He was in love with them.
Falling in love with your best friend. That’s a recipe for disaster, and Dream knew it. Falling in love with your straight best friend? Well, that might as well be suicide. Though, in his defense, Dream hadn’t really ever asked outright. How do you just ask that anyways? Isn’t that suspicious? It was none of his business, unless he was in love with him or something, and...no, definitely not, right?
Wrong. Dream was hopelessly in love with George, and he realized it every time George’s face lit up when he joined a Discord call. He realized it every time George said his name, full to the brim with excitement. He realized it when George did as Dream asked without question, no matter what it was. Perhaps he abuses that last one a little bit—but George allowed it, so Dream kept taking and taking. George never said to stop. So Dream never did.
“Wet your hair, George.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it,” Dream said between quiet giggles and giddy grins. George was streaming right now to the largest audience he’d ever had, and they’d just finished up his very first (and long awaited) cooking stream. He was stalling for time now, waiting for Karl to go live so he had someone to raid, and thankfully Dream had joined to keep him company.
“But I don’t understand why—”
“Maybe there doesn’t have to be a why,” Dream bargained. “Maybe you should just trust me.”
That seemed to work, because George let out a begrudging sigh. “Dream…”
“Trust me,” the blond begged. “I promise, it’ll be fine.”
George sighed again—rather dramatic, wasn’t he? It made Dream smile—before turning towards his sink. He ducked his head underneath the stream of water, shaking it about so that the droplets coated every strand. He finally pulled his head out from under the tap, groaning as the water ran down his face and into his eyes. Dream giggled quietly when George shook his head like a dog, and the droplets went everywhere. He glanced at the camera, staring at himself on the tiny screen. “I look like a wet dog!”
“Just shook like one, too,” Dream wheezed quietly, leaning forward in his chair. “Fluff it up a bit more.”
“Why? What is your obsession?” George was grinning now too, and that familiar warmth spread through Dream’s chest again. He was staring right into the camera. If Dream really focused, it was almost like George truly was standing in front of him right now...even if it was four in the morning for the blond, and nine in the morning for George. Another surge of warmth ran through him at the acknowledgement of their synced sleeping schedules. He smiled, and he just knew without looking that he had that dopey, lovesick look written all across his features.
This was getting pathetic.
“Trust me,” Dream reiterated. “You’ve done this much already, you might as well just see it through.”
George shook his head and rolled his eyes, before shaking out his head properly again and combing his hands through it. Dream swallowed, hooking the skin of his bottom lip between his teeth and suppressing the growing smile. “Yeah, like that,” Dream praised. And he glanced up at his viewer count. “See?”
“What? See what?” George asked, still sweeping damp strands of hair away from his eyes.
“Your viewer count, George. You just gained almost two-hundred viewers just from doing that,” Dream told the Brit, and a wheeze slipped through his teeth when George’s jaw practically dragged on the floor, collecting lint as he made his way over towards his laptop.
“No way. No f—friggin’ way.”
“Were you about to say a bad word, George?”
“No! I—”
“This is your streamer?” Dream was having the time of his life. “You’ve got a filthy-mouthed British fuck for a streamer? Wait, shit—”
“Dream!”
Dream let out another loud wheeze, leaning back in his chair and wrapping an arm around his stomach as he laughed. George looked almost like he was pouting as he marched back in front of the camera, still fussing with his damp hair. “I had styled it and everything, god, why do I listen to you—”
“Because I know what the people want. I’m—” Dream snorted to himself at the reference that wormed into his brain, “I am the Dream, I speak for the viewers.”
“That was awful,” George said, but he laughed anyway.
Dream’s smile grew so fond it almost hurt. He could feel the affection dripping from his eyes as he stared at the screen as he spoke, “and you say you don’t have pretty privilege.”
It was risky. But not risky enough to cause a scene. “What? You sound like a Twitter stan now.”
“Maybe Twitter stans are right.”
“That’s a bold generalization to make.”
“Right about this, anyway,” Dream corrected quickly.
“I don’t think so,” George laughed awkwardly, and Dream soaked in the way his cheeks grew pink and he looked anywhere but at the camera, as if subconsciously avoiding Dream’s gaze. Did he feel like Dream was here, just like Dream could almost convince himself George was in his kitchen right now? Did he want to be?
“No?” Dream tips his head, smiling thinly. “If you don’t have pretty privilege, then why’d your views skyrocket when you wet your hair?”
“Because—because people like weird content, I don’t know!” The Brit spluttered out, and Dream’s smile softened impossibly more.
The words felt like honey rising in his throat, coating his words and coaxing them out as he said, “you’re so—” and stopped himself. That was too risky. There was an unspoken line in the sand, even for them, and that was crossing it. “You’re such an idiot,” he muttered instead, the words still laced with sugary sweetness and he tacked on a quiet laugh at the end for good measure.
That was the first time he almost slipped up. And another reason he’d forced himself not to admit he was in love with George at all; if he did, that meant all of his words had a new and deeper meaning. Before, he could say whatever he wanted and write it off as a joke and mean it. Now? Well, there was no one else that knew it had shifted but him. He knew. He knew it shifted. He knew what his words truly meant. Even though nothing really changed, things now felt off-limits. Which was arguably more suspicious, whenever he backtracked or tried to cover his tracks of something he almost said.
It was all so confusing. So fucking difficult.
And it has remained confusing and difficult, even now. Every time Dream thinks maybe, just maybe he’s getting over all of this—George has to do something else that makes Dream slide down the slippery slope of adoration even further. He wasn’t sure it was possible for any one person to be so passionate about another, yet here he is. He proves himself more and more wrong every day.
He dips his feet into the water and sighs at the cold, tipping his head back up to look at the stars again. The world was a hurricane, but George stood bold and proud and unmoving, right in the eye. Everything else crumbled. All else failed. George remained, unwavering and true. A constant. One of the only ones. No matter what else happened, Dream could always count on George and these never changing feelings of his. It was a blessing as much as it was a curse. At least he always had something and someone to fall back on when everything else fell out of his control.
He’d gone over the idea of telling him a few times over the course of his four year long pining, and every time he shut it down before it began to snowball. Telling George wouldn’t do anything but make things more awkward and complicated. The last thing he wants is to lose his only constant for good and have everything spiral away from him until he’s nothing but a spectator in his own life—even if he felt like that already sometimes.
The world was too big and too small, but no matter how you spin it, George was always too far away. He wondered a few times if having George present with him would do harm, or do good. Maybe if George was awkward and stiff and weird in person, Dream could move on. But deep down the blond knew that wouldn’t happen. Even if George was a bit awkward around other people, no one else had the type of connection that they had. Dream knew George would be touchy in person, and that would only make things worse.
Sometimes, on nights where Dream’s imagination was hyperactive and cruel, he lured himself down the dangerous rabbit hole of just how touchy George would be. He wondered how far things would go. Wondered if they’d test the limits—wondered what limits there were to test. There shouldn’t be any in the first place, right? Best friends don’t have to worry about these kinds of things. And it all looped around. Dream’s mind was nothing but cruel.
He’d pretended things were normal for as long as he could. He still tries to pretend things are normal, but they aren’t, and he knows it. He knows everything shifted. He knows he has to do something about it, but fuck if he knows what. He wants this all to come to a head already—have something happen they can’t just ignore or not talk about. He wants an end to this, somehow. But he’s not ready to accept that end might be the end of all things; the end of them. He’s not sure what’s worse, continuing on like this forever with no closure, hoping these feelings would just one day fade away as quickly as they appeared, or...lose George entirely.
His eyes trial back downwards, staring at his feet as they continue to kick in the murky water. His phone dings in his pocket. He pulls it out, and who else would it be?
(4:01am) George: Are we on for manhunt recording today?
Dream almost wants to laugh. Of course George texts him now, and of course it’s about something that has nothing to do with any of this. That’s just the way it goes. Sometimes he wondered if George had an instinct for this kind of thing; if he felt when Dream missed him most and chose then to strike up a conversation.
(4:01am) Dream: if u wanna, i have everything set up
(4:02am) George: Wait why are you awake, it’s super late for you
(4:02am) Dream: technically it’s early
(4:02am) Dream: so
(4:02am) Dream: get fucked
There’s a pause for a moment, where the familiar George is typing… stares him in the face, and then goes away. It pops back up for a second, then goes away again. Dream grins at the silence, and he can practically see George’s eyebrows knit, staring at his phone as he tries to decide whether to come up with a comeback or be worried for Dream’s wellbeing. The choice is made clear.
(4:04am) George: What are you doing up, Dream?
(4:04am) Dream: loaded question
(4:04am) George: We have time
(4:04am) Dream: how much
(4:05am) George: As much as you need
(4:05am) Dream: do we?
(4:05am) George: Why wouldn’t we?
Dream glanced up from his phone, staring at the waves as they almost pushed over the dock. The tide was starting to get worse as the wind picked up. He figures he doesn’t have much time left before his ass is gonna get soaked if he stays seated here any longer. He knows this, yet he still doesn’t move. He had more important matters in his hands, and that is his phone. The closest to George he can possibly get.
What is he meant to say, though? How’s he supposed to explain that he came out here because he can’t stop thinking about him, and how badly he wants everything to be different? Is he supposed to tell him he’s angry? Not at George. Never at George. He’s angry at the world for setting him up for failure and heartbreak.
(4:09am) Dream: idk
It’s simple enough. He locks his phone again and sighs, looking back down at the water. Everything smells just as it looks; murky, moldy, wet. The moon’s reflection glares back at him, as if he’d done something wrong. Maybe he had. Maybe he is. Maybe he always has. Would he even know? He feels like he doesn’t know anything for certain anymore, except that he’s bound to get hurt no matter what path they go down.
George is insistent. His phone doesn’t stop buzzing for ten minutes. He sets out to ignore it, not wanting to crave him or miss him any more in that moment than he already does, but he’s a weak man, and George is his kryptonite. He lifts it again and sees various messages of spam, most of them just being random letters or numbers until he knew that Dream would pick up the phone again. And, of course, as with most things, George was right.
(4:21am) Dream: jesus i’m not dead chill
(4:21am) Dream: i’m just thinking a lot
(4:21am) Dream: it’s probably stupid idk
(4:21am) Dream: i don’t need to drag you down with my shit
(4:22am) Dream: you probably just woke up you don’t need this rn
(4:22am) Dream: i’ll be okay anyway don’t worry about it
(4:22am) Dream: i mean i’m fine not that i’ll be okay i am okay bc there’s nothing wrong. logic
(4:22am) George: Dream, what’s going on?
Before he can stop himself, he types out a message. It stares back at him where it rests, unsent, only a click away from ruining everything. From fucking it all up. There it sits, and it reads: my dumbass fell in love with you, that’s what’s going on. that’s what’s been going on for four years. haven’t you noticed? did you ever care to look? do you even care about me at all?
He bites his lip. The words feel like knives in his own chest, and he knows he’ll never send them. Even if in some alternative timeline he does tell George about these feelings, it’d never be like that. He’d never blame George. It really isn’t his fault. He’s the one that got weak and cared about him too much. This is all his fault, just like everything always is.
He feels a heaviness settling into his chest, like an anchor. It’s so strong; he almost wants to fall into the sea and let this shell of a body sink to the floor. Watch the air bubble out of his lungs and float towards the surface, leaving the rest of him behind. There he’d be lost forever, eventually forgotten, nothing but a distant memory of a tragic loss to an even more tragic, unrequited love.
Instead, his limbs turn to lead, and there he sits on that damn dock, staring at his phone as it shakes in his hands. George is concerned, Dream hasn’t done well to give him reason not to be. The message still sets unsent yet ready, a click away. He could fuck everything up so easily. He almost wants to, just to put an end to it all. This could be the head that it all comes to; he could make it, right here, right now.
Instead, he backspaces. Instead, he types.
(4:24am) Dream: i’ll see u at the manhunt recording ok? if i’m late tell the others i’m sleeping
(4:24am) George: Dream, I’m worried
(4:25am) Dream: no need to be. i’m ok :) just need some sleep to clear my head. gn george
(4:25am) George: Dream…
But Dream doesn’t budge.
(4:25am) Dream: gn george don’t be shy say it back
A pause.
(4:26am) George: Goodnight, Dream.
A breath of relief. He wonders if that, too, is caught by the wind and carried far enough that George hears it. And again, he’s left wondering if George would care at all.
The trip back to his house always felt like a walk of shame. Sliding into his cars, keys rattling in his palm as he slides them into the ignition. He leans back in his chair and lets out a long sigh, letting his eyelids slip close as his car blows cool air at him through the vents. He was tired, but not in the sense that he couldn’t drive—plus, he was already here. He drove here, he can’t just call an Uber now.
He finally sits back up and straightens himself, raking a hand through messy, dirty blond locks and puts a foot against the brake pedal, sliding his gear into reverse and beginning on his way. He backs out of the parking space, exits the pier, and on the highway he goes.
It’s another moment that he gets wrapped up in his head. It’s another moment that he thinks about space and distance; knows that no matter what, George will never feel this close to him. Even if somehow George did get to Florida (scheduling conflicts made it seem impossible for the foreseeable future), Dream still thinks he’d never feel this close to him. George will always be kept at arm's length so Dream doesn’t worry about fucking anything up. All he can do is hope George won’t hate him for it.
Finally, before he even really realized where he was going, he slid the car back into park and sat back again. He was home. The drive was only about a half hour, but it always felt longer. Today it felt short, too caught up in his head. He glances at the clock that glared blurry numbers back at him, all but screaming that he should be asleep. But he isn’t.
He trudges back into the house, letting the door shut behind him. He hears a gentle mewl at his feet and smiles, leaning down to scoop Patches into his arms. “Hi, baby,” he coos in a soft voice, pressing a gentle kiss between her ears. “You keep Sapanp in check while I was gone? Hm?” He smiles when she gives an adamant meow back, and he raises a hand to scratch under her chin. “Good girl, thank you.”
Her tail gently wraps around his forearm, as if somehow telling him not to leave again. His smile softens at the edges and he shakes his head. “Don’t worry, I’m here. I’ll stay up with you, too, how’s that?” He murmurs as he carries her around the kitchen, filling a measuring cup with water and kneeling down at her dish to fill it. He stands back up and heads into the pantry, and Patches is already wriggling in his arm. He grins at her. “Yeah, you know what time it is, don’t you? You hungry, girl?” She gives another mew, and Dream’s smile widens. “Okay, baby, I’ll get you some food.” He plunges the measuring cup into the bag of food and brings it out, kneeling beside the dishes again and pouring it into the opposite bowl.
Patches hops from his arms and lands with grace on the floor, lowering her head to begin eating. Dream shifts his position to sit beside her, letting his hand smooth over her back as she hastily chews down the food. “Is Sap asleep, Patchy?” Dream asks, knowing she isn’t capable of answering. “He probably is, isn’t he? That's good,” Dream leans back against the counter, letting his head fall against the wood with a quiet sigh.
Patches takes a break from eating to tip her head back and look at him. She tilts it quizzically, as if sensing something’s wrong. She swallows down the food in her mouth before giving another insistent meow. Dream’s eyelids open (he wasn’t aware he’d closed them. He supposes the fatigue was taking over.) and he smiles at her. “What? What’s up?” Patches mews again, sitting down as if staking out. Dream laughs quietly, “what?” He says again, smiling impossibly wide when Patches stands back up and rubs against his side. She lay down this time with her chin on his leg, and Dream combs his fingers through her fur with a soft sigh. “‘s alright, sweetheart. I’m okay.”
He wasn’t sure he’d believe himself, either.
When he was sure she was finished eating and drinking for now, he scoops her back into his arms and heads towards his bedroom. “I know I said I’d stay up, but I think I need to sleep or I’ll be scatterbrained for the recording later. Can’t let the hunters win, can I? No I can’t.”
She meows again, as if she’s so interested in what he has to say when in reality he knows she understands none of it. He appreciates the effort anyhow. He slides under the covers, leaving the door cracked for her in case she needs to leave while he’s passed out, and lays down on his back. She curls up happily on his chest, and he’s about to fall asleep when he feels something hard pressed against his hip. He groans, figuring that Sapnap tossed the remote somewhere when he came in here to watch T.V. (even though there was a perfectly good one in the living room, he insisted this one was better), before realizing it was his phone.
He really is tired. He pulls it out again, sees a few more texts from George while he was driving. He pays them no mind now, he’s too tired to think about it. So he just drops the phone beside him and closes his eyes. In what feels like less than a second, the fatigue claims him and drags him under the blanket of sleep.