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“Well, orange, that’s like… Shut up.”
George snickers, holding his hands up and making a mocking face, his mouth wide. “I didn’t even say anything. You shut up.”
“I’m doing this for you, you…” Muffinhead is the only word that pops into his brain, but he’d never hear the end of it if he said it, so he holds his tongue. “Orange is kind of like red.”
“Cool. Helpful, Dream,” George drawls, rolling his eyes to the point where it looks like it should hurt. Dream shoves his shoulder and his best friend stumbles before recovering enough to shove him back. “I thought you were supposed to be the brains of this duo.”
Dream fixes him with a look, all narrowed-eyes and scrunched up features. Like he’s studying him. “We’re both the brains of this duo, what d’you mean? Don’t sell yourself short.”
“Are you calling me short, dude?” And the shoving match is back on. It’s so… childish. Night is falling quickly and they’re standing on some unprotected treetop and messing with each other like they can afford to. Like they should be able to afford to.
Dream shakes his head, batting away at the nostalgia that’s threatening to creep in. George’s hands return to his side the moment he does so, managing to detect the shift in mood. There’s a pregnant pause that George breaks when he softly says, “Okay, back to orange.”
“Right. Um.” He takes a shaky breath. Why does this feel so important? It’s just another day. It’s just George. “Well, red is like… when you’re fighting a skeleton and an arrow gets in-between the cracks of your armor. Or when we’re underground and you can feel the heat radiating off of the lava. There’s intensity in red. Orange has the same warmth, but it’s… a bit softer. It’s not terrifying. It’s more comforting. It’s like… taking a warm bath. It’s when we splurge a few emeralds on pumpkin pie and take a break from, well, whatever it is we’re doing and just relax. That’s orange.”
“Huh.” Dream steals a glance of his best friend. His sunglasses are pushed up, nestled in his hair. The glow of the sun is bathing his face in orange light. It feels like the beginning of something meaningful. Or maybe it’s the middle of something meaningful. His sword is dangling at his side, held in a loose grip. It catches some of the light and reflects it back. It hurts to look. “I like orange.”
Dream looks back at the sunset. Some of the stars are forming faintly. “The sun itself…” He clears his throat. “The sun, that’s yellow. That’s… when we get blaze rods and crush them into powder and know we have exactly enough to find the stronghold. Or when we come across diamonds without even looking for them. It’s… happy. In a delirious, overwhelming way."
George has drifted closer. Their shoulders are nearly brushing. His sword is now strapped across his back, his hands free, fingers wiggling as though he was itching to hold onto something. Like he needs an anchor. Dream understands. He feels like he’s drifting out to sea and if he doesn’t act fast, it’ll be over. He doesn’t know what it refers to.
Something’s changed. When did it change? Has it always been different and Dream is only seeing it now? George is still George. He’s still a bit weird and hyper and annoying and loud. He’s nearly gotten Dream killed thousands of times. They’ve had some serious arguments before. And they’d have serious arguments again.
But he also listens when Dream chatters endlessly about his plans and strategy and other things, more inane things, stupid, late-night conversation things. And helps him in every adventure. They’ve spent pretty much every waking hour together for as long as he could remember. They’ve been through so, so much. And George… there’s a sharper edge to him that wasn’t there before. Like he was hiding behind smudged glass, and Dream finally got around to wiping the dirt away.
A gentle nudge to his side jerks him out of his thoughts. George is grinning, his nose scrunched up. “I think, correct me if I'm wrong, that there’s more than just two colors in the sunset.”
“Right.” His voice is so scratchy all of a sudden. He coughs into a hand and notices that it’s shaking. But… nothing is wrong. There’s no danger. “Er, well, it gets… purple-y around the edges. Purple… huh, that one’s tough. I feel like you don’t see purple that often.”
“It’s almost like I never see purple.” George’s sentence devolves into a snort at the end. A laugh is ripped out of Dream’s chest.
“I’m trying, dude! I promise. Purple… it’s a finality. It’s finally finishing that big accomplishment you set out to do. It’s feeling victorious. A bit singed, but strong. Capable.” The sun is dipping lower and lower. From a distance, Dream hears the rattling breath of a zombie. It’s far off. But they don’t have all the time in the world. Not for the first time, he wishes things could be different. He wishes they lived in a safer world. One where they wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. Ever again. Where his recklessness didn’t potentially have serious consequences. Where they weren’t being hunted.
“Is there anything else?” George’s voice is so soft. Dream looks at him and finds that he’s looking back. His brown eyes are radiant in the light. The orange makes them look…spectacular. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away.
“There’s the dark blue where it fades into black. Eventually. And dark blue…” Dream frowns, letting his sentence die in his mouth. “You can see that, can’t you?”
There’s the smallest of smiles on George’s face when he says, “Tell me anyways.”
Dream obliges. Of course he does; it’s George. “That’s… Dark blue, that’s losing something irreplaceable. It’s also sitting in the middle of the ocean. Perfect solitude. It’s saying goodbye for the last time.”
The sun is barely visible above the water. Darkness is creeping in. Dream spots a spider scuttling around on a nearby tree. In about five minutes, they need to be on the move. But he couldn’t bring himself to move, even if he wanted to. Not when George is looking at him like... however he's looking at him.
The silence that follows is almost uncomfortable. Dream feels like he should say something else, but no words formulate completely. Only letters swirl around his head. Glimpses of thoughts and questions and ‘what-ifs?’ that he’s not nearly careless enough to explore. He doesn’t think twice about leaping over lava or falling from a great height or charging into battle. He can handle injury and monsters. But his friendship with George? That is something to be handled carefully. It’s to be nestled into a safe spot close to his heart and never disturbed. And Dream feels like if he makes a wrong move, there's a chance it could shatter into a million pieces.
“I think orange would be my favorite. If I could see colors. I wish I could see them the way you do. Everything looks… drab. From my perspective, at least.” George’s voice is so wistful it almost hurts to listen to. Dream laughs because he doesn’t know what else to say. The moment is slipping away. They’re moving back to the mundane. To relative safety. Back to their never-ending adventure. George sucks in a breath and blows it out, casting his eyes skyward. The stars are getting brighter and brighter. “Except for you. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Dream echoes, but it comes out bewildered instead of boastful. His heart stutters and kicks into overdriving, beating as though it’s fixing to jump right out of body and bleed out on the foliage. George has closed his eyes, a grimace on his face. It looks out of place. Cautiously, Dream continues. “I mean. I’m sure it’s nothing in comparison to you. How you look, I mean.” The words sound stupid and garbled as they fall out of his mouth. They scatter at George’s feet. Dream winces.
George lets out a little laugh before turning to face his best friend. “We should get going. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” Dream can’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. He compensates by nodding furiously and drawing his sword. “Yeah, we should get to shelter. Make a little hide-y hole or whatever.” He focuses his gaze on the mottled green of a creeper about fifteen feet away. It hasn’t noticed them yet. Maybe, if he’s careful, he can behead it without it even threatening to blow up. He focuses on strategy instead of wishing for something he doesn’t even know. What does he want? Why does he feel so dismayed over it? How can he feel so upset over something he doesn’t understand?
“Dream.” Dream looks away from the monster. George’s face is blank. “Dream,” he says, with a little more sharpness. Frustration starts bubbling in his gut. He’s so confused and he has a feeling that talking to George is only going to make this worse. He doesn’t even understand himself. How could he help George with whatever he wants?
“What?” He snaps. George’s eyes widen, but the smile never drops from his face.
“Alrighty, then. No need to bite my head off,” he says, his tone dripping in fondness. Dream scowls, but George keeps talking before he can walk away. “I s’pose I need to do everything myself, huh?” Dream’s about to ask what his good mood is for and what the fuck he’s talking about, but he forgets everything when he feels George’s lips on his own.
If his heart was erratic before, it’s absolutely tumultuous now. He can feel it in his ears, in the base of his throat, in his hands that wrap around George’s waist as his friend’s arms wrap around his neck. This is orange, he wants to say, but George won’t let him and he doesn’t want George to let him. He wants to drown himself in him, in this feeling of explosions and uninterrupted joy and bliss and… Dream stops thinking. He doesn't need to anymore.
They separate. Even in the darkness, Dream can see the flush lighting up the tips of George’s ears, his cheeks. Their noses are mere centimeters apart. They’re wrapped around each other. It’s… it’s the nicest Dream’s felt in ages.
“How’d you describe that one, Dream?” George says, his eyes dancing. Dream groans and backs away.
“You’ve ruined it. You just went and ruined it.” He can’t stop smiling.
“Did I?” Glee is leaking out of every word George says. He sounds so smug. Dream could kill him. “You think so?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dream grumbles, taking his hand and entwining their fingers. “We can walk like this until you nearly get yourself killed by something.”
“And then you’ll save me, oh warrior of mine?” George pitches his voice high and bats his eyelashes. “My savior! What would I do without you, Dreamypoo?”
“Literally shut up.” George doesn’t. And Dream doesn’t mind.