Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Dream can't talk.

He can never really explain why, but there will be times, every couple months in a good year, where he simply can't get words out. It's not a word finding problem— although he does struggle with that on occasion— but he'll simply open his mouth, and no words come out. His thoughts will race, and he'll form complete paragraphs that we wants to say, but he simply... can't.

It's confusing. It's painful too. When he can't talk, minutes stretch into hours. Sometimes he can type, but it's usually in broken grammar and riddled with spelling errors. Any proper reactions that Dream would have normally, he cannot process. All he can do is sit staring at a wall, a hand on patches the only thing that grounds him.

He hates it.

~

When he woke up this morning, he did not expect to spend the entire day staring at the wall, unable to speak.  He woke up with plans to hop on the SMP to mine for gold to trade with Piglins, and possibly bother Tommy.  He needed mass amounts of gold so that he could trade for obsidian for... personal reasons.  After all, as the hegemonic power of the server, he needed some form on threat and he thought that placing obsidian walls around L'manberg, if needed, would be funny.

After waking up to bits of sunlights streaming through his blinds, he rolled over and immediately opened twitter.

Aster checking the usual tweets from his friends, Dream went to check his mentions to interact with his fans. 

And that's where things went downhill.

The immediate tweets that came up were about his manhunt videos.  Someone had claimed that it was impossible for him to get enough iron to entity cram in enough minecarts to kill George.  But it was possible!  He knew, because he had done it.  He had never cheated or scripted anything for the plot, and although he'd never admit it, he couldn't handle it that people thought he would.

He was an honest man!  It had taken his friends a long time to get full diamond, and thus he had plenty of time to mine for iron.  Additionally, he was able to find a ravine and a good cave system, so that iron was abundant and he'd crafted enough furnaces to smelt everything quickly.  There was absolutely no reason to doubt him.  It wasn't his fault that other people weren't good at the game.  It was like the horse thing all over again; he was simply good at the game, and practice allowed him to pull off the stunts that everyone saw in the videos.

He realized he was about a thousand characters over the tweet limit in an explanation, and slowly taped on the "save as draft" function.  His drafts were completely full of rants such as today's about how he would never fake anything, but he rarely ever sent them.  Every one of those drafts was written in a varying state of distress, sometimes in numbing rage, others while he was having a complete breakdown, the status of which could usually be assumed by his typos. 

In many of these breakdowns, Dream would call George— that was why he had his number, and George would always respond if it was out of the blue.  When Dream had announced that he would stop streaming manhunt videos, it was after a four hour while call with George that both started and ended with Dream sobbing.  He simply couldn't take the people constantly attacking his every move, and after a point it had gotten to be too much. 

In the back of his mind, Dream knew why he was like this.  As someone with ADHD, he also had rejection-sensitive-dysphoria, or RSD, as a symptom of it, meaning that he took mild criticisms way harder and way more personally than the average person.  While most content creators could just brush off a few unfounded allegations of scripting a Minecraft video, Dream took every single tweet as a personal attack to both his work and his entire sense of self-worth.  This lead to him going in-depth on stream to prove that his manhunt videos were legit, going on a 30 minute rant full of barley contained rage at a person who had complied bullshit "allegations" into a short youtube video for views.  Afterwards, he often felt bad for going so hard on someone who likley had good intentions, but dream couldn't stop himself.  Occasionally George could get him to stop, but for the most part the twitter character limit did it for him, as all his justifications were made entirely on impulse and adrenaline.

His unpublished twitter rant left his hands shaking and breathing slightly labored, as he tapped open discord to check on the server news for today.

Hey guys, Tommy had written.  Wilbur and I have a bit we want to do on stream today, so Dream could you not bother me a lot about L'manburg?  Thanks

It was a perfectly reasonable request.  Dream was perfectly fine respecting that, but it still sent a pang through his chest.  He knew it was roleplay.  He knew that Tommy was perfectly fine with getting stabbed.

Still, it felt as though his breath was gone— as if the outside world was only arbitrary, as if it was not built for him, it was too loud and too scary.

As was typical, he could hear the electricity moving through the wires in his house.  He had an outlet on the wall that his bed was against, which he hated.  The electricity was so loud.  The buzz was always present, but whenever he went into his stages where he couldn't talk it always became louder.

To anyone else, his house would've been silent. Patches was curled up at the edge of his bed, and his computer was shut off so that not even the fan ran.

But to him. To him it was loud. Too loud. And because it was so loud, so intense, he could not talk. He could not add to the noise— his lips felt glued shut, his throat only capable of swallowing and shallow breathing.

He brought his knees to his chest and sat on his bed, facing the wall where the outlet was buzzing.

At some point, after either minutes or hours had gone by, patches had some up to rest next to him, and he'd put a hand on her back, the other hand still wrapped around his legs.

He'd always thought, that if he hadn't been able to buy a house, he would've registered Patches as an ESA.  He knew that ESA's couldn't be brought everywhere, but having a cat at home for when he had these episodes was beyond helpful.  Her warm fur pressed up against his leg, grounding him in reality.   Her soft breaths in and out were another sound to focus on besides the electricity, and he soft fur provided a better texture, something soft and warm on his otherwise harsh household.

What she could not do, was stop others from accusing Dream of "faking" his manhunt videos.  He knew she couldn't, and he also knew that she was who he cared about more than his videos, but it didn't stop the pain.

He wished someone would tell him it was okay.  He wished someone would confirm for him that he wasn't making it up, that he was just good at the game.  He wanted George to tell him it was going to be okay. 

But he had no idea how to do that. 

After another indeterminate amount of time, he reached across his night stand to text George the only thing he could think to type:

payches pofgers

Chapter Text

Right as George finished up a stream, his phone lit up, indicating he had a text from Dream. It read:

payches pofgers

Sometimes, Dream texted him weird shit. Usually riddled with typing errors and often to do with his cat or minecraft, George rarely responded to the texts, as even if he did he never got a reply.

He had noticed Dream's absence on the server earlier in the day, so he chose to text back:

hey man, everything good? I didn't see you on the smp today

With the sent, he closed his phone and went downstairs to grab something to eat.

Inspired by recent climate activism he'd learned about in quarentine, George had decided he'd try to be better for the planet. Given his current living situation he wasn't allowed to place solar panels on his roof nor paint it white, so he'd opted to change his consumption habits.

He knew that truly it was Multinational Corporations to blame for the climate crisis, but changing his own actions soothed some of his anxiety about the crisis, and he figured he should begin to eat healthier anyways.

For this reason, he had decided to go near-vegan. He'd figured it would be too drastic of a change to cut everything out of his diet immediately, so in the meantime he only ate eggs and dairy a couple times a week, and only bought it from farms over in Wales. The goal was that in a couple months, he would have cut out all dairy, and subsist off a vegan diet.

He'd also begun growing a small bit of lettuce, although he had little faith in keeping his plant alive and mostly just bought ingredients from the Tesco.

As for his other habits, he simply stopped buying other clothes that wasn't his friends' merch, and given his lack of a driver's license he never drove. Public transit certainly wasn't ideal during a mismanaged pandemic, but with George's relative age and health he'd been okay so far. He wore a mask and got a covid test before he saw his family, but given his occupation he never went outside except to buy more food for himself and his pets.

He'd been lucky that his lifestyle didn't have to change much, and the concept that so many less people drove to so fewer places baffled him. With the drop in carbon emissions in March, he was left to wonder where people went all day— he only went to Tesco and the pet store. Regardless, the drop in carbon emissions seemed promising, at least from what George had read.

While there may have been more things he could've done to decrease his ecological footprint, George was satisfied with his goals. He was doing what he could for the planet and himself.

George went to heat up some quinoa he'd made last night in the microwave, got out some vegetables for when it was done, and absent-mindedly scrolled through twitter.

The microwave beeped and he prepared his lunch, giving his own cat a leaf of lettuce that she ignored. She was holding out for the new canned food that he had bought her as a treat, but on personal philosophy he refused to give her treats in the middle of the day.

This was not due to any form of harm to the cat nor scarcity of food, but rather, George had found that if he gave cats treats throughout the day, they would bother him at his computer even more and meow for food at inopportune times. Given as he now had the opportunity to train her as a kitten, he was trying. At least, for the time being. He figured by this time next year, his cat would get food and treats whenever she desired, just like Luca did.

He sighed. He missed Luca still.

Sometimes, he would go weeks without thinking about his former cat, and everytime he would remember he'd be met with a pang in his chest, each one slightly more bearable than the last.

It had been long enough that he no longer felt like crying, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

"Kitty!" He called out to his new cat, looking for the embrace of his new furry demon. Kitty looked up at him with her wide, staring eyes and he immediately caved to her demands, grabbing a small soon and scoping some can food for her.

The cat laid on the counter and licked off the spoon in his hand, purring. He laid his hand on the small car lovingly, feeling her soft fur and regulated breaths.

He wondered how patches was doing.

~~

Speaking of patches' owner, Dream still hadn't replied. Given as this was typical George was completely unphased, and placed his phone back on his desk.

His cat had fallen asleep on his bed, and George had begun working on trying to code minecraft so that dream could be a cat.

Coding in player controlled mobs wasn't that hard at this point, as he had done so many previous plug in that he could copy and paste code from. Most of coding in of itself was just copy and pasted code— it wasn't exactly hard, just frustrating when a single misplaced space would throw off the entire program.

George worked to edit the dog files to allow dream to be a cat, simply by using "control F" to find and replace "wolf" with "cat," as well as the various types of food he could feed the animal.

He had no real way of testing anything yet, but he'd decided that he wouldn't bother himself with that today.

Stretching, he got to work on the beginnings of the code he'd have to add.

Chapter Text

Dream woke up to sunlight streaming through his window, disorientated and lying on top of his covers in over a day old clothes.

Patches was curled up next to him, laying by his arms and allowing one hand to be on top of her. As he came to he scratched behind her ears, earning a soft purr.

The first thing he noticed was a mild headache, and the second an incredible dryness in this throat. Rubbing his eyes, he carefully sat up, just to flop back down on his bed again.

He let out a low hum, his voice gravelly from apparent lack of use. Upon noticing that he was alive and well, Patches immediately stood up, stretched, walked directly across his stomach, jumped down, stretched again, and began youling as loud as she possibly could for food.

Dream rubes his eyes and sat up again, this time opting to stand up and walk to the kitchen to appease his cat. Patches ran ahead of him and waited on the granite countertop as he got out a half cup of dry cat food and ran his hands through his messy hair.

As he put down patches food for her to eat, he got a glass of water and two ibuprofen and downed it. The water made his throat feel letter at least, and he refilled the glass. He really had to remember to drink water.

Walking back over to Patches, he placed a hand on her back, causing her to look over at him and immediately return to vacuuming up her food.

"Hey girl," he said softly. "Are you still hungry? I'll give you more food if you are."

He then realized that he didn't have his phone. Abandoning his cat, he went to grab it and scroll through twitter, giving Patches a handful of food in her bowl.

The top of his screen lit up with a notification from the NPR news app, and he pulled down the notification center to head the headline about early vaccine distribution.

Below the headline, he saw a text from George:

Hey man, is everything good? I didn't see you on the smp today

Dream suddenly put together the pieces of what happened yesterday. Something must have upset him, and he'd gone into another one of his trances, forgotten to feed patches, and eventually fallen asleep.

Goddamnit.

He hated it when that happened— he'd lost an entire day to effectively nothing. He sighed, rummaging through his fridge until he found some leftover chicken to give to Patches, as an apology for letting her go without food for a day.

He assumed he should text George back, and after retyping a message multiple times, he sent back:

I'm good sorry, I did that thing where I couldn't talk for the day but I'm good now

He'd always chosen to omit the thing about the electricity to George— he knew that everyone could hear it, and he'd been made fun of enough for letting it bother him that he knew enough not to tell people at this point.

Dream remembered back in his childhood, when he first encountered electricity that truly took him out.

~~

When he was six, his mom took him and his older sister down to the beach further South.

They'd gotten a nice hotel room— with two beds and a pullout couch, so that he and his sister didn't have to share a bed. Both he and his sister were estatic about the concept, and even more excited as his mother stated she would be taking them to a local grocery store to get snacks for the beach.

After getting dressed in the morning and driving in the hot car, his family walked into the store.

Dream immediately felt uncomfortable. He couldn't understand it at the time, but upon walking in he could hear buzzing all around him, as the flouresent light bounced off the slippery concrete floors.

As a six year old, he didn't understand the concept of electricity, and opted to tell his mother that there were bees in the store, a claim that his mother immediately dismissed. He had told his sister, and was met with the same response— there were no bees in a tourist town grocery store. But Dream knew he heard the buzzing, and he didn't like it.

After 10 minutes of being in the store, he lost his tolerance for the buzzing and collapsed to the ground, placing his hands over his ears in attempts to drown out the buzzing. It didn't work.

"Clay honey, what's wrong?" his mom immediately came to his side, assuming he got hurt somehow.

"The bees are buzzing it hurts" he had responded.

His mom had paused for a moment, then lifted him back to his feet from his arms.

"You're fine, theres no bees, stop being dramatic."

He had immediately burst into tears.

His mom had sighed angrily, and opted to drag him along by one hand, allowing his sister to get a snack and getting crackers for him. His lack of choice and having only one hand to cover his ears with only made him sob harder, drawing stares from passerby.

After the store, his family returned to the hotel, where he put the covers over his head and cried.

At some point his mom and sister left to go to the beach, and left him in the locked room.

~~

That beach trip wasn't the worst trip of his life, but it certainly was up there. While he'd later got diagnosed with ADHD, his mother never took him seriously when he said that things bothered him. He'd tell her time and time again, eventually learning to attribute buzzing to electricity. Still, his mother never took him seriously.

When his younger sister was born, it only got worse— he became the middle child, which meant he wasn't allowed to have problems, a fate that worked even worse when he struggled in school.

Things hit a peak when he was a freshman in high school, and his mom had dragged him to a hardware store.

Dream absolutely hated hardware stores. Everytime, the buzzing and some other unknown factor would get to him within minutes, and his head would hurt and begin to feel foggy. It was a hard feeling to describe— his vision was fine, but looking out something just felt... wrong. His head was swimming, his blood was pounding, and he began to feel physically sick as his mom looked at different types and colors of spray paint.

He sat against the aisle shelving, calling out to his mom that the electricity buzzing was getting to him.

He remembered the next words incredibly clearly, and would for the rest of his life. "Clay, there is no buzzing noise. I don't know where you're getting this idea, but I promise you you're not. You're in high school and and older brother now, you need to knock this stunt off. Stop it, and act normally for once."

While he didn't move, tears had immediately sprung to his eyes, and he hid his face in his knees, he hands covering his ears. As a young teen boy pumped full of ideals of toxic masculinity, he was embarrassed that he was crying. He had since gotten over that, but in that moment, he hated himself for everything— for hearing the buzzing, for not being good enough for his mom, for crying on the floor of the Home Depot.

His mom eventually finished her shopping and checked out, with Dream following at a distance and sniffing occasionally. As they walked out to the car, Dream caught a full face of the Florida heat, and immediately threw up on the ground.

His sister screamed and ran away, and his mom slowly walked over to him, asked if he was good, and gave him the bag for the ride home.

He had no fever, and despite feeling awful for the rest of the day, he never showed any other signs of sickness, nor did anyone else in his house.

The following day, he had agreed with his mom that he no longer had to go to the hardware store since he couldn't handle it, but his mom forced him to go to school the following day as she thought he was faking it.

~~

Dream sighed and put his head in his hands on his kitchen table, rubbing his hands through his hair.

It wasn't that his parents were bad by most metrics, they just weren't equipped to deal with the myriad of issues that often came with ADHD. He knew that his mother still loved him, and he had a good relationship with her in adulthood. Once he'd moved out, they got in less and less fights, and he genuinely enjoyed her company now. Still, he didn't think he'd ever get over he dismissal of his tendencies to go into sensory overload. It might've been easier to deal with if he could talk about it, but after all that happened growing up, he felt like he couldn't. He thought it was stupid, especially now that he was in his 20's, that he'd still get messed up over nothing. He at least hadn't ever gotten physically sick over the buzzing again, which he was appreciative of.

Patches inserted heself below his hand, asking for pets and jolting dream away from his memories. He began to scratch her head, and read George's reply:

I'm glad you're good now, if you ever need to talk lmk

Are you playing jackbox with Karl tonight?

Dream texted back and shut off his phone, returning to his room to boot up his PC and get ready to shower.

Chapter Text

That night, George played jackbox on Karl's stream.

On stream, the lot of them continued the common gimmick of joking about George and Dream's so-called relationship, culminating is Dream just straight up saying he would kiss George as a solution to a problem.

It was absolute pandering, but George didn't exactly mind. He'd always been closer to Dream than anyone else he knew and felt differently than anyone else about him, but it wasn't exactly something he'd ever wanted to adress. Dream was his best friend, and given as he'd never had too many good friends growing up it only seemed natural to George that he would feel differently about dream than about anyone else.  If there was anything past that, George had long ago chosen to deal with that later.  And by later, he meant probably never.

~

After he finished streaming, Karl asked everyone to stay on the call.

"Hey guys, big Q is already here and I was wondering if you all would want to come stay with me for a bit?  I've got enough space and there's a testing site close to my house so we are safe."

"I'm down" Sapnap chimed in, "can I sleep with Big Q?"

"We'll thats not fair to me, I'll be alone"

"You can join us Karl," Big Q added, from the same mic and Karl.  "You can be in the middle"

"I'm down," George chimed in.  Given his occupation and health, George wouldn't be getting the vaccine in a while, and he'd always wanted to meet his friends. He'd feel a little bad going to be with people in the middle of the pandemic, especially as cases in the US were rising, but he doubted he'd get another opportunity soon either. Something about the prospect of being in the same Country, possibly even the same area as Dream, just made George throw any logic he had out the window.

"Dream?" Karl asked after a while.  "There's no pressure, but we'd love to have you."

Dream's mic was silent for a while, before he said "Why not, I'm down.  George and I can cuddle together in person then, maybe pop on his stream for the hell of it."

George laughed nervously, while Karl and Quackity yelled on their mic. 

~

Given the state of the Pandemic within the US, George was able to find cheap plane tickets for 2 days from then, flying out from Heathrow at 8 in the morning.   His family was close enough, and after a breif text interaction, they agreed to take care of his dog and cat for as long as he was gone.  They'd pick up his pets tomorrow as he would pack— he was planning on bringing a laptop that he had lying around, and Karl said he'd have an extra monitor and an old microphone for him and Dream to share. They would take turns streaming to some degree, but the majority of the day would be spent doing something.

George supposed that visiting people with the pandemic meant that they couldn't actually go anywhere, save maybe a hiking trail or a corn field. If he was honest, George knew absolutely nothing about where Karl lived except that it was in America, a place which he had never been. He knew things were bigger there and the country had gotten so bad people made fun of it before the English, but past that he had no idea what the colonies would be like.

Standing up, George realized that his fingers had gotten sore from typing. It had never happened before, but he shrugged it off, wiggling his fingers around to try and stop the pain. As he walked to the kitchen, his dog ran around his legs, anxious for food. 

After feeding his pets, George opened his fridge and stared at the contents.  He originally planned on buying more groceries tomorrow, but given as he'd be gone for an indeterminate amount of time he'd have to make do with what he had.  He'd made some soup the other day, which he took out and microwaved for lunch. Based on the food content of his kitchen, George appeared to have enough food, provided he got dinner out tomorrow with his parents.  Finding vegetarian options at restaurants seemed like a daunting task, but he knew that Pret-a-manger wouldn't let him down at the very least. 

After he ate, George out away his dishes and went to pack.  He grabbed a suitcase and began to throw almost every item of clothing he had in his suitcase, managing to fill up only half the carryon sized suitcase.  It was honestly a pleasant surprise for him.  When he initially culled his clothes, he did so with this very intent— so that he could pack for a trip immediately, and not have to worry about what he should and should not bring. He'd throw in his toothbrush and associated things tomorrow, but for the time being, he was proud of himself for having such an easy time packing.

Looking around his room, George tried to think about what else to bring. A blanket? No, Karl would have plenty of blankets. A rainjacket? Yes actually. George tossed a thin black raincoat in his open suitcase. Pillows? No, Karl would have those as well. The wall plug in for his phone charger? No, it wouldn't work in America. But that reminded him— his laptop charge wouldn't work either. He quickly pulled out his phone, and typed out a reminder to grab an outlet converter when he got into the US airport. He had one universal outlet plug from a trip he took to France a while back, but it had never worked that well and he didn't trust the integrity of US houses. He'd seen how easy it was to punch holes in their walls, so he doubted outlet plug there would be much better, much less take a universal outlet plug. Still, he walked over and rummaged through a drawer, throwing the universal outlet into his suitcase anyways.

What else did he need to bring? He assumed he'd have to go to the store to buy food for himself when he got to Karls, but he'd thrown a couple of oranges and some granola bars in his backpack as a snack. 

George searched around his room, eventually finding some long-lost chapsticks, some fruit snacks that he could no longer eat, and the colorblind glasses Dream had gotten him.  The world was confusing with them on as he wasn’t used to the different shades of color, but he threw them in his bag anyways.  They were occasionally fun to mess around with.

Satisfied with his packing, he went to pack up food for his pets.

As he was opening a tupperware container of dog food, a sharp pain suddenly shot through George's fingers.  He was immediately paralyzed by it— only able to let out a low hiss.  He dropped the container onto the counter, but found he could not move his hand.  It was curled and locked into a half grab position, with sharp, throbbing pain shooting through his fingers.

George was barley aware of the tears welling in his eyes, as he thought dramatically shaking his hand from his wrist would help.

Surprisingly, the shaking thing did help, and the pain in his finger began to subside, turning back into a dull ache and allowing him to wiggle his fingers again.

George blinked away the tears in his eyes. What the fuck was that?

The pain was barley describable and completely illogical. George examined his hand carefully, but found nothing wrong outwardly with this hand— they looked perfectly normal. He could still bend his fingers up and down, and there were no otherwise marks on his hand. He hadn't recently crushed his hand either, he was literally just opening a lid that he opened every day.

What. The actual. FUCK.

The only logical answer George could think of was that it was simply a fluke. He must have been tired or somehow hurt his finger earlier in the day, and nothing more. As the pain drastically subsided to a dull pain, George took and ibuprofen and began to convince himself that it didn't really hurt that badly in the first place. He was fine.

He carefully opened the dog food container, this time without excuitating pain, and scooped out some food for the dog.

Chapter Text

Dream had no clue why he said yes to meeting up with five or more other people.  Zero clue.  It was a complete lapse in judgement on all fronts: given the pandemic, it was irresponsible and dangerous.  More so, he'd be around his friends who all streamed with a face cam, meaning if he wanted to join his friends doing anything, he would have to show his face. 

He wasn't ever opposed to showing his face on stream, but as more and more people subscribed to him, if got more and more awkward if he did a video.  He'd talked about wanting to do a meet-up in person, but that was clearly off the table given the pandemic, and likely would be for a long time.  Even once societies are able to obtain herd immunity from COVID, venues to hold gatherings will likely be booked out years in advance from the amount of cancelled shows.  Trying to then book a new even would be off the table until the backlog of events got caught up, and then he'd have to work around annual events afterwards.  Needless to say, it would be an absolute nightmare.  

Additionally, Dream felt as if it was insensitive to hold an event for a block game as the United States was in the midst of a second civil war during the fascist slide.  He'd never experienced the country without the prison and military industrial complexes— he'd heard about other countries and read theories of what a society could look like if people didn't focus so much on revenge, but it was still that: a theory, a belief that society could be better.  

He'd also read that inequality in the US is higher than what it was directly before the French Revolution, revolutions occur ever 200-300 years, and politicians increasingly denied science.  The US was in a period of drastic change regardless, as the current political system was in no way, shape, or form sustainable.  No developed country had decreased carbon emissions enough to stay under what scientists recommended, nor were their concrete actions to do so under any recent major political party.  The same went for racial justice— no prominent member of political establishment cared about racial justice, save a select few members of congress.  Whether it was Standing Rock, Ferguson, Flit, Minneapolis, Portland, DC, or any other place within the US, politicians with the power to change things, didn't.  The state of the US had become apparent to most the populace when a pandemic overloaded the system and caused layoffs in a country that tied employment to healthcare, but the US had always been and still was horrific to indigenous people, to black people, to Japanese people, and every other racial groups that weren't white. 

Currently, was quite possibly the best chance to change these conditions.  

And it felt very wrong, in the midst of all these deeply entrenched socioeconomic problems, to host a meetup for block game youtubers. 

Hey guys, just got gassed by the government, pogchamp!  Come talk to me about clicking on a horse

Dream laughed at his joke.  He wasn't wrong, but it also wasn't something to put on twitter.  He'd probably get attacked somehow, and even hinting at his involvement at protests to millions of people felt like a bad idea.  

Regardless, he'd still do a meet up at some point, he just wanted things to calm down as to not overshadow other events.  

That was partly why he usually wouldn't agree to meet up, very publicly, with his friends— it would take away attention from important events.  At the same time though, there had to be some entertainment for people in the midst of all this.  And besides, past a trending topic it twitter and a couple entertainment articles, him meeting up with 5 other people wouldn't actually affect the news cycles. 

And if he did do a face reveal online... well, it made the most sense to do so with his friends, where he wouldn't have to feel awkward talking to a camera in his room.  

Above it all, Dream wanted to see George.  And he was prepared to do all sorts of irrational things to see him.  

~

Dream felt as though reading the guidelines for airplanes was a bad decision. 

Apparently, they still offered food on airplanes meaning that at the same time, while cramped together with centralized air, many people would take off their mask.  Nothing says American capitalism like ignoring medical advice to get some shitty, stale pretzels.  

Dream decided he'd drive.  There was no way he would be going on an airplane, it would be a COVID death tube.  

Google maps said it was approximately ten hours to Karl's house.  Allowing for breaks to eat and get gas, that would take the total time to twelve hours.  Completely do-able. 

In addition to being COVID-safe, Dream wouldn't actually have to pack a suitcase. He could just throw things into the back of his car and leave at seven in the morning.  It was a perfect plan. 

Dream messaged his confirmation that he'd be at Karl's and when to a small discord sever they'd made, and went to feed patches.  

Chapter Text

George's alarm went off at 4:30am, and he'd never felt worse about a decision in his life. 

He'd gotten home late from dropping his pets off with his family, and had to take a train to King's Cross Station, then get on the Piccadilly line to the airport, which passed through the busiest parts on London.  Since the pandemic began, he'd managed to avoid the most crowded parts, but given the location of Heatharow, he had no choice. 

The underground was stressful for George— the trains always ran on time, but the swarming mass of fast walking people and often broken turnstiles stressed him out.  Not to mention, the entire thing was a fire hazard beyond fire hazards.  He could usually walk fast enough to keep up and he knew the escape plans, but riding the Tube with luggage was a whole other deal— he had to walk slower and stand still, pressed to the side of the escalator as people quite literally ran past.  Adding a pandemic to that made the Tube sound like an absolute nightmare. 

He sighed and sat up, using his arms to prop himself up.  He was up too goddam early in the morning.

George dragged himself out of bed, quickly throwing on the clothes he wore yesterday as the rest of his shirts were packed, and going to brush his teeth.  There was no way he was eating before the tube even opened— he would just feel unbelievably sick for the rest of the day.  After throwing the rest of his bathroom things haphazardly in his suitcase, save his shampoo bottle for obvious reasons, he carefully filled up his water bottle a third of the way, double checked he had his keys, phone, wallet, and passport, and grabbed his things to leave.  

His house felt empty without his pets.  He was glad he at least didn't have to stay in the empty house for long, although he really would have appreciated to leave after 10 at the earliest.  

Still half asleep, George put on an N-95 mask, placed his cloth face mask in a random pocket in his backpack, and walked out the door, locking it behind him. 

The tube ride was excruciatingly long and way too crowded for his comfort— he ended up standing up a couple stops in on the Piccadilly line, and his legs were sore by the time the train finally pulled up to the beginning of London Heatharow.  

Getting off at this stop, George waited for yet another train to take him to boarding, this time luckily being able to sit down for the duration of the time.  

Security at least wasn't crowded.  He didn't have to check any luggage and had his boarding pass loaded on his phone, so the only thing George had to do was pour out his water bottle in a bathroom sink and hop in the security line.  

Security and pre-boarding was uneventful— George was still mostly asleep, and didn't bother to stop anywhere to get food both for pandemic and hunger reasons. 

The first flight George had was to La Guardia airport in NYC which was a full evelven hours.  He had checked beforehand and learned that airlines still served food, but given as he would be on an airplane, with a highly centralized and contained air system, with many other people during a PANDEMIC, George had resigned himself to suffering on the plane, and eating when he arrived at Karl's house. 

He had about a 2 hour layover in New York which he hoped would give him time to get through customs, go back through security, and get on a two-hour flight to North Carolina where Karl would pick him up.  

Dream had decided to drive himself like the Florida man he was, and said he'd meet there sometime after George got in.  Usually, George would be nervous, but at the time, waiting on an uncomfortable airport chair, George was unphased.  

When his boarding group was called, George rose, scanned his boarding pass, placed his suitcase in the overhead compartment, his backpack underneath his seat, and immediately fell asleep in his seat. 

~

George woke up 5 hours later to a flight attendant handing out menus for lunch, which he politely declined.  He was getting hungry, but there was no way he would risk getting COVID for some bad lasagna from Delta airlines.  He hoped he would be able to find a quiet spot to eat his oranges at La Guardia, then an actual meal when he got to Karl's.  Given at it was around 1pm BST according to his watch, George was awake enough to not be able to fall back asleep.  How unfortunate for him.  

He had at least prepared some for the plane ride, as he'd downloaded some documentaries off of Netflix to watch on the way to New York.  Given as he was going to the US, he'd decided to download 13th. 

An hour and forty minutes later, George regretted his decision to come to the US.  He'd know the place had effectively been a police state since 2001, but he hadn't realized how bad it was.  The fact that an entire section of the government profited off effectively terrorizing minority civilians was unbelievable to him.  The stories of Angela Davis, with her family and friends killed for providing food to poor children, the stories of the camps along the border, and the stories of entire communities torn apart by Regan's policies made him feel disgusted.  The EU had broken off a lot of relations with the US under Trump, but George realized it went deeper than that— the US was straight up an authoritarian oligarchy, and had little in common with the values of many Europeans. 

George was not very happy about the US government anymore, not that he was previously.  He stared out the window, looking at the Atlantic and listening to music zone out. 

When the landing announcement was made, George took out his headphones and looked to the small landing strip in the middle of the sprawling metropolis of NYC.  The plane touched down without a hitch, and George realized a fatal mistake: his phone did not work internationally.  He'd still be able to connect to airport wifi and text people, but the airport taxi process was painfully long. 

Eventually, George managed to get off the plane and into the La Guardia terminal.  After two minutes in La Guardia, he realized why the plane ticket from London was £400. 

La Guardia absolutely sucked.  It was small, cramped, and smelt absolutely horrific.   The wifi was slow to connect, and George waited a full 10 minutes in the customs line before a text to his mother that he was safe sent through.  He then sent a text to Karl, asking if this was the normal state of affairs of US airports.  Karl immediately texted back, replying:

LMAOOO that's the worst airport in the country, good luck Gogy

Ah.  Once again, he knew why his plane ticket was so cheap.  

The Border control agents were harsh, and he had to be screened through large machinery, have his bags screened, and fill out a questionnaire about the contents of what he had. 

He was pulled aside by a burly security man, and his heart pounded.  He knew, based on the color of his skin and gender presentation that he'd be fine, but the teror that US cops incited was real.  He couldn't tell, but he assumed the officer had a gun, which absolutely terrified him.  He'd never seen a gun before in his life, and didn't aim to see one now. 

"Name!"  The officer barked out. 

"G-george"

"Were you aware that it is illegal to bring citrus fruits into the United States of America?"

Why?  This is a country that allows anyone to buy a gun, but they draw the line at fruit?  "N-no," George replied, trying not to sound incredulous at where the US drew the contraband line. 

"We will be confiscating these Oranges.  Have a good day sir." The security guard waved the next person over, which George took as a queue to leave and grab his now orange-free bag. 

Why the fuck couldn’t you bring fruit into the US?  What criminal activities was he going to commit with Tesco Oranges??

After getting out of customs, George realized he'd have to walk ten minutes to the US security checkpoint, and go back through it.  Checking the time on his phone that updated with the wifi, he broke into a jog to reach the checkpoint so he wasn't late.  Once he reached the line, he sent a text to Dream:

Apparently it's illegal to bring oranges into the US, I got stopped at customs

Dream replied back with laughter, and George smiled at his phone.  At least Dream found it funny, it slightly made up for the fact that he'd lost his oranges.  

~ 

US security was also harsher than the UK's, but George managed to make it through the scanners without incident.  Once arriving at the gate, the monitor informed him that his flight would be delayed an hour.  Also at the gate, was a startling lack of space between guests, and way to many people wearing their masks improperly, or taking them off entirely to eat at the restaurants.  George decided not to eat anything— the place was a cesspool.   He instead sent a text:

Karl, your country is scary.  Comfort me ;(

He and Karl ended up facetimeing until he boarded the plane, with Karl promising to be waiting for him in Raleigh when he landed— outside, in a car however.  

The actual plane ride itself was uneventful, save the flight attendants giving everyone snacks and allowing people to take their masks off.  Why America, why.   George refused, checking his mask was tight against his face and staring at the seat in front of him. 

As the plane landed and he got off, George was beyond excited to finally be done with airplanes.  He had absolutely zero concept of time, all he knew was that he was hungry and tired.  

He followed the signs, bag in hand to the car drop off point, and searched for the car description that Karl gave him.  

Before he could look much further, Karl got out and ran towards him.

"Gogy!!"

He tightly embraced George, and immediately handed him a clorox wipe for the handle of his suitcase and hands.  Karl insisted on taking his backpack and suitcase and putting it in the car, allowing George to clean off his hands and get in the car. 

Once Karl was in the car and gave him the go-ahead, George took off his mask and breathed in the fresh air.  He didn't mind masks, but after an indeterminate amount of hours, it felt nice to breathe different air.  

"Oh my gosh I'm so hungry"

Karl laughed slightly.  "You're vegetarian now, right?  Alex and I bought some broocoli and we can put cheese on top of it."

George laid his head back against the seat.  "That sounds great thank you.  Did you know they took my oranges?"

~

George bit down on a piece of his granola bar, looking out the window to see a flag with an X full of stars that he didn't recognize next to a flag reading "Trump 2020."

"Karl, what's that X flag with the stars on it?" He asked. 

Karl began laughing so hard he swerved into the right lane going the wrong way.  They were lucky there were not oncoming cars, but George was still rightfully terrified. 

After some ridicule, Karl finally answered.  "It's the confederate flag, they tried to leave the US in the 1800's or something but they lost and haven't gotten over it.  They're everywhere in the US still, all the racists fly them."

"... And they lost?  200 years ago they lost and are still flying the flag"

"More or less yeah.  Oh Gogy, America is so different compared to tEa and tHe qWeEn i England."  Karl finished the last part in a bad English accent.  

"Fair enough, fair enough."

~

When George got to Karl's house, he recived a plate of raw broccoli with a thick cheese sauce on it and an overly-sweet Dr. Pepper, which he ate hungrily.  Karl showed him to the room he'd be staying in, told him some other things that he immediately forgot, and George turned off the lights and immediately passed out on top of the covers. 

a/n: the US is a quarantine area for citrus fruits because the govt. doesn’t want fruits to get diseases, which I’m pretty sure is because almost all plants grown in the US have the same genetic makeup so you could just abolish all US agriculture with a single disease.  regardless of that, the fact that US border customs will take your oranges is unbelievably funny to be. (Also the US government has taken oranges from me and that’s how I know :/ )

Chapter Text

The only thing George could feel was pain.  A sharp pain, radiating from his stomach, so bad he couldn't think. 

Instinctively, he curled into the fetal position, completely unaware of his surroundings.  He had no brainpower to know where or what was happening, all that he knew was that it hurt.  

So. 

Fucking. 

Bad. 

Without any control from his part, George let out a pained mixture between a sob and a scream.  The action shook his body, leaving him in even more pain, and sobs began to wrack his body and he curled up tighter.  

In the distance, he was vaguely aware of noise being made, but he was unable to process it.   He was unable to to anything. 

Something was suddenly touching him.  It felt warm to the touch and didn't incite anymore pain.  It didn't help either. 

George scrunched up his eyes his body shaking and spreading more pain across his body.  The warmth around him encased him. He felt warm air next to him, and he felt hot liquid on his face.  But more than anything, he felt pain.  More pain than he had ever had to deal with in his life.  

"George, George are you okay?  Whatever is happening, it's going to be okay.  I promise, you are safe here."

The pain began to become less sharp, but still entirely unbearable.  His entire body felt shaky and cold as he desperately tried to curl tighter into himself.  

"Hey George, if you can understand me, hit me twice."

George could understand the voice.  His arms were wrapped around, clutching his torso.  He was unable to move them; they felt like the only barrier he had to the pain, and a bad one at that.  If he let go of his arms, he would simply implode. 

The only thing he could try to do was move his head.  He attempted to move his head twice against the warmth, using the the strength he could muster and crying out as the slight movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his body. 

"Woa woa woa, I'm here, I don't know what's wrong, but it's gonna be okay."

~ 

George woke up to a thin band of light coming from the bottom of the blinds and a soreness all over his body. 

He slowly straightened out his legs, and blinked his eyes open, taking his hand to rub at his eyes.  He assumed it was day based on the light, but past that he had no idea how long he'd been asleep or what day it was.  

He remembered getting in from the airport to Karl's house, then waking up in immense pain.  He was definitely still in pain— everything felt sore and his stomach hurt, but he could at least think.  He didn't think he could move much still, but he could at least think. 

This had never happened before— it wasn't uncommon for his stomach to hurt, but it had never been this bad.  He'd given veganism try partially to stop this very phenomenon from happening— at previous times in his life, he'd tried to cut out dairy and gluten but it never did anything, leading him to assume it was a health thing in general.  

Before he'd begun the process of going vegan, George ate the typical diet of a gamer— pizza and anything that could be microwaved in under 3 minutes.  Most nights, he'd go to bed in pain, but by waking up late enough, he managed to avoid a lot of time spent in pain.  It meant that he missed a lot of events on the Dream SMP, but he'd rather not experience stomach pain than scream and role play while in pain.  He often got teased both by other members and fans for sleeping so much because of it, but he never wanted to say anything— not even Dream knew how often he was in pain.  He just didn't like talking about it; he didn't want sympathy for something so normalized to him, and he didn't want to say anything was wrong with him when he assumed people must've had things worse.   Sure, he wasn't having a good time most of the time, but he managed.  He couldn't complain about his life either, he had good friends and got to play minecraft for a living after all. 

The stereotype of him sleeping all the time did begin to get under his skin a little bit in recent times, which also influenced his decision to go vegan.  He absolutely knew that microwaved pizza was terrible for him, and most people would get a stomachache after eating just that anyways.  There was a chance that it wasn't normal to be sick as much as George was, but like many things in his life he pushed that aside.  He blamed his problems on an unhealthy diet, and chose instead to go vegan. 

While he hadn't felt any better since he'd started cutting out so many foods, he assumed it would be a matter of time.  After all, his body had to get used to new types of food. 

Yet, what happened overnight didn't fit in.  The only thing he'd eaten the day previous was a granola bar that he usually ate, and broccoli with cheese sauce; all of which were healthy and vegetarian.  He wondered if maybe something was bad with the food he ate, but he hadn't gotten sick yet so it couldn't have been food poisoning.  He'd consider asking Karl and Alex how they felt, but if all was fine, he assumed it must be a one off thing.  Maybe a day of traveling through the apparent worst airport in the US did him in.  

George rolled to his side, deciding if he could get up, and bumped into Karl, sleeping next to him on the bed. 

Karl must have been the person who came to comfort him last night. 

George didn't know how to feel about the situation.  He was absolutely fine sleeping next to Karl, but he was less fine with him knowing about what happened last night, much less with him knowing things were a constant problem.  Most of all, he didn't want Karl to pity him. 

"Hmm?" Karl seemed to awaken, looking over at George lying next to him.  He immediately sat up.  "Are you okay?  You weren't doing so good last night."

George had no idea what to say.  His stomach still hurt, and he didn't want to get up. 

"I... I woke up in a lot of pain last night.  I think it was just the stress from traveling all day but I'm okay now.  Thank you for coming to comfort me," he finally settled on. 

"Of course man, but you sounded like you were in a lot of pain, are you sure you're okay?"

George simply nodded. 

"I've got tylenol, do you want some of that and a glass of water?"

He nodded again, and Karl left the room. 

Karl returned with a hyrdoflask-type water bottle, and a pill bottle in hand.   He gave a single pill to George and the water bottle telling him to take his time.  Dream would be getting in late at night, and Karl and Quackity could do their own thing for the day.  Karl patted his messed up hair and told George he could ask for anything, before waking out and closing the door. 

George was so, so incredibly grateful for Karl's kindness through whatever was happening to him. 

And also so, so embarrassed. 

Chapter Text

"HEAT WAVES BEEN FAKING ME OUT, CANT MAKE YOU HAPPIER NOWW"

Dream may have overestimated his patience for driving what became 12 hours to Karl's house.  At six hours in, he'd been listening to Hear Waves on repeat for an hour straight at full volume, screaming the lyrics as he drove up the highway. 

While the song was already a song he'd listen to, he found the fanfiction lore behind it exceptionally funny.  Sometimes, he'd leave his spotify playing on silent so his profile would say he was listening to heat waves and laugh at the reactions on twitter.  Inciting chaos pleased him. 

He still hadn't read that fanfiction, but he knew enough of what it was about from twitter as well as George and Spanap's summary that he found it... interesting.  He never liked George in that way of course, but he also never minded people thinking it.  He thought it was funny on the surface, but he couldn't explain why.  There wasn't anything funny about being gay really— after all, it was perfectly normal, and he'd definitely kissed some of his male friends growing up.  There was never really any gender difference in the people Dream liked, but he supposed it was the friendship thing.  Dream didn't like dating friends, because if you broke up you'd loose that friendship.  And then you'd have no one to go to during a breakup.  And your friend group would get torn apart.  Especially now that his friend group was all on a public stage, he couldn't handle it breaking apart.  He'd have no one to go to, and millions of twitter accounts screaming at him that it was his fault, that he took to teasing George too hard, or that he wasn't a good enough boyfriend to him...

Wait, what?

Dream went back to the scream singing.  "YOU LOOK SO BROKENN WHEN YOU CRYY, ONE MORE AND THEN ILL SAY GOODBYYEEE"

~

Dream had left at 9 in the morning to leave for Karl's house.  The night previous he'd gotten a backpack and thrown in the essentials that he thought he would need, then threw random clothes, pillows, and anything else he had lying around in the backseats of his car. 

Was it organized?  No.  But Dream didn't exactly care— he'd just empty everything back into a bin and throw it in a closet when he got back anyways.  If he really needed something, he'd find it. 

The one thing he did pack with care however, was his favorite and only blanket on his bed— it was a christmas blanket he'd gotten as a gift years ago and had since lost it's soft touch, but no blanket could ever compare to it.  Anything else felt scratchy and uncomfortable to him, and he'd gotten accustomed to bringing it on every trip he went on so he could still sleep.  At first he'd felt a little awkward taking a blanket around as if he was a child, but after a weeklong trip with his family in a hotel, he'd stopped caring.  The teasing was absolutely worth being able to sleep normally.  Besides, it was still a full-sized blanket, it wasn't like a child's blanket.  It was red with a very minimal white pattern— he refused to call it childish, even to himself. 

The blanket was comforting to him— sometimes he would feel overwhelmed with the world, and the blanket helped.  It was familiar, soft, and could block out the outside world; when things got to much, Dream would simply put it over his head, blocking out light and a small portion of the sound.  If he hadn’t yet completely overwhelmed himself, Dream would often be able to block out the buzzing with the blanket.  Even if he couldn’t, the soft, familiar material felt comforting when he pressed it against his face.

He was hoping that no one in the house would actually care.  They were all good guys— he didn’t think they would bat an eye.  After all, it was just a blanket to anyone besides Dream.  

Still, Dream was planning on taking the blanket inside under his regular bag and hiding it.  He knew he couldn’t handle anyone, especially George, making fun of his blanket so he’d wanted to avoid topic entirely.

~

Dream pulled into a rest stop to refil the gas in his car, as well as walk around and buy a soda. 

After typing in his phone password since masks interfere with facial recognition, Dream opened the discord app on his phone and asked his friends:

Does anyone have music recs?  I'm so bored send help

Dream purchased an orange soda, and got back in his car, opening discord and he shut the door. 

<sapnap> heat waves ;)

<eret> there's mother mother?  you might not like it

<tubbo> whole minecraft soundtrack

Dream sighed, replying that he'd been listening to heat waves for about 2 hours straight, and stating he'd check out mother mother.   Sapnap laughed at him in response. He sent a quick text to George that he'd see him soon, and got ready to get back in the road— only 4 hours left, as google maps informed him. 

Opening spotify with his right hand and merging into traffic, Dream used the voice search function to find mother mother and shuffle their songs. 

"I wear women's underwear,

and then I go to strike a pose in my full length mirror,

I cross my legs just like a queer..."

So this was Eret's gender crisis music, Dream thought to himself.  He laughed, it made sense though. 

Given as Dream was comfortable within his sense of masculinity and gender presentation, he decided to go back to listening to Glass Animals.  He'd leave Eret to their gender crisis music.  He did make a mental note to try to get them something feminine on the SMP though— no mentally stable person would listen to that music.  Not to say that Dream himself was mentally stable, but he was mentally unstable in... a different form.  Still, he supported his friend, and whatever pronouns they did or did not end up using.

~

After a long drive, Dream finally reached Karl's neighborhood hood and began looking for the house numbers to find him, opting to knock on the door and surprise everyone. 

Chapter Text

Dream had sent a text that he'd be arriving a little after 9pm, a text which George read at about 3. 

After Karl had left him in the morning, George had fallen back into a fitful sleep, still in too much pain to relax enough, but less enough to be barley tolerable.  He'd try to do anything on his phone, but the screen was nearly impossible to focus, and processing information even harder. 

~

At 4, Karl and Alex had both come in to check up on his condition.

Neither Karl nor Alex felt sick at all— it was just George who had come down with... whatever he had.  Considering he'd had no fever, cough, shortness of breath, and hadn't taken off his mask during the entirety of his travels, they'd ruled out COVID as a possibility of what was wrong with him, but nothing else past that.  Alex had suggested that it might be a difference in water or other foods grown in the US, as it had vastly different standards as to what could go in food.  Apparently, when Americans came to Mexíco for the first time, they would often get sick from the water, so it was plausible that the same thing happened going from the US to UK, and it would explain why only George got sick.  None of them were sold on the theory, but no one had any better ones either. 

George pushed himself up into a sitting position against the wall.  He'd been slowly feeling better, but he next had to face the daunting task of standing up and walking to the bathroom.   His limbs felt tired and sore from the pain, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to walk. 

He hoped he'd be able to walk.  He was hoping that everything was fine, and this was just a one-off thing.  Yet, he had no idea of his physical condition.  He'd experienced the worst pain he'd ever had last night, and he had no idea why.  He was sore and shaking, he assumed he looked awful, and he still felt it.  He was still in more pain than he usually felt when he'd go to sleep.  He'd felt as though he was getting more used to it with tylenol, but on any other day he would have stayed in bed all day.  Laying down all day wasn't unheard of for him to do, and he'd missed a lot of streams that way, but now, at Karl's house and faced with the prospect of seeing Dream for the second time, he knew he'd have to get up. 

He sighed and laid his against the wall.  Why did everything hurt so bad?

"Hey George, are you okay?" Karl asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.  "Do you need me to help with anything?"

George didn't want to say the words that came next.  He hated showing weakness to anyone, especially among simple tasks, but he knew he had no choice.  He seriously had to get up.  He closed his eyes, hating every second of the moment.  "Can you help me stand up?  I have no idea what's happening or if I can stand."

God, he was going to look so stupid if he could stand up just fine.

Karl and Alex each took him by the arm, dragged him to the edge of the bed, and lifted him onto his feet.  He took a cautious step.  His legs felt slightly sore and his stomach still hurt, but he was perfectly capable of walking.

Damn it, he looked like such an idiot now.

"I uh... I think I'm actually good.  Thank you guys," fuck that was embarrassing. 

The two took it gracefully— they told him they were glad he was feeling better, and left the room so he could get ready.  George was glad neither of them laughed, but he didn't think he'd get over that interaction anytime soon. 

He unzipped his suitcase and grabbed his bag of toiletries from the top, slowly making his way to the bathroom to get ready.

~

When George had changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and went through his morning routine, he emerged into the rest of the house  

When he got in last night, he'd paid no attention to what it looked like.  Karl's living room was nicely furnished, with an open floor plan that lead out to a large kitchen.  All the bedrooms appeared to be down one hallway.

"Hey!"

He waved in response.

"So we were thinking, I've got some chicken noodle soup and sprite if you want?  It always makes me feel better when I'm sick."

George merely nodded in the direction of Karl; he was thankful, but he still felt exhausted from everything going on.

Karl placed something in the microwave and sat on the couch, indicating for George and Alex to do the same.  "So George, what do you feel comfortable doing today?  I don't want to pressure you."

"Drugs.  Pain drugs."

Quackity laughed.  "Uh, probably don't have any of those George."

"Yeah yeah, I know.  I'd like to just stay in for today, maybe stream tomorrow with Dream."

Karl nodded in agreement, and got up to get George's food. 

"Hey hey, only eat a tiny bit George," Alex added before George could do anything.  "We'll wait an hour after you eat a little to see if you start screaming again."

George hated that he'd been screaming.  He hated it so much.  There was no reason Karl and Quackity needed to know that there was something wrong with him, and even though the sleeping in comments has begun to get to him, he realized he'd much prefer those compared to being babied by his friends.

He also realized that Karl had given him chicken noodle soup, which he could not eat. 

He decided he didn't care.  It would be rude to turn down food, especially when he'd been a burden anyways. 

~

He'd eaten only a small about of food and drank some soda before Alex cut him off. 

"George you gotta stop now, see if you're still sick."

It was a fair enough point, so George stopped and placed the bowl down and laid back on the couch, rubbing his hands flat over his eyes.

"I don't wanna tell Dream I'm sick."

"You don't have to and we won't say anything man."

"Thank you."

~

George, Quackity, and Karl had been talking casually for around an hour when George suddenly froze.

FUCK.

George folded himself over, eventually ending laying in the fetal position on Karl's couch.

Karl immediately noticed.   "Woa woa, are you okay George?"

He shook his head no aggressively, shutting his eyes tight in attempts to stop tears coming from his eyes.  He was in pain, the same pain that happened the previous night.  He could not handle it anymore, and it'd just only begun.

"Hold tight," Quackity said, jumping over the back of the couch and running to the kitchen.

George let out a pained sob, and Karl was there in a flash, rubbing his hand along George's hair.  He didn't exactly want Karl there— he'd much rather've been left alone, but he wasn't going to say anything either.  Living alone, he appreciated the physical touch, and had no where near the willpower to say anything.  Still, he tried to avoid crying any more.  he just wanted this to be over .

"Mama Quackity is here!"

Karl giggled in response.

"Alright George, first you're going to raise you head.  Karl, these pillows go on your lap."  Quackity set a stack of pillows he gathered onto Karl's lap, then carefully picked up George and placed his head on top of them.  He was surprisingly strong, George noted.   "Next, George I'm putting this on your stomach.  It's hot rice, so hit Karl when it starts to get cold and I'll re heat it up for you.  It's going to stop the pain I promise."

Quackity laid a warm bag across George's stomach, and the pain almost immediately dimmed.  It still hurt, but became almost bearable when he thought not possible.  The warmth spread through his body, counteracting what felt like a void of pain in his abdomen.  He almost smiled— he didn't know where Quackity had learned this trick, but he was beyond grateful for it.

~

After about an hour snuggled into Karl's lap, George sat up.  He was beginning to feel significantly better, plus Dream would be getting to the house in couple hours and he wanted to be prepared.

He observed the bag of rice, noticing it was actually a pillowcase with a rubber band around the top.  He smiled, it was a creative solution.  Placing the bag to his right, he used his hands to push up off the couch and stand. 

Karl looked up at him moving and gave a small smile.

"Alex, thank you so much for the rice bag.  It helped more than anything ever has, this means so much to me going forwards"

Quackity stood up in response, and George embraced him. 

He usually wasn't so touchy with people, but Alex had given him the only thing that had ever reduced his pain— after doctors telling him to take ibuprofen, or that it was stress or depression caused and giving him other pills, or even outright denying his pain, Alex had saved him with a pillowcase of rice and a microwave.  He'd been in pain his whole life, but always dismissed, always told there was nothing to do so he would have to cope.  No one had ever come close to offering an innovative solution.  The best he'd gotten was ibuprofen and a "feel better soon" from a friend's mom growing up, who thought he got punched.  Friends had offered condolences, but never anything substantial.   He'd once been offered alcohol in university, but it didn't help (he'd accepted.  He threw up).

Alex, however... Alex had jumped over a couch, found things in Karl's kitchen, and had to find a creative way to seal fabric.  And most of all, it worked .  He was the first person ever to offer something that worked .  Even more so— he'd stopped him from eating as much, possibly stopping more pain.  He could actually show he could care.  He provided more for George within the afternoon than anyone, including parents, grandparents, and trained medical professionals ever had.  George would never be able to express how thankful he was.

"George, George, you're gonna be okay.  Momma Quackity's got ya."

George hadn't even realized he'd been quietly crying onto Alex's shoulder.  He squeezed the man tighter and whispered, "thank you, thank you."

"Of course."

George let go and sat back down next to Alex on the other side of the couch.

He tried to formulate his words carefully— he didn't want any questions about his health, but he wanted to express just how thankful he was.  "I... whenever I was in pain before no one listened to me or help me.  The rice thing.  That made me feel so much better.  I can't express how much I love you I... thank you."

He didn't mean to say that he loved Quackity, but it just... happened.  He felt like family, because he cared like George always wished his family did.  He was glad to have that care now, especially after 23 years of not having enough.

"I love you too George, but had no one given you a heat pack before?"

George shook his head.

"Yo what the fuck is wrong with British people?"

George giggled.

"No seriously, have you never had a heat pack?"

"No."

"But what do you do if you're in pain?"

"Take an ibuprofen I guess?"

"George that takes two hours or something to kick in.  What do you do immediately when you're in pain?"

"Erm... nothing?"

"So you just sit there, like how you just were?"

"Usually it's not as bad, but I go to sleep mostly."

"That's it?"

George nodded.

Alex leaned over and hugged him.  "I'm going to get some actual head pads to Karl's house.  I can't believe no one ever gave you those."

George started crying again, hiding his face in his hands.  He was usually enough on the brink of crying from pain, but this was out of happiness.  He couldn't believe how much Alex cared for him.

"Dude are you okay?  I promise you it's just a fuckin pillowcase of rice."

George shook his head.  "No one's ever... cared to look for solutions"

"Holy shit dude."

George looked up, wiping the tears of his face with his hands.

"I'm going to buy you every type of heat pack I can find you on amazon.  I don't even care if you use them— I want you to know that you are so, so cared about George.  I love you man, you deserve people that care."

George hugged him again. 

Chapter Text

Dream's google maps informed him that he was at his destination.  Karl's house looked like any other, normal house in the neighborhood.  He had some plants Dream assumed were native to the area in front and some rocks; there was no grass, presumably so Karl didn't have to keep it up, as grass was wasteful and useless in all aspects.  Karl had a houselight his house numbers, which Dream used to confirm that he had the right house.   With confirmation, he parked along the curb, taking the keys out of the engine and grabbing his phone out from the stereo.  Locking the car, he walked up to Karl's door and knocked sharply. 

He heard scrambling on the other side of the door, before it swung open revealing Karl with open arms.

"Dream!"

"Karl!"

"DREAMMM!!"

George came running, and slammed full-on into Dream in a hug.  Dream hugged back, taking in the moment. 

George was shorter and thinner than dream would have imagined— he knew he was tall, but he often forgot it, especially in comparison to people up close.  He'd forgotten how he'd have to bend over to hug people, and with the conditions of the pandemic and his general aversion to being touched, it had been a long time since Dream had even been close to anyone.  Surprisingly though, Dream didn't mind hugging George.  He was warm. 

After years of talking to him over the internet, Dream had been nervous about meeting George in real life.  He'd stressed that his thing with touch would come up, that he'd pull away, that things would get awkward between them, that things would never be the same.  

But there, standing the the North Carolina cold, holding George in his arms, Dream felt more comfortable than he ever had in his life.  

He held George tighter, burying his head in George's hair.  It smelled unfamiliar. 

"Hey uh, you guys can come inside if you want?"

Dream let go and looked at Karl, standing awkwardly in the doorframe.  

"Right, right, thank you," Dream gave Karl a quick hug after he closed the door. Karl wasn't nearly and warm nor soft as George, and felt more like every other person Dream interacted with: he didn't hate being close to Karl, but he saw zero appeal in being close to him either.  George on the other hand, Dream wanted to stay close to, and he never wanted to let go.  He had no idea why. 

As he stepped into Karl's house, Quackity got up to greet him and pull him into a quick hug. 

The four of them sat on the couch and begun discussing their respective trips to North Carolina. 

~

Dreams phone began vibrating aggressively in his pocket, and he leaned back to grab it out of the tight pocket in his jeans.  It was a number he didn't recognize, so he left his phone next to him, not answering.  Looking at the screen, he noted that Apple said the area code was from Raleigh but thought nothing of it.  

Thirty seconds after it stopped, his phone began ringing again, this time from the same number.  He figured it must be important, and signaled to the others before walking to the doorway to answer. 

"Hello?"

"I am not 25 I cannot rent a car," came the unmistakable voice of Technoblade from the end of the line, sounding much more distressed than Dream had ever heard.   

"Techno?"

There was silence.  

Dream pieced together the ten words that he'd been told.  "Do you need me to pick you up from the airport Techno?"

"Please."

"Got it, I'll meet you at baggage claim as soon as I can.  I'll wave at you, I'm wearing a bright green hoodie."

Dream heard Techno take a shaky breath on the other side of the phone.  "Thank you."  The phone clicked. 

Dream walked back into the room, explaining the situation. 

"Oh honk, did we forget about Techno?"

"I think he was planning on renting a car," Dream replied.  "He isn't old enough though."

"Okay, it's about an hours drive and you'll need to get off at the second airport exit," Karl got up and gave dream a quick hug.  

He waved goodbye to everyone, his gaze lingering slightly longer on George, wishing he was still by him and left, shutting the door behind him. 

~

After accidentally cutting multiple people off trying to get into the correct lane, Dream finally arrived at baggage claim.  Shutting off his car and putting on his face mask, he walked into baggage claim and tried to find Techno.  He'd texted him, but he assumed his phone was dead— he knew Techno had an old phone, and considering he called from an unknown number he figured the battery had died.  

Dream barley knew what Techno looked like; the two of them rarely face called as they both hated it, and face masks made it harder to identify people.  Because of this, he wasn't sure who to look for, but he hoped that Techno could recognize him with his neon green smiley face hoodie.  

Shouting Techno's name in the crowded and noisy baggage claim would be ineffective and a bad idea, given as Techno likely wouldn't hear him, but someone who watched either of them on youtube may.  As a result, either of them could be recognized, causing more trouble than it was worth, as well as calling into question why the two of them were in North Carolina.  They'd all agreed it would be better and more entertaining to crash someone else's stream with zero warning.  

Dream went back to searching for Techno, deciding to look around a small seating area that was sparsely populated.  

After ten or so minutes of looking around, a man with brown hair reading a book looked over at him and jumped slightly.  Dream assumed this was Techno, as suspicion that was confirmed when the man grabbed a single overstuffed backpack and his book, placed glasses on his face, and walked slowly over to him.  

"Dream."  Techno said it quietly enough that no one else would know, but loud enough for Dream to hear and confirm it was Techno. 

He nodded.  "Techno, my car's this way."

~

Dream walked out and received a blast of cold, wet air, physically shivering in response.  He turned to see Techno do the same, and the two ran to his car.  

Dream unlocked his car, becoming to Techno and quickly throwing his beloved blanket and a bag of cheez-its off the passenger seat and into the mess of the back.  

"Do you wanna put you backpack in the backseat or...?"

Techno shook his head, and quickly got into the car, closing the door behind him.  

Dream did the same, turning on his car and blasting the heat, still shivering slightly from the cold.  

"So, how was your flight?" He asked, trying to break the silence that came with Technoblade's usual poor social skills coupled with his obvious signs of sensory overload. 

"Awful, but Bakunin would never let me down."

Dream had never heard that name.  "Is that an anime?"

Techno laughed at that.  "He was an anarchist philosopher, I'm not some nerd who would watch anime."

It was Dream's turn to laugh.  "Haven't you watched Death Note?"

"Yes."

Silence elapsed for a bit, and Dream looked to his phone to check which exit he'd need to take to get back to Karl's, noting that the time was past midnight locally.  

"The passion for destruction is also a creative passion." Techno stated in his usual monotone cadence, staring out the window.

"What?"

"Bakunin."

Dream simply nodded in reply, having no response to various anarchist quotes, and little knowledge of the theory itself. 

"Do you want to plug in your phone?  I've got a car charger and a cable?"

"Ah no thanks, it won't turn on for two hours anyways."

"Y'know, you have four million subscribers on youtube, you could get a new phone."

"Nahhh."

Seems like Techno, Dream thought to himself.  The silence was slightly awkward, with dream having nothing to respond to Techno's short comments.  He knew this was just how The Blade was, but it didn't help the fact the two of them were in a car, with nothing to talk about.  

Dream looked over— Techno was resting his forehead against the windshield, with one hand wrapped around his backpack in his lap, the other touching the air vent blasting warm air.  He still hadn't taken off his black cloth mask, presumably just forgetting to.  The poor man looks exhausted, and Dream knew the feeling.  Airports were never quite as bad to him as hardware stores, but they weren't good either.  He'd imagined, after a flight all the way from California with zero phone battery, that Techno must've been exhausted.  He'd at least had a book to keep him occupied and Dream noticed he still had a beaten up pair of apple headphones in, presumably to drown out some of the noise.  Still, that must've been hell for the man.  He knew all to well the terrors and complete overload of flying, as well as the panic that he felt when his phone died in public.  Mixing that with the crippling social awkwardness that Techno faced on a daily basis, Dream was incredibly sympathetic.  

Before long, Dream arrived back at Karl's house.  He announced they'd arrived to Techno who was spacing out, and reached into the backseat to touch his blanket.

He got out of the car and opened the backseat, opting to carry in his blanket and suitcase so he'd have it for the night.  Techno did same, putting on his backpack and shutting the car door.  Dream locked it, and the two went up and knocked on the door. 

"Technoo!"  Karl attempted to embrace Techno, but he slunk down, almost cat-like, avoiding Karl's arms and walking back down the front step.  

"I'm sorry, come on in," Karl apologized, making awkward eye contact with Dream and stepping aside. 

~

It was the early hours of morning, and Dream and George and gotten progressively closer and closer, until George had ended up falling asleep on Dream's shoulder, arms wrapping around his body.   Techno was calmly petting a white dog stuffed animal he had procured from his bag, and Karl and Alex talked enthusiastically.  Dream began to nod off as well, resting his head on top of George's and closing his eyes.  

"I hate to bother you guys, but would someone mind driving me to the hotel I'm staying at?"

Dream opened his eyes and straighten up, careful not to wake up George.  "Oh, you're not staying at Karl's house?" He asked. 

Technoblade simply laughed.  "Nahhh I couldn't survive the chaos of all of you, I'll stay on my own."

Dream nodded.  It was a respectable position, they all did get a bit much for Technoblade's introverted self.  

"Alex and I can take you back," Karl offered brightly.  "Dream and George you must be tired, do you want me to inflate an air mattress for you?  You guys do have to stay in the same room, sorry about that."

Dream would not have minded sharing a bed with George at all.  They were already effectively cuddling on the couch, and Dream would have loved to continue, as patches wouldn't cuddle him and he missed the feeling from when he was dating someone.  With George on the other hand, Dream wasn't sure if he'd be comfortable.  Considering how tired he was, Dream doubted he'd get a genuine answer either, so he decided against sleeping in the same bed.   The last thing he wanted to do was to make George even remotely uncomfortable. 

"Could you grab an air mattress?  I've got a blanket."

The two headed back to one of Karl's guest bedrooms, leaving George on the couch.  After inflating the mattress, Karl gave dream some sheets and a blanket, which Dream carefully laid on top of his own blanket that he brought, so that blanket was touching him at all times.  Lastly, Karl provided dream with a stack of pillows, and Dream went to brush his teeth and get ready while Karl got George.  

Dream was exhausted after the driving he'd done, and checking the time he realized it was four in the morning.  Sighing, he got ready in Karl's guest bathroom, and was asleep on the air mattress before George even got back to turn off the lights.

Chapter Text

When George woke up, it wasn't because of the pain for once.

It felt amazing.

Light was visible to through the bottom of the blinds but the room remained dark, and George looked over to check his phone. It was 10am.

Yesterday, he'd realized that the universal outlet he'd brought was for France meaning that it would plug into a French outlet socket and he could plug anything into it, and thus it was useless in America. Packing it was... not his smartest moment. He'd also forgotten to buy an adapter at the New York airport, but Karl had given him a USB wall plug, and has a charger that worked for his laptop. He was grateful, but couldn't help but to beat himself up over it. He'd brought nothing to Karl's house, then immediately started crying over practically nothing.

He lightly tapped the top of his phone on his forehead in quiet frustration.  The pain obviously wasn't nothing to him, but after being told he was perfectly fine his whole life, he couldn't help but to think he was overreacting.  Especially when he woke up and was fine again.  It made him question if the pain was ever that bad— he remembered screaming and crying from it, yet today he had woken up and while he still felt pain, he could still function as normal.  He hated that about himself.  If only he could function through the pain he felt yesterday. 

Shaking his head to clear it, George got up, and noticing Dream was still asleep, made every effort to silently grab a pair of black sweatpants and a hoodie to change into.

~

Emerging into the living room, Alex greeted George with an enthusiastic wave.

"Hey man, how you feeling?"

George smiled.  "Pretty good actually, you?"

"Good, good.  George some of the heat packs arrived."

George felt awkward.  He was never very good at receiving gifts from his friends, and felt even more awkward that it was because something was wrong with him.  He was glad talking about mental health was destigmatized and that Alex was casual about his physical health but actually admitting that anything was wrong with him felt impossible to do.  It made him feel like a weak child that couldn't take care of himself, who got mocked in primary school for how bad he was at sports and his slightly odd walk.  He had grown out of that phase.   He promised himself he had grown out of that phase.  He was 23.  He was fine.

Still, George followed Alex back to the guest room he was staying in.  Despite the shame he felt for doing literally anything, he was still incredibly grateful that someone actually cared about him.

"I figured I'd give these to you here, since you still don't want Dream knowing, right?"

George nodded.

"Here." Alex dropped five separate amazon packages into George's arms, none of which he actually caught.

"Alex, why are there so many?  I mean thank you but..." he trailed off, going to pick up the packages and sit down on the bed.

"I told you, I was going to buy you every heat pack I could find."

George unwrapped the first package: a plush seal that stated it was microwaveable.  He laughed.  "Why?"

Alex shrugged.  "Amazon sold it man."

George gave a short laugh to it.  The second one he opened appeared to be a normal cloth bag, that encased the heat pack. 

The third actually plugged into a wall outlet to stay warm, and the fourth was a cloth square. 

The fifth was blue.  It was a clear plastic with small orbeez-like beads inside it.  It was small enough to fit in a sweatshirt pocket.

"Thank you," George said. 

~

That afternoon, Dream had woken up and gone to play Minecraft on his laptop. George respected the decision, and he'd assumed it was from exhaustion of driving twelve hours the previous night.  Techno had also been playing Minecraft apparently, as Dream had informed the three of them when getting a glass of water. They hadn't heard from him otherwise, and had been instead staring at their phones on Karl's couch.

"Hey George," Alex said, taking George's focus away from twitter. "I did some research on foods that are good to eat when you're sick." He walked over to the kitchen and returned with food in his hands, sliding on the hardwood floor in his socks as he returned. "Here's some applesauce and crackers. It was the only thing on the list Karl had."

George couldn't help but to smile. The gesture was sweet— and vegan. He took the food apprehensively, as while he was hungry, he had no desire to repeat previous events.

As he ever so slowly ate the stale ritz crackers and overly sweet applesauce that Karl had, the other two returned with hot pockets. Just the thought of eating one of those made George cringe. The pain that they would inflict upon him would be unbearable.

At three, Karl, Alex, and George went to pick up Sapnap from the airport. Nick would be arriving in the afternoon, as the final person given that he'd had an appointment to get to.  Given as the two tall ADHD men were busy with their career and apparently only interest, Dream and Techno would not be coming with.

Before leaving, George placed the blue heat pack in the microwave. It has been around 2 hours since he'd eaten, and while he was still in some amount of pain, it was easy to ignore if he distracted himself. He seemed to be able to eat applesauce and crackers which wasn't exciting, but he certainly preferred it to the alternative. The heat pack helped as well, and sometimes, when the heat pack was hot and his timeline was interesting, he almost felt like he wasn't in pain for a short period of time.

~

"George, are you feeling okay?" Karl asked, voice full of concern. 

He assumed Karl was talking about his whole screaming in pain thing.

"I think so, I'm dramatic and pretty sensitive, that's all," he answered, trying to doge any serious questions. He was still hoping that he'd wake up on a new day and everything would go back to normal, but like it always did. His sickness only ever flared up, it never stayed forever.

"Doubt, that didn't sound like acting George."

George fell silent.   He didn't know what to say, opting to do with a simple "I'm fine."  Karl tried to push, but George simply stopped answering, choosing to look out the car window instead. 

~

After Sapnap had arrived, asking people to call him Nick, the six of them had decided to go skiing the next day.  Techno and Karl had skied previous on vacations, Nick had been snowboarding a couple times, and Dream was generally athletic enough that he insisted he was confident enough to pick it up.  George was hesitant, having never particularly cared for sports nor been skiing before, but he didn't want to derail plans. 

Before he'd even had time to consider, they'd made ticket reservations for a place called Sugar Mountain and Karl had made sure everyone had enough jackets to stay warm. 

~

The next morning, George's phone alarm went off at 7am. 

He briefly opened his eyes, and placed a hand on the plug-in heat pad that Alex had given him.  He'd kept it on overnight, hidden under the blanket so that Dream didn't see.  He still hadn't told his friend— not because he thought that Dream wouldn't believe him, although that thought did linger in the back of his mind, but more so because George thought of himself as the stronger one.  Dream often struggled to process things, and as a result would call George mid-breakdown. 

It was not uncommon for Dream to call him crying, as George had been struggling himself, either in physical pain, or amidst a breakdown himself.  But regardless of what was happening in his personal life, he would always put it aside for Dream.  No matter what. 

While he was aware of the common perception, George refused to be a bottom.

"Dream, wake up," he called to the sleeping lump on the floor, smiling fondly.  George's heart warmed as Dream stirred, groaning at the concept of being awake so early in morning.  "Oh Dreammmm, you agreed to this," he called, smiling as he unlocked his phone to look at the morning conditions.  

Dream begrudgingly sat up, as George got up and turned on the light, assaulting the two of them with bright, florescent light.  Grabbing a pair of sweatpants and layers of shirts and a sweatshirt, George left the room to change and get ready, walking back with a wave of acknowledgment and a smile to Dream, before walking out to the living room to sit on the couch and wait. 

Slowly, the room filled up, and the five of them were leaving.  Given as Karl already had his own skis, they'd had to take separate cars, so Dream and George went to pick up Technoblade, while Karl, Nick, and Alex shared one car.   George immediately knew what the other car would be like, and was content to listen to a podcast Dream put on and stare out the window.  Techno gave a short greeting when he got in the car and went to reading a book, as George slowly drifted off to sleep.

~

George woke to Techno's laughter.

"Techno!  The road is fucking WHITE and curvy and steep and there's a cliff on that side!  I can't drive like this!!" Dream shouted, hitting his hands repetitively on the steering wheel.  George recognized that as something that happened when Dream was stressed and getting overwhelmed.

"Dream I'm telling you, it's not hard.  Just don't drive like you're from California or Florida and you'll be fineeee."

"But I am from Florida!"

"Doesn't mean you have to drive like it." Techno shrugged.

"Seriously!  It's scary!"

"It's not."

"It is!"

"Just stay calm and break sooner and slower than you usually would, it's not hard."

"But there's snow!  If I break it will slide and we. will. die!"

"Oh my god that's why you break slowly."

"But you still slide!"

Techno laughed again.  "That's how everyone drives in snow you idiot, you're not different just because you got Disney world."

"What does Disney world have to do with this??!" Dream asked, slamming his hands on the steering wheel.

"Dream."  Techno sobered up.  "I'm telling you, drive slow and careful and you will be okay."

"I will not."

"It's not hard."

"Well if it's not hard then you drive!"

"I don't want to, I'm reading here."

"Well you're an expert at driving in snow and I'm terrified, so get over it."

"Dream I live in San Francisco, I've never driven in snow."

"But you said how to drive in it!"

"Yeah because my parents have, when we went skiing."

"Why haven't you driven up there?"

Techno laughed.  "You think I get out of the house?  You think I leave my room??  I leave my house to buy food once a month and that is all."

"Okay but you still know what snowy roads look like!"

"Doesn't mean I'm good at driving on them."

"But you just said it wasn't hard!"

"Yeah it's not.  I just don't want to do it."

"Oh my god." Dream leaned back and placed his hands over his face.

George had been sitting awkwardly the entire time, staring at the home screen of his phone.  He would offer to drive, except he couldn't drive, and even if he could, everyone was on the wrong side of the road.  Instead, he opted to let Dream and Techno fight it out, as they matched energies enough to find a resolution.

"Technoblade," Dream said calmly, unbuckling his seatbelt.  "If you do not drive, I will drive us off that cliff, whether it's intentional or not.  So drive."

Techno sighed. "Finee."

The two of them switched places as George opened and closed twitter over and over. He knew Dream and Techno weren't actually mad at each other, but the atmosphere remained awkward nonetheless and it was simpler to continually swipe up and switch in and out of apps.

Techno unplugged Dream's phone, gently tossing it in the backseat, and plugged in his phone to play music. As they headed the remaining time up the winding mountain road to the ski center parking lot, Techno played a mix of Taylor Swift and punk music that George didn't recognize, but seemed fitting of the man's personality.

Techno carefully parked at the edge of the ski lot at the direction of a man in a orange safety vest while the car speakers blared something about wanting to set the world on fire. Dream was curled up in the backseat checking his phone. George couldn't help but to smile at the absurdity of the situation.

Techno turned off the car and threw Dream's keys at him. "Get out, we're here."

The three of the put on their jackets, snowpants, gloves and face masks and walked up a short, snowy incline to where Karl began waving his arms dramatically when he saw them. George waved back, quickening his pace to meet up with the rest.

Having never been on a mountain, George spent his time looking around at the snow covered ground and log-cabin style buildings.  The inside of the lodge had gray carpeting, and wooden counters.  Karl did most of the talking, while an employee set out pairs of strange plastic boots and skis for everyone, as well as smooth helmets and large goggles.

The buckles were confusing to him, Dream, and Alex at first, as they had strange plastic ridges that a small metal bar had to go across.  The boots were incredibly heavy; George felt like a goddam penguin walking in them.  At least they weren't lacking in ankle support he supposed, but he did wonder how intensive a sport must be to need that strong of plastic.  

Karl came up to his jacket and placed a strangely shaped paper clip and a folded up sticker on Alex's jacket, showing George and Dream how to do the same and informing them they were ready. 

Once they'd headed outside, walked a surprisingly difficult walk to the lift with their ski boots on, and laid their skis out like Karl had showed them, George simply stared at the middle of the skis.  He had absolutely no clue how they worked, but somehow Techno already had them attached to his feet and was kicking snow into the air.

"Okay Dream George Alex!" Karl called out.  "You're gonna but the plastic bit that sticks out from the toe into that front part, then step back and down and your skis will click."

Surprisingly, after a few attempts it worked.  Karl then showed them a way to put on pole straps, but given as it was an actual piece of webbing to go around your wrist, George didn't pay attention.  It couldn't be that hard to figure out.

The six of them came up to a gate, where a man checked their tickets, and they were shuffled into a queue, breaking off in pairs at Karl and Nick's direction. The queue was marked out by rope, and lead to a moving chair contraption that George thought he'd seen a picture of, but was intimidating nonetheless.

Karl had gone next to Alex in front of George, Nick by his side. Dream and Techno stood behind him, put together by default. They slowly shuffled through line, Nick pushing himself with only one foot attached to the snowboard. That didn't seem right to George as there were two places to attach boots, but he also didn't know enough to dispute the tactic, instead choosing to keeping looking at the chair machine.

After only a couple minutes of waiting, it was Alex and Karl's turn to get on the chair. A man that appeared to be operating it stopped the chair right before the two, and Alex had to jump slightly to sit on it.

Nick turned to George.  "We're going to do the same thing, ready?"

He nodded.

"Alright, go," Nick said as the chair began move away, attached to a cable.  "Could you stop the lift for us too?"

The lift operator nodded, stopping it right behind George's legs.  He too, had to jump slightly to get on the chair. 

When he got on, he wrapped an arm around the metal arch encasing the chair, still holding a ski pole in each hand, and the chair began to move.  It caught him by surprise, as he was unable to stop the wooden planks on from moving slightly and Nick's snowboard almost hit him. The chair continued, leaving the duo hanging in the air, suspended along a moving cable that attached to a thin piece of metal above the chair. George was incredulous, holding onto the metal tighter.

"There's no way this is safe," he thought aloud.

Nick laughed, swinging his snowboard dramatically to rest on the foot that wasn't strapped in. The action made the chair swing ever so slightly, causing George to grab on with his other hand. He was not a fan.

"I'm pretty sure it's safe dude," Nick replied. "Americans sue over everything, so if this was going to kill us it's already be banned."

George giggled.

"No I'm serious, did you know kinder eggs are banned here?"

"What?"

"Yeah, some parents let their children choke on the toy and now they're banned."

"They're not even that good," George muttered, more assured by the safety of the chair but still refusing to let go.

Nick shrugged. "Still I'd like to try one, just to say I have."

The chairlift slowed to a stop, once again causing a slight swing in the chair that sent another wave of panic through George.

Nick merely laughed at him. "Dude, you're fine. But if you're really worried you can put your ski pole along the metal part to make a bar." He pointed to the metal arches that attached to the main arch above the chair.

George immediately took off the pole in his left hand and made a bar. He felt safer, even if he was worried about dropping the pole now that it wasn't attached. Assured by the bar, George began to get more comfortable with lift ride, beginning to loosen up his grip and take in the mountain scenery— he'd never seen something like it in England.

"Oh by the way George?"

He made a small noise of confirmation.

"Yeah so we're both going to fall when we get off this chair."

"What?"

"Yeah you'll learn to get off the chair on skis but on a snowboard it's um, harder. So you'll probably fall on your own, but if you don't I'll take you out. Sorry you got the worst deal here." Nick sounded as if he found the situation funny.

George on the other hand, did not. "Nick, I don't want to fall the first time I get off the lift!"

"Everyone falls the first time, that's why the lift stops so often."

"But I don't want to."

"I promise it doesn't hurt."

"How do you know?"

That, Nick actually laughed at. "George, I have never once gotten off a chairlift correctly in my life."

George still wasn't convinced that it would be okay, although he figured he didn't really have a choice this far in.

Nick lightly slapped his shoulder. "Alright. Remove your pole and put your hands on front. We're almost ready to get off."

George didn't have the focus to tease him for the wording, instead doing as he was told and sitting stiff as a board, facing forwards. Ahead of them, Karl signaled in a downward motion with a pole of his own, causing the lift to slow down. As his skis touched the snow again, he and Alex stood up, Karl wrapping his arm around Alex's waist. The two of them began to move down a slope, before Alex quite literally fell into Karl, taking the two of them down. The lift came to a complete stop. Karl pushed Alex off the top of him, disentangled their skis, and stood up. He grabbed his and Alex's poles from the ground, helping Alex up and handing him back his poles, where the two of them slow pushed themselves off the the side, Karl in the lead. The chairlift started moving agin.

Nick swung his snowboard back off his boot, and George tried to signal to slow down the lift.

As his skis hit the snow and flattened out, Nick shouted "UP!" at him, and immediately pushed off.

George stood up, focusing his hardest of balancing, but the chair continued moving, pushing him forwards. Before he even had time to think he was face-first on the snow.

The snow was cold, immediately seeping through the thin fabric of his mask. His googles were slightly askew, with this left arm underneath him, right arm still holding his pole. Despite what Nick said, it still hurt. The boots hit his leg when he fell, undoubtedly leaving a bruise.

Looking over and attempting to sit up, George noticed Sapnap standing up to push himself away from the chair, and Karl coming towards him to help him up. Grabbing his hands, George stood up with Karl's assistant, sliding slightly but ultimately rebalancing himself. Getting slightly past Karl, he carefully stepped in a half circle to watch Dream and Techno get off the lift.

Hitting the flat spot of the exit ramp, Techno stood up and pushed Dream off the chair, exiting himself but causing Dream to do exactly the same thing George did. George let out a laugh. He knew Dream would pass him in skill incredibly quickly, so he chose to relish in his friend's failures while he could.

Karl helped Dream up and the lift started after pausing for the man in the ground, and the three of them slowly made their way to the rest of the group.

"Alright guys, so you're going to turn with you skis in a triangle," Karl instructed once the group had gathered. "You're going to want to place your weight on the outside ski and..."

He continued for several minutes, George trying his best to follow along. "Techno, have anything to add?" He asked.

Techno looked up from where he had been pushing snow off his skis with a pole. "Heh?"

"Got anything to add?"

"Don't fall."

"Helpful advice," Dream commented.

"Alright go!" Karl shouted, as Nick struggled to stand up, now with both his feet attached to the board. Techno began to head down the mountain.

It was slow progress. Turning scared George as he had to temporarily go straight down the mountain, and when he went to ski across the mountain, he'd cross his skis over and fall, or go downhill to far, go to fast, and fall. It wasn't a good time for him.

Alex was in about the same situation as him, staying slightly in front of George at all times, but falling just about the same amount. Nick seemed to be at either the back or front with no in between, as he would take a couple long turns then fall and struggle to get back up. Dream was actually decent, as George predicted— he was still slower than Techno and Karl, but had only fallen once and made it to the bottom and out of sight much quicker than George.

When George finally got to the bottom, he found his five friends waiting for him and waving. Given as Dream was more capable at skiing now, George rode the lift with Technoblade, getting in the now shorter line to get on the lift behind Karl and Alex. 

George asked the lift operator to stop the lift again, and while Techno didn't allow him to make a bar out of his ski pole citing it was unnecessary, he felt less nervous the second time.  He was still death gripping the pole, but he figured it was progress.

"Oh Georgeeeeeee!" Dream called out from the chair immediately behind him.  Still holding on, George turned around to face his best friend.  "Swing the chairs!" Dream called, as he and Nick immediately rocked their chair, making it swing and sending a jolt of anxiety through George for the two of them.

Instead of giving Dream a response, he simply shook his head and sighed, turning back around.

"If the do that by the end they'll get yeeted into the ground." Techno stated in his usual cadence.

The two immediately broke into laughter at the concept Techno'd pointed out.

A comfortable silence fell between them, both appreciating the relative break from the insanity of the rest of the group.

Left to his thoughts, George became acutely aware of a growing pain in his knees.  It was... something that had never happened before, and he wasn't happy about it.   Re-adjusting his arm as the lift slowed from someone else getting off, George stared into the muted white horizon in attempts to ignore his body.

When George was a kid, he'd gone to the Tower of London.  It was a quintessential activity for all young children in England, and he'd had a fun day staring incredulously at the raven and walking around the tower.  Between the cannon towers and secure bedrooms, the defensive walls and the expansive courtyards, one thing had stood out to him most.  Much of the castle lore he was to young to understand, not knowing the pop culture references the tour guides mentioned and caring more about the birds that ate blood than the long histories of kings and queens, but there was one part he understood perfectly; the tower where they tortured people.  In the added red lighting, he saw a contraption that both haunted and intrigued him, both after the tour and later, after it was mentioned in Percy Jackson.  He'd forgotten the name of it, but the actual mechanism consisted of three rolling wooden cylinders, which a person would be tied to and physically pulled apart by the cylinders until they ended up dying.  He could always imagine how it would feel as a kid— he would stay up late, often in pain himself, imagining what it would be like to have his limbs ripped a part in a tower in central London. 

Right then, on the ski lift, his knees felt like they were undergoing that same treatment.  It hurt. 

It felt like their was a ball of pain encasing both knees, that began at the connection of bones George couldn't name with a knife to his neck, and radiated all the way out, past his snowpants.  He lifted his leg off the chair, bending it as to take the weight of his skis off his knee.  It worked for about 2 seconds before his knee kept hurting, and trying to lift up his knee further did nothing.

Technoblade either didn't notice or didn't comment, which George was grateful for.  Techno was hilarious and a great friend, but he was so painfully awkward that George couldn't predict what he'd say if he knew what George went through.  George didn't like the uncertainty, and he knew he'd never get over it if Techno started treating him differently.

George tried to lift his legs straight in the air in front him, at the same level as the chair.  He was met with the same results as bending his knees. He tried rubbing his hand along his knee as if he had bruised them, but to no avail. He had no other ideas— there was nothing he could do.

His breath hitched in his throat as his body threatened to burst into sobs. No. He would not cry at the chairlift, next to Technoblade. He refused to. In fact, he promised himself he would not cry in front of anyone anymore; it was bad enough that Karl and Alex had seen him in such a state.

He squeezed his eyes and mouth shut to stop any tears from flowing. It wasn't just the pain that kept getting worse— it was the fact that it was hopeless. They were only halfway up the chairlift, and even once they got off, he'd just have to go back up again. More so, he'd have to deal with trying to stand up and ski on his knees, fiery with pain, with no break between doing physical activity and his body being stretched apart.

He counted the poles in front of them. Six remaining. George promised himself that was more than halfway up— it had to be.

He assumed at least, that whatever pain he was experiencing was tied to him being on the chairlift with heavy boots and skis. He'd never done anything close to this, nor had he ever had much of a problem with his legs hurting. Of course, he almost always walked in a ever-changing limp that occasionally got exceptionally bad, but his parents had always told him he was just doing it for attention. When he couldn't point to a specific thing he'd done, he would loose all credibility. He didn't blame his parents either— he never knew why he walked strangely, and had always assumed he did it as a kid to feel special and get more attention than his sister. Now that he was an adult, he'd mostly fixed his gait, and didn't think about his childhood much.

He assumed that the pain had to have been from the ski boots. He must be acting overdramatic he thought. Everyone must feel this pain skiing, it was perfectly normal. It had to be.

His vision still slightly blurred, he looked over to Techno, as stoic and unreadable as ever. George convinced himself that Techno must be experiencing the same pain as him. There was no other way for him to rationalize what was happening, other than that skiing was a truly sadistic, and the pain was worth it for the feeling of advanced skiing. He felt the same about running— running was beyond awkward and painful in every way imaginable to George. When people took up sports that involved running, he just assumed there was a level of sadism to it.

George blinked rapidly, finally managing to clear away the tears. He was fine. He'd long assumed that what he experienced daily was normal, and that view always stopped him getting out of things or crying. He refused to be weaker than he was already perceived to be, and his biggest way to prove that was to ignore and push through the normal, excruciating pain of everyday existence.

As the chair approached the last cluster of poles, George prepared to get off, this time knowing the chair would push him and anticipating it. As his skis touched the snow, he pushed himself off the chair with his hands, each still gripping a pole.

In doing so, he pushed himself into the snow, doing the exact same thing he did the last attempt.   When he fell he twisted sideways, not doing his knees any favors, and numbing his cheek from the snow through his mask. Tears sprang to his eyes again, threatening to spill over at his continued struggles.

Karl was waiting for him, picking him up off the ground, and he slowly made his way to Alex and Techno, willing himself not to cry.  Dream and Nick came over, and the five were off, leaving George standing at the top. 

They didn't notice anything was wrong. 

George supposed that was what he wanted, but he wished that Dream would just hug him and tell him he would be okay.  He wished for once, Dream could see through his carefully constructed facade, and call him. He wished he would realize that constantly being asleep wasn't just a quirk of his, that instead it was indicative of something seriously wrong. He wanted someone to take care of him, he wanted someone he could be completely vulnerable around without them giving him pity.

His breath hitched again, snapping him out of his thoughts.  No matter how much he wanted someone to notice something was wrong, he absolutely refused for that realization come because he was crying.  It would be obvious something was wrong if he was sobbing in a corner, and he'd feel as if anyone who noticed would only feel obligated to comfort him.  If he was going to open up to anyone, it would be because someone noticed his struggles behind his cleverly-constructed facade.

Swallowing thickly and measuring his breathing, George began to head down the mountain, carefully placing his left pole in the snow and putting his weight in his right foot to turn. 

When he finally caught up to his friends, they were laughing and talking halfway down the mountain.  Dream was leaned over his poles laughing, and Techno was ignoring them all, carefully planting his poles in the snow and spinning in circles around them.  George was amazed he didn't slide down the hill backwards. 

"George!  How are you doing?" Karl asked, noticing his arrival.

George gave a small thumbs up and sat down in the snow.  Breathing carefully to make sure his voice didn't break, he responded.  "You don't need to wait for me."

"You sure?"

He nodded, breathing in.

"Okay, it's 11:30 now, we'll meet you at the bottom in an hour so we can get lunch together sound good?"

He nodded again, and the group left, Alex staying behind.  George collapsed further, laying in the snow against the mountain.  His knees were feeling slightly better once he was off the chairlift, but the pain was still impossible to ignore.  He supposed the benefit was the pain in his stomach got overshadowed, but he also would have preferred that.  He was so unused to the pain that he couldn't handle it.  A quarter of the way down the slope, George still felt like crying.

"George you wanna ski together?"  Alex asked.

George breathed in.  "Go ahead Alex, I'll be okay." He swallowed.  His eyes burned and he found taking to be a struggle— every part of his body was screaming at him to let himself cry, to break into sobbing until the pain went away or he fell asleep.  He promised himself that night, he would allow himself to cry.  He could easily run the shower and the water would block it out— no one would know. 

It was 11:30am Karl had said.  8:30pm would be a reasonable time to shower.  That was nine hours— he just had to survive nine hours.  Breathe in carefully, shut his eyes, and simply not cry.  He promised himself he could do it. 

Standing up and looking around, George noticed that Alex had left him.   He was glad to be alone, and slowly made his way down the mountain.  His goal?  He planned to go as slow as he could, so he wouldn't have to ride up the chairlift again. 

As it turned out, when you don't know how to ski and try to get down the mountain on the verge of tears, you take a long time to get down the mountain.  Within ten minutes of reaching the bottom, Karl and Techno found him, followed by Dream and Nick a couple minutes later.  They informed him that they'd passed Alex close to the top, and that he'd be down soon. 

After waiting two minutes, which George spent leaning over his poles to take weight off his knees, the four decided to take one last lap and speed run it.  George watched from the sidelines, giving him the perfect angle to watch Dream get taken out by the chairlift.

Dream and Sapnap had decided to ride up the chairlift together, and had seemingly not asked the lift operator to slow down that chair. Be it out of forgetfulness or Dream trying to prove himself, George had no way of knowing given his spot watching. Regardless, the chair seemed to come at Dream fast, and he ended up only sitting on the edge of the chair. Sapnap appeared caught off guard as well, and while he got on the chair, his board went sideways; this caused his board to hit the back of Dream's ski boots, knocking him to the ground where the chair hit him on the way down before the operator stopped it. George winced.

Dream managed to get to George's amazement, and got on the next chair. Nick was watching him, and he looked like he was laughing.

George could couldn't believe Dream.

Before long, the five of his friends returned to the base of the mountain, Alex still coming in last.

"Dream, are you okay?" George asked immediately. He couldn't imagine getting knocked out by the chairlift, riding all the way up it, and then skiing the entire way down. That experience alone would send him back to England the next day, in tears the entire way.

Yet despite the immense pain Dream had to have been in, he laughed. Laughed. "It barley hurt," he said.

It barley hurt.

In that moment, George knew he was being dramatic.  He followed the group towards the main building to get food, not fully pain attention. 

Dream didn't say that he felt no pain. He said that he barley felt it.  If it hadn't hurt, if his friends weren't in pain, he would've known that something was wrong with him.  If he was the only one in pain from skiing, he would need to evaluate why, and if this pain was connected to the pain he felt in his stomach. 

But he wasn't alone in it.  He wasn't unique in his pain. 

His friends felt pain from skiing too, but it didn't affect them.  It barley hurt.  It was something to laugh about, so unimportant, so trivial, that it was immediately ignored.  That pain was nothing to them, but everything to him. 

He couldn't imagine what would happen if he hadn't stopped himself from crying earlier.  It was embarrassing enough as is that he almost did multiple times, but had his friends seen him crying from a pain they found laughable? George would never recover. He hated himself for hour weak he felt. He absolutely hated it. He'd spent the day whining about nothing, doing worse and missing the very limited time that he had with his friends. Sometimes, he couldn't stand himself. 

Karl and Dream had left to get lunch from a cafeteria of some sort at the mountain, leaving everyone else to sit in the snow. There was no places to eat inside the building for obvious reasons, and the six had decided to sit far away from the main building so that no one came in contact with them, especially within the Southern United States.  George had brought the last granola bar he had in his backpack up the mountain with him, as he'd wanted to try it.  He'd eaten them before and been fine, and he'd had no idea what food the ski mountain would have. 

He spent most of lunch spaced out, trying to get his knees to stop hurting.  He stretched his legs out on the snow, lightly hitting his knees in a desperate hope that it would work.  It didn't.   His knees certainly hurt less than they had on the chair, but he wasn't anywhere close to comfortable, nor was he able to fully ignore the pain. 

"I would like to head to the top of the mountain, would anyone like to join me?" Karl asked to the group, jolting George out of his thoughts.

Techno nodded.

"If you guys are okay waiting for me some I'm down," Nick replied.

"Me too," Dream added. 

George looked at Alex.  He was the other one who hadn't done too well skiing, and George knew he couldn't make it down the full mountain, but didn't want to be alone either. 

"Nah, I'll stay on the easy hill," Alex replied, much to George's relief.

"Same," he added.

"Well, we'll see you when the mountain closes then?" Karl asked, looking to Alex and George.

He nodded.  He still wasn't thrilled about being the one that got left behind, but he would much rather be in this situation than get stuck on the mountain. 

In order to best get to the top, Karl, Techno, Dream, and Nick would ride up the beginner chair alongside Alex and George, and go all the way to the right at the top instead of down, where they'd get on another lift that would take them to the top.  Apparently there was another lift that went to the top, but the four would have to go across a long flat section that Nick vetoed. 

When it got time to ride in line, Alex and George were left to ride together.  He was happy to spend time with Alex, but George couldn't help but to feel a pang in his chest as Dream completely ignored him.  He knew he was just being sensitive and he knew he wouldn't feel this way if he hadn't been on the brink of tears since ten in the morning, but it still hurt.  It reminded him of every time in primary school when he would get left behind during sports practice, and mockingly encouraged when they had to run and he was in last.  He hated every bit of sports, and he hated himself for being so sensitive about it.

Blinking rapidly to stop the few tears from welling up in his eyes, George caught up to Alex waiting in line.

"George are you not going to take off your poles?"

"Huh?"

Alex laughed. "Have you been keeping a pole in each hand this whole time?"

George nodded.

"No one told you to take them off oh my gOD," he continued laughing.

George giggled slightly, trying to keep up energy. He supposed it was funny, but he'd been so pushed past the point of exhaustion from the day that he couldn't find the humor of it. He leaned over his poles.

Dream and Nick got on the chair in front of them, Dream managing not to fall off this time. Alex asked the lift operator to stop the chair, and the two headed up the mountain.

Within a few short moments, George felt the pain return in his knees. It had to be from the chairlift— there was no other explanation for the consistent pain. It hadn't yet been as bad, but George knew it would be soon. He tapped his arm on the outer pole of the chair.

"Dude okay, do you actually want to keep skiing?" Alex asked suddenly.

George was so glad he asked that question, and immediately shook his head no.

"Me neither, it's so cold. After this we head inside."

George nodded aggressively. The pain in his knees was beginning to cloud his thoughts, and he didn't trust himself to talk much. He didn't feel like crying then, but he couldn't be sure.

He sat in silence, as Alex shivered next to him and George bit his bottom lip trying to withstand the pain.

Soon, the pain began to shift to his ankles. Bending them did nothing. He tried to straighten his legs out as he did before, realizing that he could no longer feel his knees. It wasn't that they stopped hurting— rather, the pain from his ankles had completely elapsed any feeling George had elsewhere in his body. He tried to bit down harder on his lip; he felt nothing on it. He tried tapping his arm on the chair; he couldn't feel the change in feeling.

All he could feel was a burning, stretching pain in both his ankles, exactly like the pain in his knees but more intense. And they weren't even halfway up the mountain.

George's breath hitched again, and he physically had to put his hand over his mouth the stifle an involuntary sob. A lump quickly formed in this throat. But. He. Would. Not. Cry. Tears burned at his eyes as he squeezed them shut underneath his goggles.

"George, George are you okay?"

Of course Alex had noticed.

Biting his glove through his mask to stop him crying or screaming, George nodded harshly.

There was a pause, but George had no way of reading Alex given and he was leaning to the side, his eyes screwed shut.

"Okay bad question, is your stomach hurting again?"

George couldn't process enough to answer the question.

"Um, is there anything I can do?"

George made a high pitched whining noise that he hoped wasn't audible. He shook his head, biting down harder on his glove as he did so.

"Okay well I'm here for you George." If Alex patted his shoulder, George couldn't feel it over his ankles burning.

He was grateful for the sentiment, but had no way of saying or doing anything to show so. He took a series of shaky breaths from his teeth, resisting the urge to just throw himself off the chairlift because nothing, not even the meters high fall that would shatter his legs, could be more painful than what he was experiencing just then.

After what felt like simultaneously five hours and a minute, the chair had reached the top. At Alex's signal, the chair stopped at the top of the ramp.

George hesitantly opened his eyes and let go of his glove, unwrapped his arm from the chair, and pushed off to ski down the ramp.

Amazingly, he made it. He got down the ramp successfully.

He moved to the left side and screamed a victorious and pained "LESSSS GOOOOO!!" Even he could hear the pain behind the screaming, but he didn't care. The screaming was a good catharsis; there was still a lump in his throat, but it felt manageable. He felt slightly more okay.

Alex gave him a high five that he still couldn't feel, and the two headed down the mountain.

Alex had to wait for him a couple times, but George ultimately made it down without getting left behind. Upon reaching the bottom, he instantly took off his skis and collapsed, face first into the snow. His ankles still hurt. The pain was significantly lessened, and he had gotten his breathing under control, but it still hurt. He felt confident enough to speak, but only because he knew he was finally done with skiing.

Alex took his skis and out them on a metal rack, leading George inside where five tables were spread out across a large, warm room, with signs about wearing as mask at all times.

"George, take off your ski boots and I'll return the gear."

He was too tired to care about his dignity. "Thank you so much," he replied. Even though he didn't want it to, it came out as a whisper. He quickly took off his ski boots, helmet, goggles, and gloves and laid his head on the table.

He stretched his legs straight across the bench beside him, finally alleviating at least some of the pain. He breathed deep. He'd survived skiing.

~

When Alex returned, George was doing significantly better. Alex handed George his vans he'd worn before skiing, and he put them back own gratefully, happy to have actual, comfortable shoes.

What Alex said next, broke any mild happiness that George felt from finally being done with skiing.

"George, I think it's time to consider that you actually have some disease or something wrong with you. This shit is not normal dude."

George shook his head.

"No I'm serious, when you were screaming that night it was genuinely unsettling. That shit barley sounded human, it actually scared me."

George shook his head again, looking down at the wooden table. "Alex, I was just being dramatic. I'm like that."

"I don't think you are George. I don't think you're being dramatic at all. I've heard people act like they're in pain before, but nothing has come close to what was happening with you. Karl and I actually talked before he went in, I was to scared to but I was literally ready to call an ambulance for you. And George, I don't know if you know this, but if you don't have health insurance, you don't call an ambulance in the US unless someone's really dying. That's how scared we were. We were so close to taking you to the hospital man, so close." Alex pinched the bridge of his nose, running a hand over his eyes. "That shit was actually terrifying, there's no way that's normal."

George didn't know what to say. He felt embarrassed for scaring Alex and Karl, but more so, he felt shocked that it wasn't normal. He only remembered a time when he was like this— that first night was possibly the worst night for him in a long time, but he still constantly experienced pain growing up.  He remembered screaming and crying ever since he was a small child about the pain, but his mum always told him he was faking it.  Sometimes, he would come home with a limp.  When he didn't know why, he would be told to knock it off.  When he said he running hurt his entire body, tears streaming down his face, his mum told him that he was just out of shape.  After years and years of being told that he was simply melodramatic, he'd began to believe it himself.

Now, to be sitting in a ski lodge in America during a global pandemic, being told that perhaps he wasn't overreacting, that what he was living with wasn't normal, was a completely foreign experience to him.  Not even a year ago would he expect this complete turn of events. He continued studying the table, running his hands over the smooth sealant covering the dark driftwood.

"George?"

He looked up, still having no idea how to reply. 

"I... I've always been dramatic.  My mum took me to the doctor when I was little about everything.  There's nothing—" George felt his voice crack, as hot tears burned behind his eyes.  He rubbed his hand over his eyes, trying desperately not to cry in the ski lodge because gosh, what a place to break down.  He had stopped himself crying the entire rest of the day, he was not about to loose that streak the first time people could see his eyes. He did not cry over the pain, and he would not cry over his parents being normal parents. It had gotten harder and harder to fight off the tears throughout the day, but George refused to give him. He could cry when he got back to Karl's, and not a minute sooner. He breathed in deep, feeling the shakiness in his breath but refusing to acknowledge it. "There's nothing wrong with me," he finished, knowing it was a lie as soon as the word left his mouth.  He shut his eyes and screwed up his face in an effort to stop himself crying, and once again incredibly thankful for the mask that covered his nose and mouth.

Despite his efforts, Alex still noticed.  He stood up, walking to the other side of the table and sitting down, embracing George in a hug.  George immediately reciprocated, hugging back and burying his face in Alex's shoulder. Alex was warm and comforting, providing George the touch that he lacked, that his missed his whole life, fighting alone. Despite his best efforts to breathe in deep, he let out a choked sob. Alex immediately noticed and squeezed him tighter, bringing his arm to fully surround George's upper torso.

George gave up. Hugging Alex tighter back, he allowed himself to cry— he cried the tears that he never shed alone on calls with his friends, the tears of pain he felt constantly, the cries of the pain in his knees and ankles of the chairlift. Hot tears streamed down his face, soaking his mask. His heavy breaths inhaled the white fabric of it, the fabric mixing with the taste of salt in his mouth. He cried for when his friends had to leave him because he was slow, he cried for the pain that still remained, for the embarrassment, for the shame, for his lost childhood, and for the fact that there was undeniably something wrong with him, even though he never wanted to admit it.  He cried because finally, he had someone. He had Alex to be there for him, who didn't treat him differently or pity him.

He cried into Alex's shoulder until the surface of his windbreaker was slippery. Until he had no tears left.

He stayed there, loosening his grip slightly and laying his head onto Alex. He felt better. His problems weren't fixed, but having a literal shoulder to cry on had helped him more than anything he'd tried during his breakdowns alone. He was beyond thankful to have a friend like Alex Quackity.

After a pause, Alex spoke quietly, still holding George in a hug.  "Your parents fucked up then, and so did that doctor.  George you've gotta have a chronic illness that just got ignored."

George re-tightened his grip after hearing the phrase "chronic illness."  The concept of having such a thing happen to him was utterly terrifying. Although he'd privately thought something was wrong with him for years, hearing someone else say it, unprompted and supporting his conclusion, was something he never thought would happen.  He began to shake again, having no tears, but still breathing rapidly. He held into Alex for dear life— breathing in the mixture of tears, snot, and melted snow in his mask, shaking from his aching ankles to his head.

After some time, George stopped shaking, a feeling of calm washing over him. His eyes stung from dryness and his body was sore, but he felt better. He no longer felt on the brink of tears. Feeling like he could actually focus on a conversation, he disentangled himself from Alex and wiped his eyes. 

"Were you... were you serious?" He asked, wiping the dried tears from his face, accepting that he'd wash his mask when he got back.

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"Oh Gogy... because what your going through isn't normal at all.  I eat garbage and feel fine, and you ate broccoli and cheese and fucking died."

"How do you know you're not just lucky?"

Alex sighed.  "I had a friend growing up that got sick a lot, he ended up having some chronic illness.  It seemed pretty bad for him, but once he got a diagnosis he was able to get better."

"And you think I have the same thing?"

"You have different symptoms than him, but it's the same concept."

George paused.  "I don't... I don't know what to say."  He went in for another hug.  The concept that this pain, all the struggles he'd faced growing up, would never get better or go away was terrifying.

Alex rubbed his hand along his back. "You don't have to say anything, but I'll be here as much as you need me."

"Thank you," George whispered into his still wet jacket.

~

Alex and George were sitting on their phones when the rest of the group found them at almost 4:30.

Greetings were exchanged around, Karl informing George that the rest of them had gone to the top of the mountain, which gave them to option of skiing off a cliff or a ridge. Apparently the ridge wasn't horrifically difficult, but judging by Nick's complaining of his bruises, it was definitely harder than Karl made it out to be.

"How did you like it Dream?" George asked once the conversation had broken apart.

He smiled. "It was easy! Nick won't tell you, but we left him one run to go down a black diamond run."

George always forgot how athletic Dream was. While he'd been struggling to stand up, Dream had apparently used his knowledge of every sport ever to exist to master skiing. Usually he'd be annoyed by the jock-type behavior, but for some reason he couldn't help but smile at Dream.

"How was speedrunning becoming an expert Dream?"

"Awful actually," Dream laughed. "We definitely shouldn't have been on it, Techno and I ate shit so many times.  It was so hard."

George burst out laughing. He was glad Dream wasn't that good at least.

"George, I have so much snow in places I don't want to say," Dream deadpanned.

George laughed at him more. "You ego got to big Dreammm," he teased.

"I— I really can't contest that, can I?" Dream wheezed.

"George, George!" Karl hit his arm lightly. "What did you and Alex do?"

"Easy!  George and I kissed," Alex smiled.

"Oh my gosh, we did not!" George faked his usual annoyance, but he was glad for it.  There would be no mention of their rather serious conversation earlier, which helped him put it from his mind, and ensured no one else got worried about him.

"Nahhh," Alex laughed.  "George is just embarrassed, it's okay Georgie you were good!"

George burst out laughing.

~

On the way back, Dream, Techno, and George stopped at Mc Donald's. Still scared to eat much of substance, George got a small bag of fries and apple slices, citing that he didn't know what else was vegan there. He ate a couple small bites of the fries and half of the apples before feeling full, and threw the rest in a bag.

That night, the six of them discussed stream ideas and George microwaved the blue heat pack Alex gave him. He was able to put it in his hoodie pocket as to not draw suspicion, and further brought his knees to his chest to try and trap heat. The pain enough to render him barley able to move and even less able to fully engage with all that was going on, but he was least able to hold back more tears for the time being.

As the night wore on, the pain became less and less bearable, as the heat pack cooled down. George felt his face going warm as the pain became even sharper and more concentrated in his lower abdomen.

Now unable to focus on the conversation at hand, George leaned into Dream and tried to focus on making himself into a tighter ball. The pain didn't go away.

George's vision started to go blurry, as tears burned at the back of his eyes matching the intensity of the pain. He tried to lay on his side on the couch, and instantly felt his stomach rising to his throat. Oh.

He sat back up, squinting his eyes and pulling up his phone to hide his face. His phone unlocked and he pulled up messages, hoping to ask Alex if he could leave.

OW. He tapped on messages, the screen blurring from the tears misting his eyes that he refused to let fall.

It hurts is this important duck this hurts

He tapped send. George no longer had any concept of time, but Alex texted back confirmation that he should leave.

Getting up proved to be hard. Shutting his eyes tightly and pushing off the couch, George stood up and felt is brain go fuzzy. Opening his eyes, he found the world marred with glowing black spots all around. He fell back down on the couch.

God, he was a disaster. The fact that he'd black out when he got up was nothing new to him, but it always seemed to come and go in waves, just as the pain did. Most of all though, he hated it because it was annoying.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the black spots in his vision. Feeling silent tears stream down his face and his torso frozen in pain, he quickly tried to rub his face on his shirtsleeve. There was no way he could focus on the rest of the group anymore, but he hoped with every fiber of his being that no one was paying attention to him.

George tried to stand up again. He felt as though he swayed slightly, but managed to slowly walk out of the room and down the hall. If anyone questioned him on what he was doing, George was too far gone to notice. Feeling as if he was acting on autopilot, George walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower and took off his clothes, stepping in and attempting to hold himself upright by holding onto the showerhead.

Almost immediately, he leaned against the side wall, slid down, and burst into violent sobs.

Chapter Text

Dream stared at himself in the mirror, running a damp hand through his hair.

He'd been obsessing over his hair for longer than he ever had before, using a box a hair gel Karl offered him to get his short dark blond hair in the right place. As soon as he'd decided to do a face reveal and face camera stream with George, he'd completely forgotten how he ever did his hair.

Normally, he just woke up and left it. But what did his hair look like when he left it? He certainly didn't remember. He'd gone in with the intention of fixing a few loose strands of hair that fell straight down, and ended up redoing his hair many times over. He'd put so much water and hair gel in his hair it looked brown, and he couldn't for the life of him remember what it normally looked like.

Dream placed his hands on either side of the sink, leaning against the counter and sighing. He knew this wasn't hard, he knew he would be fine, but he couldn't just get his hair right. He couldn't get his hair to fit him.

He was at least glad he'd be wearing a mask. Karl had suggested it when Dream began pacing the night prior. The face mask would certainly get edited in screenshots to varying ahegao faces or something equally awful, but he didn't mind. For one, it would be funny, and for two he didn't care. It was another traditionally "weird" topic that Dream simply didn't see the appeal of making fun of people for. The real reason for the mask was to hide his facial expressions— he was so incredibly nervous about showing his face to the whole of the internet, that he was worried about looking weird or uninterested and getting psychoanalyzed by the whole of the internet. He'd never gotten much feedback on his facial expressions as he was generally good at socializing but he couldn't help but to overthink it. What if he made the wrong expressions because he was reading chat or something else and got flamed for it? More than likely he'd just be awkward. Regardless, no scenario was good for him, and the mask would prevent most all of it. His fans would only see his eyes and hair— something he was perfectly fine with.

Well, he'd be fine with people seeing his hair if he could actually make it look correct.

Picking up the hair gel, Dream resumed running his hands through his hair at different angles. The hair gel was a weird consistency, but allowed his hair to go where he placed it.

He thought back the trip so far— meeting his friends had been a dream come true. Even with the pandemic, they were still able to do things. He'd had the stream planned tonight on George's channels, then a bigger stream on Karl's with the six of them.

George— George was quieter than Dream had anticipated.

George had always said he was an introvert, and barley spoke to anyone, but Dream never realized quite how true that was until he met him in real life. The man was almost as introverted as technoblade, just less awkward. It was such a strange concept to Dream, but it was true. While Techno would leave the room, George would stay in the living room, curled up in a ball on the couch, but other than that there was no noticeable difference. George would not participate often in conversations speaking only to make a joke or if he was called on. He went silent during arguments, even joking ones.

It took Dream some getting used to as he'd never seen George as the shy type in person.

The one thing that was consistent, was the sleeping thing. Thus far, they'd set alarms, but as a result of getting up early and likely due to jet lag, George would go to sleep incredibly early. Just last night, as they had been planning future streams, George silently left, looking genuinely exhausted.

Dream couldn't fully read his expressions— he didn't know why, but the only thing he could think of was that George had been pushed past the point of exhaustion last night. He was laying against Dream with his eyes shut, an unreadable expression in his face, until suddenly leaving without a word. He'd gotten up, sat back down, then gotten up and walked out. The entire time, his face was unreadable. Dream could tell he certainly wasn't happy, past that he had no idea.

He was slightly worried. He supposed these actions could be normal; George was always sleeping in on calls and would sometimes just not respond to any messages. It seemed like the real life equivalent that George would just leave rooms and go to sleep early. Still, something about it didn't sit right with Dream, but he couldn't figure out what was. The man had literally gone to bed at seven pm. Seven.  There had to be something behind that.

George was a very closed off person by nature, and even Dream, his best friend, had only seen him cry once.  It was the night after he had to put his old cat, Luca down.   Even then, Dream himself had to FaceTime George to ask how he was coping. 

He remembered that night vividly— it was the only time he had ever seen George act vulnerable.  George already looked sadder than Dream had seen him before, and as soon as he said the words "are you okay?" George had burst into tears, dropping his phone face-up on his desk so that Dream could only see his hands covering his face.  Through his quiet tears, Dream could tell George was trying to restrain himself from crying harder.  In that moment, Dream's heart had shattered.   As a highly empathetic person, Dream felt the pain that George was experiencing after loosing his pet, and further felt awful that George was so scared to allow himself to cry in front of his best friend.

Since that night, Dream had assumed that George was struggling with his mental health more than he would ever admit.  He never said anything, but there were brief moments where his facade dropped, and Dream saw the sadness in him.   And he had no idea how to bring it up.

The other thing Dream had noticed, was George's eating habits.  He'd been excited about going vegan when Dream had last talked to him, but since arriving he'd eaten nothing but applesauce, crackers, and two bites of a granola bar.  There was zero possible way he could have been getting enough calories to survive.  Dream had done some research, and found that the most common type of eating disorder emerged from trying to eat "healthy."  Dream had never personally had any problem with his body image— he wasn't overconfident and he'd always been very physically fit— but he'd known some people in high school sports that did.  He assumed it was a similar situation and vowed to himself to make George eat other things, but past that he had no idea.  He couldn't tell anyone either; there was no way he'd tell one of George's personal secrets to anyone else.  Still, he was worried and confused about how to help his favorite person.  He loved George, and never wanted to see him suffer.

More so, while he did love him, Dream wished George would spend more time with him.   George spent most the time on his phone, and as the six of them planned to leave back to their respective houses before Christmas, he wanted got make the most of his time in person before George was across the Atlantic again.  He supposed that was what the stream would be a good way to talk to him.

Right. The stream.

Dream jolted out of his thoughts and checked his phone. He'd been in the bathroom messing with his hair for an entire hour. Looking into the mirror, he decided it was fine. He wasn't fully happy with his hair, but he couldn't justify touching it anymore. 

Putting on his white cloth mask, he checked his appearance in the mirror.  It worked for him; he hadn't ever been picky about his appearance.  He tapped the counter lightly with this hand and walked out of the bathroom to his friends waiting in the living room. 

"Dream, I have an idea," Karl immediately told him, standing up from his spot on the L-shaped couch.

Dream gave a small nod, indicating Karl to continue.

"You should draw the smile on you mask."

Techno immediately spoke up in response.  "Draw only the mouth, then your skin will be the cartoon mouth with human eyes."

Dream burst out laughing.  He immediately took off the mask, handing it to Karl. 

The two exchanged a couple of glances to indicate Dream was in full support of drawing on the mask, and Karl added a single, shaky smile line.

He put the mask back on, the thing now vaguely smelling of sharpie fumes. 

"It's perfect."

~

"Hey guys!" George greeted the stream brightly, enabling the webcam and waving.  Dream stood off to the side, out of view and smiling.

He glanced to the laptop he brought that he was using as a second monitor, and hit enter on a message that Dream had helped him type up.  It was essentially a warning to the mods— telling them that Dream would be showing his face and to prepared for the twitch chat and discord servers to get spammed to shit.  He admired the mods for their persistence, but Dream assumed everything would be effectively untamable.  The stream would certainly get a lot of views— and it was only rational to Dream that they should go to George.

"I tweeted I had an exciting stream planned today, and as you can see I'm in a different room.  So..." George beckoned to Dream to come on camera, and he immediately stuck his hand out, showcasing his own neon green hoodie and a pair of black bike gloves he'd bought.  He thought it would be funny to cosplay himself.

The two of the looked at chat, which got immediately spammed with question marks and "DREAM."

"Come on," George said, smiling and pulling Dream into frame.

Dream forgot how awkward it was to look at himself while trying to talk in stream mode.  The cast of the screen was visible in a corner of the monitor George was using to stream, and his own image on twitch.tv startled him.   "Hi," he managed, giving a small salute and pulling an extra swivel chair next to George and sitting down.

He immediately broke into laughter.  Chat was completely unintelligible; he was just as shocked himself to be on camera, in front of over a hundred thousand people that had joined.

"It's Dream, he's real!" George shook him slightly as if to prove he wasn't a mirage, smiling.

Dream waved both his hands awkwardly, still not fully knowing what to do and knowing the chat wouldn't be calming down anytime soon.   He supposed it was what he got for waiting so long to show his face on the internet.

"George finally knows what I look like!" He joked, continuing the common bit.  As if he'd never called George on FaceTime— of course they used FaceTime, the average phone plan in the US didn't include calls to numbers outside the country.

The interspersed banter went on for some time, as Dream began to find himself more comfortable in front of the camera, pushing his chair constantly against George's in attempts to stay in frame. 

George giggled.  "They're spamming height reveal now."

The chat had taken to spamming various requests over and over, trying to get as many screenshots for... whatever they needed.

Dream laughed.  "Georgeee, you're going to look so short."

George simply rolled his eyes. "I'm not that short."

Bending to the will of thousands, the two got up and stood against the wall, just as Karl and Alex had done in their stream.  Dream made sure to stand up straight, and he predictably towered over George.

~

"Dream and George, who is more flexible," George read out, trying to catch up with the mass amount of questions donated to them.  "Me I think," he answered.

"Really?"

"Yeah I've always been very flexible actually.  Here, watch."  George stood up and walked to the back wall smiling.   He immediately touched his hands flat on the floor, bending over in perfect form, knees straight.

"wHAT?" Dream responded.  How. 

George giggled.  "Try it Dream, try it."

"Oh come on now!" Dream responded, but got up anyways.  He had never been flexible, but he never would have expected to get immediately called out on it the first time he streamed with a face camera. 

Standing next to George who was still touching the ground, he tried to copy the exact thing George was doing.  His hands barley reached past his knees. 

George immediately began laughing at him, falling out of his freakishly bendy position to sit on the ground.

Dream just shook his head, heading back to his chair.

"No seriously, do you want to see how flexible I am?" George asked once they sat back down.  George only paused for a second before continuing.  "So first of all I can do this—" he brought his right leg up with his hand, stretching it straight above his head.

Dream audibly gasped.  "HOW?"

George merely shrugged, smiling.  "Here here, this is my favorite trick," He added, and immediately bent his thumb to the inside of his forearm, the switching hands and doing the same with the other. 

"What the fuck?!" Dream burst out, dropping his family friendly demeanor.  He tried to do the same thing to his own thumb, and couldn't even get past a 90 degree angle before it started hurting. 

George kept laughing at him, smiling harder and more genuinely than Dream had seen him since he arrived. 

"I can also bend my other fingers backwards," he added.  Giving a smirk to the webcam, he used one hand to bend the fingers of his other hand physically backwards, until they were perpendicular to the back of his hand.  If you looked at the correct angle at the palm of his hand, you would physically not be able to see his fingers.

"George wHAT?!" Dream wheezed, having physically flinched at the sight of George's hand.  He could feel the pain of him trying to pull that, and felt as though his fingers would break off.

George merely smiled, giggling at Dream’s  reaction.

~

As the stream hit the three hour mark, Dream stifled a yawn into his hand.  It was getting late, and he could tell George was getting tired as well.

George looked up from thanking people for gifting subscriptions, meeting Dream's eyes.  The two exchanged eye contact, both communicating that they were ready to end stream.

"Well," George gave a small clap, glancing over to Dream.  "This has been surreal, and thank you all..." He went into his outro as Dream leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.  The bike gloves had been fun but they'd gotten sweaty quick; he attempted to run some of the moisture on his hands into his crunchy hair.  He couldn't wait to take them off.

As George finished talking, he waved to the camera as George pressed the end stream button. 

They were done.  "Oh.  my.  gosh." he said aloud, leaning back again and throwing off his gloves before ripping off the face mask. 

George smiled at him.  "How do you feel?"

Dream didn't know how to identify the feelings swirling through his body.  "Good.  I think.  I'm scared to check twitter and screenshots though."  He gave a small smile. 

George walked over to his chair and held his arms out.  Taking the invitation, Dream stood up and tightly embraced his best friend. 

He'd done it.

Standing there, resting his head on top of George, Dream began to return to reality.  He became aware of his physical form again, and the lack of bike gloves allowed him to hold his hands normally again.  "I love you George," he breathed without fully thinking it through. 

"You smell like sweat," George responded. 

The two laughed, breaking apart.

~

"Hey Dream?" George asked, causing Dream to look up from his phone.  Instead of going on twitter per usual, he'd been reading the patch updates for the newest Mojang screenshots.   "Niki wanted to call, and you okay with that?"

He smiled, nodding and putting away his phone. 

George brought up discord on the main computer, and entered a video call directly with Niki. 

They quickly exchanged introductions, talking about the stream and how Dream was no longer a faceless YouTuber.

"So George, I have a question for you, are you okay with Dream here?  It's about how flexible you are, I promise it's not weird." Niki said carefully.

George looked over to Dream and nodded. 

"I had this friend when I used to dance, and she had this disorder where she was really flexible just like you.  Have you ever heard of that?"

Dream watched George shake his head.

"Well, it's called oiler's dam-los I believe.  It made her really flexible but she also dislocated her joints a lot and she had to quit dance because of it.  It took her years to get a diagnosis too, so I thought you might like to know about it in case you have it." She gave a soft smile.

George had an unreadable expression on his face, giving a quiet "huh," in response.

"Here I can look it up!" Niki added.  After some typing on her computer, she continued.  "It's actually called Ehlers Danlos Syndrome.  The symptoms are overly flexible joints and elastic, easily bruised skin.  My friend had some pain from it as well.  She sent me the test doctors use to test people, would you like me to give it to you George?"

Dream took the pause to interrupt awkwardly.  "George, do you want me to leave?" he asked in an audible whisper. 

George's expression was unreadable— his lips were pressed ever so slightly together, and his eyes were focused directly ahead to the screen.  Without changing his facial expression, he nodded his head and extended his hand into Dream's lap, where they grasped hands.

Oh, Dream realized.  He was scared.  He gave George's had a small squeeze, running his thumb in circles over his hand.  He turned his gaze to George, leaving the monitor with Niki's video in his peripheral visions. 

"I would like that Niki," George said, his voice soft and flat.

"Alright," Niki gave a a reassuring smile.  "This is called the Beighton Score.  So you can bend your fingers backwards, can you do that to both hands?"

George shook his head.  "Only my left."

"And you can bend your thumbs back as well.  George, could you extend your arms out and relax?  I need to see if your elbows overextend.  It's just like this," she demonstrated, holding both her arms out straight to for a T with her body.

George quickly let go of Dream's hand, all warmth fading fast.  Dream would have missed the gloves, if the weren't soaking wet.  He scooted his chair back towards the end of frame and George moved his back, copying Niki's pose.

Niki noted something down, but Dream couldn't hear it.  The two moved back towards the computer, prompting Niki to continue.

"Now George, hm..." she paused for a second.  "Alright, I want you to put your leg in Dream's lap, and Dream you hold his leg in place.  The just relax your leg like you did before."

They did as asked, but Dream felt weird about it.  There wasn't anything inherently that off about the situation, but grabbing onto George's sock in front of a webcam was never a place Dream expected to be.

After what felt like too long looking at the tan carpet, Niki called them to switch legs, then eventually allowed them to return, the two quickly breaking apart at the instructions.  Dream wiped his hands on his dark blue jeans, trying to get rid of the feel of the fabric. 

"...And you can touch the floor."  Niki looked up.  "Both of you, can you stretch the skin on your forearm, right next to your elbow please?"

Dream pushed up his hoodie sleeves and grabbed his skin.  It felt rather pointless— his skin didn't exactly stretch. 

Looking over, Dream understood why Niki had brought it up.  George was able to actually pull his skin away from his body by pinching it, creating a near-two dimensional, rounded triangle shape. 

"How?" He asked incredulous. 

George looked confused.  "This is normal to me," he responded. 

"Look at my arm George, it doesn't do that."  He had no idea how no one had ever noticed that. 

George simply responded with a soft hum, and turned his attention back to Niki, rolling the sleeve of his own sweatshirt back down. 

"If you cut yourself, does it take a longer than others to heal?" Niki asked.

George nodded.

"Do you have any scars?  And if you do do they look..." she leaned forwards to read something.  "Paper-y?"

George paused, looking like he was thinking before shaking his head no.

"Do you bruise easily?"

He nodded.

"George, I'm sending you a list of numbered questions because they might be a little awkward.  Please answer whichever ones you feel comfortable answering and message it back to me." Niki gave a soft smile. 

Dream spun around to face the wall, giving George space to answer whatever questions Niki had given him to answer.  Dream was incredibly curious and he supposed he could look it up, but he felt like it would be an invasion of privacy to do so.  He sighed.  He had no idea how much George hid from him, but he was honored that George even let him be in the room for this discussion.  He refused to betray what little trust George had given him— even if he didn't understand or know George's motives, he respected them nonetheless.

"You can turn back around Dream," George called, his voice still quiet.  Dream did so. "And thank you," George added.

"Okay George, you got a seven out of nine on the Beighton score, which indicates you do have this.  Since you answered yes to a lot of the other questions, there's a high chance that you have hyper-mobile Ehler's Danlos."

George didn't respond, instead staring fixated at the screen and placing his hand back in Dream's lap.  Dream took his hand, rubbing circles in attempts to comfort his friend.

"The good thing is that most people don't have very bad symptoms.  My friend was an anomaly, and since you're older and don't do sports, I think you'll be good.  I just thought you should be aware of it, and beware that you can dislocate something easier.  Do you have any questions?”

George shook his head.  "Thank you," he responded, his voice changed slightly, but remaining unreadable.  Dream could infer some amount of fear still, but George's voice was mixed with other emotions, emotions he couldn't read.

"Of course." Niki smiled.

"I'm going to leave now is that okay?" George's voice was calm, and still completely unreadable past that.

"Of course, don't hesitate to text me ab—" Her words were cut off as George ended the call, sinking down in his chair until only his neck was on the back.  Dream let go of his hand.

"Are you okay?"

George nodded.  Dream didn't believe it, but let it slide. 

"It's good that you don't have that many symptoms, right?" He asked, trying to reassure George.  He couldn't imagine what the man was going through.

George gave a small nod, and placed a hand across his eyes, rubbing them with the palm of his hand.

"It's good you don't play sports too I guess."

George nodded again. 

"Just Minecraft, can't hurt your joints playing Minecraft," Dream smiled, trying to lighted George's spirits.

George gave another nod.  When he spoke again, his voice was calm but so layered, so masked, that Dream found no indication of how he was doing behind it.  "I'm going to shower and then go back to our room.  Can you wait until I'm asleep to come to your bed?"

For anyone else, Dream would have refused.  He wanted to go immediately to sleep.  Yet for George, he didn't mind at all, simply nodding and watching him and his weird little walk leave the room. 

Dream went back to the 1.17 patch notes. 

Chapter Text

"Guys, I have the greatest stream idea," Alex jumped over the couch to where the five of them were sitting.  "We get drunk and play paranoia!"

Dream laughed.  "Aren't you underage?"

"And?  I'm not in Mexico"

"Isn't that TOS still?"

"Okay stream idea: we don't officially get drunk but we play paranoia on stream."

"That sounds like it'll go downhill, I'm all for it."

George agreed, it would quickly devolve into sex jokes, but he was long past the point of being bothered by them.  

Karl felt the same, and Sapnap hinted that one of them should buy him alcohol beforehand.  Techno said nothing. 

"Techno?"

"Heh?"

"How do you feel about playing paranoia?" Karl asked. 

"Heh?"

"It's that game where you ask someone a who's most likely to question privately, and they say the answer out loud.  After that, if they win a game of rock paper scissors they don't say the question, but if they loose they say the question out loud."

Techno gave a small nod to indicate understanding. 

"Wait," George added.  "Did you just call it rock paper scissors?"

Karl looked confused.  "Yeah?"

"It's scissors paper stone."

Alex laughed.  "What the fuck?  ScissOrs pAp'r stONE?" He mocked George's British accent. 

George laughed. "That's what it is!"

"Stone?  Stone?  Why are you guys so pretentious?" he cackled. 

"It's just... it's a stone!  That's what it's called!"

The 'argument' continued for several minutes before dying down and the room falling into a comfortable silence.  

"So," Alex continued returning to the previous topic, "Techno you should play paranoia with us."

Techno's expressions were always hard to read for George— they never quite lined up with his body movements, and were often flat and limited.  After a long time knowing him, George could read the inflection in his voice, but given the lack of face cam, throwing expressions in the mix complicated his understanding of the man.   Given the body language of the others, George assumed he wasn't alone in struggling to read Techno. 

"We can set boundaries for what you don't want to answer!" Karl jumped in awkwardly. 

Techno gave a slight nod at that. 

"It's creative questions too!  You can use your english major skills."

Techno hesitated before answering.  "Alright, just don't ask me who I'll have sex with of you guys.  Because the answer is none of you."

George giggled slightly at that answer.  

"We won't involve you in any romantic or sexual questions, anything else?"

"Also, nothing that would get anyone cancelled," Karl added. 

"I'll play a couple rounds with you guys on stream."

Alex cheered. 

~

George opened discord, re-reading the message Niki sent him for the umpteenth time.  She'd sent him a list of symptoms and a website, too many of which George related to. 

His joints clicked often. 

They hurt a lot— especially after skiing. 

He was always tired. 

He always got bruises from seemingly nothing. 

He'd always had a sensitive stomach. 

He always got dizzy and often got black spots in his visions from standing up. 

The last two items on the list didn't describe him, so he didn't care about those. 

He re-read the list of symptoms that fit him again.  Ever since last night, he'd been in a constant state of pushing all thoughts of chronic illnesses out of his head and obsessing over them at the same time. 

The entire experience felt fake— it was an obscure syndrome that he never would have assumed he had, but he matched the description of it perfectly.  More so, was that it didn't even explain most the struggles that he was going though.   He found nothing of his continued struggles to eat food in relation to his joints— only that his symptoms could, and would, get worse with time.  

The other problem, was that George couldn't tell the sereity of Ehlers Danlos— some websites said that it left people permanently disabled and bedridden, while others said people lived a mostly normal life with it.  George couldn't figure out which was correct.  He assumed it either existed on a spectrum or that some people were more resilient that others, but which one he couldn't figure out.  He didn't know where he even stood either— was he just weaker?  Did he have bad symptoms?  Or was he being dramatic and this was simply a working of his subconscious to deflect blame away from his own failings and onto a disorder that barley affected him?

He'd always thought he was fine and simply dramatic, but as he read more and more and compared his experiences to others, he was beginning to realize that maybe what he lived with wasn't normal.   It was possible that there was something wrong with him, something that genuinely affected his everyday life. 

Allowing his phone screen to go black, George remembered back to his childhood. 

He was eight.  It was a rare, sunny afternoon in England, that he'd spent outside, throwing a ball around with his sister.  The day had been good— his mum had given them lemonade, and he was chasing his sister around the yard.   He didn't want to chase her; despite his wishes, she's started a game of tag that he knew he would loose.  He always lost tag.  He was a slow runner, so he was never able to catch up to anyone and was always "it."  At eight, his deep-seated hatred of tag hadn't fully developed, and he still chased his sister, knowing it was hopeless. 

She ran onto the patio, jumping off a small retaining wall, about a quarter of a meter tall, and ran in a large circle around their yard.  George followed, jumping off the retaining wall himself, but landing with a sickening crunch in his right ankle.  Being a child, he didn't immediately notice until he tried to keep running.  He fell after two steps, slamming his face onto the decorative bricks that cut his face, hands, and knees. 

He immediately burst into tears. 

His sister continued running until she noticed him, and stopping and standing over him curiously.  His mum and dad were inside, watching the television and blissfully unaware of what was happening. 

"Georgeeee stop crying!  You'll get me in trouble," she said, hitting him slightly with her foot. 

George only kept crying, in too much pain to respond or bargain.  

His sister paused slightly, before sitting down on the ground and pushing her hands into the bricks until there was an indent.  She smeared some dirt on them, and then apparently satisfied, she broke out into fake sobs, drowning out George's very real ones.  

"Muuuum!  Daaaad!" She cried, running into the house to get their attention.  "George pushed me and I fellll!"  She let out another dramatic, faked sob. 

As he heard the bustle his parents tending to his sister, George began to panic.  He didn't blame his sister for what happened, but she'd immediately tried to blame him anyways.  Knowing he was about to get in trouble for accidentally hurting himself, George cried even harder, still laying face-first on the pavement, now surrounded by droplets of his own blood and tears. 

After some time, his dad came outside.  "George!  You know better than to push your sister!" He had scolded. 

George tried to choke out a denial that he'd done anything of the sort, but failed in his tears.  

"Alright, get up," his dad said, pulling him up by his arms and standing George on his feet.  

His right ankle couldn't hold weight.  When his dad let go of him, he collapsed back onto the pavement, sobs wracking his body.  This illicited a sigh from his father. 

"Come on, your sister has dropped it already, it's time for you to stop crying."

Trying to communicate, George pointed to his right ankle, hitting his dad's leg to get his attention. 

George didn't clearly remember the exact exchange that happened next, but he remembered his father dismissing that anything was wrong with him and carrying him inside to the dining room table where his sister was.  His parents then went to get him a band-aid for his chin and knees, and talked in hushed turns out of earshot. 

As they did so, George distinctly remembered the glint in his sister's eyes as she looked at him and smiled. 

"Don't tell mum and dad I lied or I'll say you pushed me again," she whispered to him.  

George hadn't stopped crying the entire time, and he didn't stop when his sister hit him and told him to stop at the counter.   Even at eight years old, he knew something was wrong.  His ankle hurt more than any pain he'd experienced, and he couldn't find the words to explain that he really was hurt and that he didn't push his sister.  

His mum came back to the table first.   She wiped the blood off George's chin with a alcohol pad that stung, and opened a plain bandaid to put over the cut.  Even through his pain, George remembered he was incredibly mad that he didn't get a cool pokémon bandage.  

"George?" his mom asked kindly, moving his hair out of his face.   "Can you stop crying and listen please?"

George shook his head.

"George, I need you to stop, now." She repeated. 

George shook his head again.  He couldn't.

"George, apologize for pushing your sister, she could have gotten seriously hurt," his dad added. 

He tried to talk to say that he was seriously hurt, but failing to get any words out.  This only angered his parents further, who thought he was acting antagonistic on purpose, rather than out of a genuine and semi-serious injury. 

Having enough of his shenanigans, his father sent him to his room.   Feeling unable to walk, George only screamed and cried harder.

His father had shouted that he was grounded, and carried him up the stairs to his bedroom, George still in tears.  His father told him to "man up," and to stop forcing people to carry him, leaving George in this room and shutting the door. 

George remembered laying on the floor in the fetal position the entire rest of the day, crying himself himself into a fitful sleep on the carpet. 

George sighed, rubbing his temples before leaning back on Karl's couch, returning to the present.  

That day had been one of his least favorite days— he still couldn't remember why or if his parents ever got him up for dinner, but he remembered waking up on the floor in the early morning.  When he went to sit up, his ankle had made another clicking sound, reliving much of the pain.  He was able to delicately limp on it, and had moved to laying on his bed, where he hugged the teddy bear he'd had.  Until it was time for him to get up, he had cried into his stuffed toy, hugging it tightly, trying to make up for the lack of comfort his parents gave him. 

Later that day, George apologized in front of his parents to his sister, and she privately mocked him afterwards.

He had a limp for a month or so after that incident, and even in adulthood his right ankle still clicked, and would sometimes hurt.  His sister never apologized.  It wasn't like he was truly mad at his sister— he was more angry at his parents for not noticing than his sister who was a child at the time— but he'd always wished the family would address what happened that day.  As time went on, he became more sure that his parents had forgotten the pain he was in, and that his sister had forgotten the incident entirely. 

A couple Christmases ago, his parents brought up the story in attempts embarrass George to some family friends.  

He was 21 when this happened, and actually started crying a little when his parents were telling it.  That day had long been one of George's worst and most painful memories— not only did he get physically hurt and never fully heal from it, but he had always felt betrayed by his parents for it, and still did frankly.  George knew he was a dramatic child— even if he was beginning to question if he was simply a chronically ill child— but he felt as if his parents had crossed a line.  He was laying in a puddle of blood and tears when his father found him, yet somehow, somehow, his father had ignored him.  His parents didn't even acknowledge his ankle either, even when he couldn't stand up on his own.  Even that day, George had to take an ibuprofen because his ankle was hurting from a day of walking around at the shops.  The same ankle he had hurt all those years go.  Yet, his parents shared a hearty laugh with their friends about it.  They thought it was hilarious that George had apparently hurt himself trying to hurt push his sister.  His dad had even added in a comment about how George was apparently mad at them for "catching him," and kept pretending to be hurt.  

Pretending.  Nothing quite stung George as much as his father stating that all his injuries were made up.  Even though he couldn't say it at the time and was too afraid of confronting his parents afterwards, he always knew something was wrong with him that day.  He always knew that no matter how dramatic he was throughout the rest of his childhood, on that summer afternoon he had not faked nor exaggerated at single thing.  He hated it— he hated how it was a joke to his parents, he hated that they never took him seriously, he hated that they never asked about it, and most of all, he hated that he was never brave enough to tell them the truth.  Because truly, there was no real reason for them to know something was wrong with George, since he never said anything.

Regardless, his parents laughed it off and moved to other childhood stories.  Neither realized their son had gone quiet, silent tears falling down his face that he wiped away with the fabric of his hoodie. 

Rage boiled up inside George, and he brought his legs to his chest, allowing his phone to fall down into the couch vision fabric next to Dream.  He had been a child, a small child, that had seriously hurt himself on his own.  And his parents, his caregivers, the ones he went to everything for and still did, had ignored him.  They told him off for something his didn't do— for allegedly pushing his sister, when his sister was fine and he physically couldn't stop crying.  What kind of parent allows their child to go through that and think it's fine?  More so, why didn't they check on him?  Why did they let him miss dinner?  Why did they let him sleep on floor, unmoving?  

Also, he was still mad about the Pokémon bandaids.  He found that to be the worst offense; he had clearly been given a normal bandaid as punishment, but he was continually denied any Pokémon bandaids while his chin healed.  Thinking back, George did remember his parents wondering how the took so long to heal, and he still had a small scar from it.  

Regardless, as soon as he moved out George had bought Pokémon bandaids.  Because he was an adult, who made adult decisions and was mad about events from his childhood.  

As the the NHS's description of "joints that dislocate easily," rang through his head, he became more and more sure that he'd dislocated his ankle that day.  His ankle had never been the same afterwards, and the description matched what he knew about dislocations.  He'd hurt that same ankle many times throughout his life— he must have dislocated it. 

While the EDS label had seemed so foreign at first, the more George thought about it, the more epiphanies he had about his entire life.  His fingers locking up and hurting, his knees hurting whilst skiing— it all came to his connective tissues.  Having a label brought with it an overwhelming and indescribable feeling of belonging.  He was comforted that he wasn't completely over dramatic, terrified of what it meant for the future, and ultimately happy that he'd found a label.   There was a lot that he still didn't understand, he didn't understand his stomach pains and he didn't know how much he was truly affected, but he was starting to understand. 

He wanted to research more about Ehlers Danlos, and then he'd tell Alex.  He was almost excited in a way to tell him— a strange turn of events from when he was in England just a couple days ago, terrified to say the slightest thing was wrong with him.  He knew Alex would support him, and frankly, he just wanted a hug and for someone to tell him he hadn't overreacted that day.  Of course, he still couldn't bring himself to think about what his chronic illnesses meant for the future, but he chose to take progress where you can. 

"Gogy!" Alex, speak of his friend, called to him, bringing him back to the reality of Karl's couch.  "We're gonna start streaming in 15, get ready."

He nodded, moving to sit at the edge of the couch and blinking to prepare himself.  Standing up, he looked through the black spots in his vision and walked to the bathroom to get ready.  

~

"What is up chat??!  Today we're playing paranoia Dream's face!" Alex greeted his stream. 

Dream wheezed beside George, where they we waiting just out of camera shot.   He smiled.  George was incredibly thankful for the distraction stream gave him— being around his friends would give him a reprise from his thoughts, and hopefully help him ignore the growing, persistent pain in his stomach that came with coming out of his thoughts. 

After Alex and Karl set up the beginnings of stream, George, Dream, Sapnap, and Techno sat on the floor of Karl's first guest room.  Despite Sapnap's continual hinting, none of them had any alcohol. Dream had a red blanket on his lap and was still wearing his face mask, and George had the blue heat pack in the pocket of his hoodie, placing it against his body through the fabric.  Techno had a piece of string he'd found somewhere and was fidgeting with it.  Sapnap appeared to be the only one capable of sitting still.  

"Dream!  George!  You can't sit next to each other, we gotta ask you guys questions," Alex stated, inserting himself in the limited space between George and Dream.  George moved to the side to give him space, noting that the stream camera was now pointed at the ground as to accurately pick up the group on the floor.  

Alex started, whispering something in Dream's ear, to which Dream immediately responded with George's name.  Alex laughed, and Dream won the game of scissors paper stone.  Alex laughed even harder.  

Dream leaned over to whisper a question in Sapnap's ear.  

Sapnap considered for a second, before stating "definitely Techno."

He lost the scissors paper stone match.

"Dream asked who would be most likely to throw a molotov cocktail at a cop car."

The circle burst into laughter.  

"Chat's just spammin' ACAB," Techno called out, looking at the laptop they'd put on the floor for chat and laughing.  

"Well?" George asked, hoping Techno would elaborate. 

"All I'm saying is I cannot confirm nor deny my involvement in throwing CS gas canisters back at the police."

Dream wheezed.  "What?"

"Well maybe if they didn't want it thrown back at their face, they shouldn't've given to us."

"Oh. My. God. Techno."

"I don't see why you guys are surprised, I am an anarchist."

George was still laughing.  "It's not a bit?"

"George, you can't read Emma Goldman and not realize you're an anarchist."

George didn't know who Emma Goldman was, but he giggled regardless.  

"I think all of you should read Emma Goldman," Techo added. 

"I'll add it to my reading list," George replied.    He wasn't violent like Techno was and he'd never learned much about anarchism, but he figured at the very least he could piss off his Tory Aunt by reading it.  

"Yeahhh anarchy Pog," Techno quoted chat, then whispered something into Karl's ear. 

Karl immediately doubled over in laughter.  "Umm," he began.  "Probably Sapnap."

Karl lost scissors paper stone.  "Okay for the chat," he prefaced, "Techno decided to rent a hotel room instead of staying at my house, and he asked who would be the first person to initiate kicking him out to um, have sex."

George lost it.  

"If you had to, who would you do in the circle," Karl whispered into George's ear.  

George sighed, rolling his eyes.  It was an obvious question, but he couldn't say he didn't expect it.  "Dream" he stated, trying his hardest to come off in the joking flirtatious tone he usually spoke about Dream in.  It was surprisingly harder when face-to-face with the man. 

"George," Dream returned, holding out his hand. 

George chose paper.  

Dream, scissors. 

Fuck. 

"Tell me George, what's it about?"

"I— um..." George could feel his checks going red.  "Karl asked uh... who I would, yknow..." He looked down.  

"Do what?" Dream responded, clearly knowing what but wanting George to say it. 

"Erm... do uh, have sex with."

"DNF!" Karl shouted as the group burst into laughter. 

"Mmm, is it because I'm hot George?"

"wHAT?" George wasn't aware he could get more red. "No— I mean, well, yes, b-but..." He dropped his face to the ground as shouting erupted in the room around him.  

"Oh Georgeie, cmon," Dream called walking over to the door of the room. 

"Dream wHAT??"

"Just do it."

What the fuck. George thought, as million scenarios raced through his mind.  It was a joke.  He was joking, right?  Was Dream mad?

Karl hit his shoulder repeatedly.  "Go go go!!  Do it!"

George had no idea what to think, his heart was pounding with adrenaline of... whatever was happening.   It felt like a fever dream, but he followed Dream out of the room regardless. 

In the hallway with the door shut, Dream turned to him and smiled.  "I thought it would be funny if we just left together," he whispered, mischief glinting in his eyes. 

"Oh my god," George replied, breaking into laughter. 

He had been worried about nothing.  Of course, Dream would do something like this.  Dream was constantly implying things about their friendship, George should have known this is what would happen.  He had to admit, it was a hilarious play on Dream's part.  

"Here's what I say, we stay out here for 15 minutes, then I mess up my hair and go back in together."

George laughed.  "I can't believe you Dream."

Dream only smiled in response.  

"I'm going to get some water, come with me."

George obliged, following.  He considered re-heating the heat pack as it'd gone cold and the pain was returning somewhat, but he didn't want to alert Dream that something was wrong.  He still wanted to avoid the topic as he thought it would change his relationship with Dream, and he especially didn't want to drop that he had something else wrong with him while the two were pretending to fuck.  It was a joke, but regardless, dropping a list of things wrong with him mid-rail seemed a bit tasteless.  Not only would he have to explain the unknown stomach pain, but George would also have to explain that EDS actually did affect his life.  From the conversation last night, it seems as if Dream saw it as something minor, akin to asthma— not something that affected more parts of George's life that he could process at once.  He'd stick out the pain in his stomach for the rest of the stream.  It was still the level where he could almost ignore it when something funny enough happened, so he didn't mind too much. 

"George, drink some water." Dream thrust a glass of water in front of him. 

"I-I'm okay, I'm not thirsty."

Dream softened.  "George, you haven't eaten or drank much since you've been here.  I want to make sure you don't forget, okay?"  He put a hand on George's shoulder, and tingles of warmth spread from the spot.  

Oh.  George had no idea how to respond.  He'd been scared to eat too much or eat food that would make his stomach hurt, so he'd been surviving on crackers and applesauce since Alex had suggested it to him.  He knew it wasn't all the nutrition he needed, but the fear of experiencing pain like he did that first night overtook any natural instinct to eat. 

"Oh shit I, I must have forgot, th-thank you Dream," he managed to get out, taking the water from Dream and chugging it. 

Something in Dream's eyes changed.  He wasn't sure what it was, but it wasn't pity, so he'd take it.  

"Of course George, I'm here for you no matter what."

George went in for a hug in response, standing up on his toes to try to even out the height difference.  Dream held him back, enveloping George's body in a warmth that couldn't be rivaled by any heat pack.  

A timer went off on Dream's phone, and he stated it was time to mess up their hair.  

"George, switch me sweatshirts."

George hesitated.  "Well, if we were doing it quickly, wouldn't we keep them on?  That seems like we're trying a little to hard." For one part it was true, and secondly he didn't want to give up the little heat in the heat pack he still had. 

"True, true.  Just mess up your hair and we'll call it good."

~

Right before walking back into frame, Dream grabbed George close and whispered in his ear.  "Y'know George, if you ever did seriously want to kiss me, I would consent, no joke."

WHAT.  George felt his cheeks heat up, as his brain began to try to even begin to process what Dream had just told him.  He was vaguely aware of being pushed into frame and being laughed at for his red cheeks and Dream's messy hair. 

He had zero clue what had just happened to him, and even less of an idea of how to reconcile the implications of it.  He felt as if he was no longer in the circle, almost an out-of-body experience as he tried to figure out what the fuck Dream had just said to him. 

Did Dream like him?  Did he like Dream?

... Did he want Dream to push him against a wall and make out with him? 

Chapter Text

"Wow I guess I was wrong!" Karl shouted and Dream sat down. 

"Yeah Techno, I'll drive you to the hotel right after this, George and I have to uh... attend to something."

"Alright that's my queue to leave then," Techno said, getting up and Karl begged him to sit down again. 

Dream was glad the mask hid most of his face, because he couldn't keep a straight face.  He was the funniest person he knew. 

Absolutely no one, no one could top the joke he’d just made— he was going to make twitter implode, and then he was going to sit there, scrolling through the tags and laughing  

~

"So Dream," Karl asked as Alex began to shut down the PC he'd used to stream.  "What did you and George actually do in the hallway?"

Dream wheezed.  "We literally sat there, I thought it would be funny."

Karl laughed.  "Oh my god you two."

Dream took off his mask and leaned into Karl.  "I did tell him he could kiss me and I'd consent right before we walked on camera though," he whispered, smiling.  He was serious, but he'd mostly said it because he thought it would be funny to see George's reaction.  It had been, George had left the room immediately after stream. 

Karl opened his mouth in shock and Dream just laughed at him.  

~

That night, the adrenaline of streaming on camera had completely worn off.  He no longer felt like a god, and was instead left to wonder why the fuck he said what he did. 

He stood by that taking George into the hallway then doing nothing was funny, but telling George he wanted to be kissed?  And making sure it wasn't a joke so he couldn't play it off as such later, too. 

What.  The fuck.  Was wrong with him. 

Logically, he knew it was his impulsiveness due to his ADHD.   That fact did not, however, change what he said to George. 

And George was always so awkward about it too— he'd immediately gone red and asked horrible questions the rest of the night.  George sat, with the hood of his sweatshirt covering his face, the blue fabric bunched up covering his head.  Occasionally, he leaned over so that his face was against the carpet, or would stare at the door.  If Dream hadn't known what he said, he would have assumed George was in physical pain.  He felt bad. 

He also felt so, so incredibly stupid. 

Who the hell even says something like that?  It wasn't like Dream was lying, but he wished he'd said it better.  He wished he didn't admit his actual feelings as part of a bit. 

Fuck, he had told Karl too.  Why?  Why would he do such a thing?

Dream hit his leg in frustration.  WHY. 

"Dream, stop." Nick's voice called firmly. 

Dream hit his leg again.  He didn't want things to go this way. 

"Dude, no."

The top of his leg felt tingly and numb.  It didn't hurt, nor did it undo what Dream had said.  What he didn't want to say.  

He went to hit his leg again; it was the only thing he could do amidst the panic rising in his throat.  

"Stop." Nick grabbed Dream's hands suddenly and stared into his eyes. 

Dream came back to reality.  He was sitting on Karl's couch, Nick kneeling in front of him holding his hand.  The others had gone to bed, and the lights were off in the hallway, placing Nick directly into his view. 

Dream breathed in.  He went through an old exercise a school counselor had taught him to do— most the time it was fully useless, but it occasionally helped.  

Five things he could see: Nick's face, the wall next to the hallways, the red shirt Nick was wearing, the blue jeans he was, and his hands. 

Four things he could feel: Nick's hands.  Nothing else.  He couldn't think of anything else.  

Stupid useless exercise.  

Suddenly, Dream decided that he didn't want Nick's hands to be touching him.  He had no warning, no reason, but all he knew was he didn't like the feeling.  He jerkily pulled his hands away, Nick allowing him too, and slowly placed his hands on his legs. 

Nick stood up.  "Are you okay dude?"

Dream nodded.  

There was a pause, before Dream stated he was going to bed.  He was grateful that Nick was there for him, but he didn't feel like talking about what he'd done— it would only make it worse.  He didn’t want what he had said to drive his two closest friends away from him  

~

Dream tried to climb as silently into bed as possible as to not wake George.  

The sound of the air mattress was hard to avoid, but he managed to arrange his blankets in a suitable fashion and lay down. 

"Dream," George mumbled, clearly having not yet slept.  

Dream gave a small hum in response, rolling to his side and laying his blanket across his face. 

"I love you."

Dream felt like he'd been run over by a truck.  It was as if he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him, a gaping hole of shock in his chest.  After he'd spent hours harassing George on stream to meme him for saying those words, George just said if out of nowhere.  Dream thought the man was asleep, he couldn't just drop that on him. 

"I-I love you too," Dream managed out in a breathless whisper.  

As soon as George shifted his blankets and Dream was able to breathe in more, he began to overthink what George had just said. 

Did he mean it in response to what Dream had whispered?  Or did he mean it platonically?  Dream know George was shy, but he'd gotten more confident— so were those words his next move?  Was it on confirmation that he felt the same?  Or was it a way to let him down nicely?  Was it an acknowledgment that he knew Dream's feeling but still wanted to be his friend?  Was that it— were they just friends?

Dream couldn't breathe again. 

He tried to breathe in quickly, overthinking the three simple words he'd begged George to say since forever.

Staying in the room suddenly became too much to bear.  Grabbing his phone, Dream immediately left the room, walking to Karl's living room and pacing in the dark.  He'd dropped his phone on the floor at some point— placing his hands on the back of his head and pacing.  He was panicking. 

He knew the signs and he knew the feeling— he knew that at this point, he would call George to calm him down.  The problem was that this time, he couldn't call George.  He couldn't even talk to him.  It wasn't a problem of waking George up as he had that permission; it was the problem that he was panicking about what George said.  He couldn't ask for clarification, he just couldn't.

He wanted to call Nick, but then he would have to explain.  He'd already been panicked about this same issue earlier— a second spike in anxiety would make Nick force him to say the problem, and then he'd have to tell more people how he felt. 

He didn't want anyone to know. 

He didn't want anyone to know.He didn't want anyone to know.He didn't want anyone to know.He didn't want anyone to know.He didn't want anyone to know.He didn't want—

Dream hit the back of his head again.  

God he was an idiot.  

Why did he do this type of shit?

~

After Dream had managed to calm himself down by simple exhaustion, he got into bed at five in the morning, rubbing his red blanket on his face for comfort.  George made a slight noise as Dream got back, but he couldn't tell if he was fully awake.  Regardless if George was awake, Dream was too exhausted to talk.

He finally feel asleep, waking up at ten in the morning to news that sent him further spiraling in his own head.

Chapter Text

When George woke up, he decided he wasn't going to think about his body, and he wasn't going to think about Dream.  He was going to live his life normally, and he wasn't going to think about what was or was not happening.

He went to grab his phone, checking the time and seeing that it was noon.  Dream's bed on the floor was empty, and a small amount of light came through the blinds in the window. He held his phone up to unlock it, his thumb clicking as he slid up.

He wasn't going to think about that.

Checking his messages, the fingers on his hand felt sore— they were hard to bend and frozen, unnervingly similar to the time his fingers locked up, but more manageable.

He wasn't going to think about that.

As typed out a message to his family's group chat, the joint on his thumb hurt from the continuous bending. 

He wasn't going to think about that.

Hitting send and closing his phone, George sat up, moving the electric heat pad and turning it off. He went to grab a pair of clothes to change into and lock the door, the now-familiar pain in his stomach setting in.

He wasn't going to think about that.

He was going to live normally— he was going to talk to his friends, then eat in the late afternoon and stream with the rest of his friends that night, and stay up talking after the stream. Like a normal person— he was a normal person, he did not have some obscure chronic illness, and he was not going to be over-dramatic about a little pain. He was fine, and he refused to think otherwise. He'd simply exhausted his brain thinking about it— what had happened with Dream last night had been the final straw. That was the last bit in the barrage of information thrown at him that he simply stopped being able to absorb it.

He had been doing fine until he came to America, and doing fine until his friends had started panicking over him. They just weren't used to how he experienced things, and there was nothing more to it. When his mum took him to the doctor as a kid when he couldn't keep food down for a week but didn't have a fever, the doctor had told him it was normal. Normal, was used loosely there, but the result was that some people are just more prone to getting sick than others. Kids usually grew out of it, and for some time George had. Now, he was in some pain again, but he assured himself it meant nothing. It was just a continuation of him throwing up a lot as a child.

He got dressed and walked into the hallway, his bad ankle hurting as he stepped on it strangely.

But guess what? He wasn't going to think about that.

He wasn't going to think about any of that.

And he certainly wasn't going to think about what Dream had told him last night. He was no where near prepared to deal with that, nor his feelings associated with it.

He was going to hang out with his friends, and be normal. Because he was fine.

~

Karl had gotten back from bringing Techno over, when Dream finally returned. 

George had no idea where he'd been the entire day, but assumed he was just doing things on his own. When he entered the room, he looked worse than George had ever seen him before— he was very obviously struggling against an ADHD-triggered breakdown, and George immediately went up to hug him to calm him, walking over to the center of the living room.

Dream quickly moved George's hands down and away from him before he'd even touched him.  George flinched slightly at the movement, but backed up up to the couch with his arms at shoulder level, palms facing out.

He wasn't mad; he knew Dream didn't actually mean any harm.  His friend just got overwhelmed, and it wasn't uncommon for him to accidentally yell or throw his phone.  He always apologized, and George had learned when Dream needed to be left alone.

"I'm here to listen if you need me," he said calmly, sitting back down and looking towards Dream, keeping an eye on his four other friends in the room as well.  He didn't know how often or if they'd ever needed to be there for Dream in times like this, and he wanted to make sure that nothing went wrong.  It was easy for him to talk with Dream during these times, but the first time he'd been hesitant about upsetting Dream further.  George quickly found out that it wasn't hard to calm Dream down, he just had to offer to listen and Dream would calm himself down by ranting.   Truly, George didn't mind, and he'd always felt proud that he was able to help his friend, like he was an important part of Dream's life.

"YES oh my fucking god," Dream yelled, still pacing and moving his arms slightly as he talked.  Out of the corner of his eye, George saw Techno flinch but quickly compose himself. 

George merely nodded, knowing that Dream would keep going regardless.

"The stupid MOD team, they made this whole MONETIZED VIDEO saying I cheated on a speed run because I got lucky!  THATS WHAT LUCK IS, THATS HOW SPEEDRUNNING WORKS!   It was clickbait!  It was bullshit!!  It was so biased!  Some moderator did it for his own youtube benefit!!"

Dream continued shouting until he seemed to calm himself down.  He sat on the couch between George and Techno, head in his hands.

George held out his hand near his friend, wordlessly asking consent to hug him.  Dream shook his head, and George placed his hand back in his lap. 

An awkward silence fell between the group. George knew everything was fine, but based on the silence that hung thick in the air the others hadn't seen Dream in such a state before. George felt bad— not only for Dream for his emotional state and how embarrassed he would be in his shoes, but for his other friends. The others hadn't seen the sides of Dream George had, they couldn't have been prepared for it.

"Hey, one in seven-point-five trillion odds, you should be one of those guys that drives into crazy storms," Alex tried to joke awkwardly. George could tell he was trying to break the awkward silence, but he couldn't have chosen a worse thing to joke about. Eventually, it would likely be a funny meme, but when the information was still fresh, it must've been like rubbing salt in a wound to Dream.

"OH COME ON, FUCK YOU," Dream seethed, slamming his hand on the coffee table before storming out of the room to where he and George slept.

The air only got worse.

George took charge, preparing to get up and talk to Dream, to explain that Alex had simply made a joke in poor taste, before Techno stopped him.

"George, leave him be."

George paused. "He looked upset, I usually help him through things like this."

"He'll calm down on his own."

"I... I can help him." George was nothing if not comforting to his friend.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, it's an ADHD thing."

George knew that part— he knew Dream was incredibly impulsive because of his ADHD, and he knew that clashed horribly with his inability to take criticism but he didn't understand what Techno was getting at.

After a pause of George staring quizzically in his direction, Techno seemed to get the cue that he should elaborate. "It's best to let ADHD people calm down on their own. He just takes criticism harsher but he'll be fine in a while."

"Should I text and ask if he's okay?"

Techno shook his head. "If he wants you he'll text you. If you text him he'll just tell you to fuck off."

George left the subject alone. Logically, he knew Technoblade was right.  The two both had fairly severe ADHD, so Techno, of all people, could relate to what Dream was going through. It didn't change the fact that it hurt— he didn't want Dream to be struggling alone.

Dreading what Dream had done, George opened twitter to his second account, revealing an entire rant to the moderators. George sighed. He'd help Dream apologize later, and he'd leave the man alone as Techno had said.

"He didn't actually mean what he said to you, Alex," George added, rubbing his temples to try and relieve the stress he felt.

Alex looked shaken.

~

Dream emerged right before they planned to eat dinner.

He gave a short shake of his head to George that indicated he didn't want to talk about what happened, and gave him a brief hug before sitting on the couch. George leaned into the hug a little more than he should have, but quickly pulled away when the warmth filled his chest.

He wasn't going to think about it.

The group ordered pizza for dinner at Alex's suggestion, and George insisted he would be okay. Alex backed him up, citing there was no way to actually make pizza vegan and still fit its definition. Dream looked as if he wanted to object, but didn't say anything. In fact, George hadn't heard him say a single word since the afternoon. It wasn't uncommon for him to stop talking when he got upset— but George still wished he could do more. He wished he could solve whatever internal conflict that rendered his favorite person speechless.

"Guys we should go camping," Karl suggested, smiling. George could immediately tell he'd been planning for this— he'd mentioned it in the past and always said the best reason to stay in North Carolina was the outdoors.

"Not in you cold-ass state," Alex replied.

Karl's face fell. "No but we can hike a part of the Appalachian Trail."

Alex shook his head. "I don't know what that is."

"It's a historic trail, it's spans the whole United States or something. It would be nice for George to actually see a good aspect of this country."

Laughter broke out at the comment.

"Karl it's winter." Techno added, getting ignored by the others.

Not being a fan of the outdoors, George gestured to Techno. Eventually, people looked at him.

"I think you've just been tormented by Mr. Beast so much that now you want to do the same thing." Techno said with the attention on him.

Karl faked shock as he immediately got harassed for trying to bring his friends on half-planned adventures.

"We have a week and a half left and I don't think we'll have another opportunity," Dream chimed in.

Of course, of course the athlete wanted to do the hiking, George thought bitterly. He had never been a fan of walking, and he saw no distinction between that and hiking. It was ultimately pointless— he'd rather do all his 'hiking' in Minecraft.

"Plus, there's nothing else to do right now," Dream continued. "I think we should do it. We can vlog it too."

Karl smiled.

"Clay," Alex started, using Dream's real name. He'd told them to keep calling him Dream since it was easier, but Alex was clearly going for dramatic affect. "It's fucking cold outside."

"Jackets!" Karl added. "Plus, we'll be walking so we'll warm up, and I can ask Chris and Jimmy for camping supplies..."

George stopped paying attention. It was looking more and more like he was going to have to get dragged along on something else to do. It always happened— he got dragged into VCs when he just wanted to sleep, dragged to stores by his family when he wanted to rest.  He was constantly forced to do things, leaving him constantly tired, constantly emotionless.  He hated it.

"George, are you in?" Karl asked, the sound of his name jolting himself back to reality.

"Yeah it sounds fun," he said, trying and succeeding to keep up his normal tone of voice. Despite the pain he knew he would be in— which he wasn't going to think about— he would never say no. He hated physical activity, he hated feeling tired all the time, but the only thing he hated more was getting left out.

As a kid, he never had many close, close friends. He had a couple friends, yes, but they were never close. At breaks from primary school, his friends would play tag. As a slow runner, he always got "it," and wouldn't ever be able to touch anyone else.

He must have spent hours upon hours of his life, chasing his classmates with no hope of ever catching them. He would sprint, he would switch directions, he would find every tactic he could to rage someone— but it never worked. Even when they returned to class, kids would avoid him for the factor that he was tagged. After he had hurt his ankle, he couldn't even run and it only got worse.

The Monday after he hurt his ankle, George was still a mess. He was able to put a small amount of pressure on his right leg, but only for a small amount of time before it began hurting. Being eight, he had no way to find painkillers like ibuprofen, nor did he know of their existence; his parents wouldn't give a child pain medication, as you really had no way to tell if a child was faking it or not. George didn't remember when he found out about pain medicine, but it wasn't until he was at least in his early teenage years.

That Monday, the weather had returned to the standard overcast skies and intermittent rain. His mum woke him up for school, and after putting on his uniform, limping to brush his teeth, and holding onto the stair railing to practically jump down the stairs, he was immediately told off for taking too long. He tried to say he was in pain, but was ignored in favor of breakfast and packing his sister's school bag after she'd left out homework the night before. George stayed silent, per usual, throughout the way to school and class.

After eating lunch, his class was sent out to play in the wet grass, in which a game of tag immediately started. Trying to stay out of it, George stood by the door to the building, leaning against the brick wall with his left side so that no weight was on his right side. Simply walking through the halls had made his ankle begin to hurt again.

Within minutes, as George was contemplating sitting on the wet pavement so he didn't have to stand, one of his friends at the time came up to him, laughing.

"Please don't," he'd said quietly, knowing what was coming.

His friend merely punched him in the shoulder, shouted tag, and ran away.

He remembered the pang in his chest as his friend ran and he tried to chase him. His ankle made it impossible to go any faster than normal walking speed. He spent that break wandering aimlessly around the field, trying hopelessly to find anyone, almost missing their teacher calling them to come inside.

He must have gotten to the line only a couple seconds late, but that it didn't matter; he was told off by his teacher for "trying to skip class," while his classmates watched and laughed at him. Wanting nothing more but to try, George had forced himself to bury his emotions. He knew better than to cry at school, lest he be teased and mocked for it endlessly for the foreseeable future.

That afternoon, George spent his time with his head as down as it could be without getting in trouble, afraid to speak for fear of crying. When he stood up to finally get home, he almost collapsed, having to physically hold onto his desk to keep himself upright.  He slowly limped out of the classroom and to his waiting mother, where he attempted to cooly ignore her— out of rage for still having a boring bandaid on his chin as well as peer pressure at the time. 

When he finally reached home, George was largely fine again, only in pain if he moved.  Seeing as he was still grounded, he remembered sitting in his room, doing nothing. 

Shortly after then, when his ankle was mostly better but still hurt when he ran, George simply stopped participating.  Someone would tag him, and he would simply sit down in the grass and not move for the entire rest of the break.  His classmates would shout at him to chase them, and he refused.  His committed mutiny. 

It was surprisingly effective— he stopped being tagged within a week, and although he was excluded from games, he stopped having to run.

~

In the present, Techno said something that George wasn't paying attention for.

"Huh?"

"Do you want to stay with me while they go backpacking." Techno asked again.

"I'll go with them," George responded.  He wasn't about to be left out of a friend group that was actually nice to him.

"George, you are the only person in your group of friends that ever gives anything an ounce of forethought, that's going to go terribly.  We can stay here and play Minecraft instead of dying' in the cold."

George was grateful for the offer, but he couldn't.  He only had a set amount of time with Dream, and he wouldn't comprise that for anything— he didn't know when he would be able to return to the United States given the mishandled pandemic there and in the UK, as well as the political landscape.  He shook his head.

"You're going to hike in the mountains in December."

George nodded.

"There's snow."

Right.  George hadn't thought of that.  Still, he refused to be left out.  Especially if they were vlogging it— he would never hear the end of it if he "slept through an entire trip."

He shook his head.  "I'll figure it out."

"I'm going to have a way better time than you playing Minecraft alone."

George was confident that Techno would, and that he probably would have more fun staying home too. But despite the illusion of choice, he had none. This was not a voluntary trip. He could go and suffer, or stay behind and suffer the rest of his life. Not only would he be left out in the present, but he'd get comments from his friends and millions of people on the internet would haunt him forever. He could take however many days of suffering in the mountains, and be done with it. He could move on, say he'd done it, hiked some trail he'd never heard of, and forget about it.

Chapter Text

For the first five seconds Dream woke up, he felt good.  The room was dark, his blanket fell softly on his face.  He could feel the presence of George in the room, his favorite person in the world gave the atmosphere a comforting feel, reminding him why he travelled across the country in the first place.   There was no compare to real life, no compare to waking up next to the person who knows the most about you.  It was warm, it was peaceful, it was perfect.

And then the memories from the previous day rushed back, the painful void in his chest returning with ferocity. 

The comforting atmosphere immediately dissipated.  The air felt cold, the world scary.  Dream put his blanket over his head and shut his eyes, trying to return to sleep, to return to the peaceful state where he didn't have to deal with it.

He didn't want to remember the speed running moderation team trying to slander his name, he didn't want to remember the amount of statisticians that he'd emailed in the height of his panic that would reject him, he didn't want to remember the amount of so-called friends that hated him now; he didn't want to remember any of it.

He felt like he wanted to cry— he had no other outlet to his emotions, no escape.  The premise of just opening Minecraft reminded him of the situation, opening discord reminded him of the messages from people asking about the situation.  He couldn't handle it.  He couldn't handle any of it.  He was empty and overwhelmed at the same thing; thoughts raced through his head, promising the end of his life as he knew it while he felt nothing.  It was suffocating. 

"George," he whispered. 

George didn't respond. 

The feeling of the void increased, completely encasing Dream so that he could only feel his red blanket.  George. He had said so much to George, and they'd exchanged those three words, those three words that could mean the start of something more— or a continuation of normal, a normal that would trap and suffocate him.   He'd spent so much time falling for George, so many hours on calls, so many hours laying awake, thinking about him.   When he finally met George, those feelings became amplified.  He had so much love, so much adoration for his friend that he almost felt as if he was in physical pain; he couldn't imagine loving anyone, feeling more strongly about anyone.  He could feel it overwhelming him, consuming him, causing him to ignore everyone else, to only pay attention George.  That feeling was what caused him to whisper to what he did, and what sent him spiraling at three words.

George .

He just wanted a hug from George, he wanted him by his side— with George there, the speed running debacle would feel manageable.  It would feel insignificant compared to the overwhelming love and warmth that radiated from George.

He whispered his name again.  He needed the comfort.  He needed his friend.

"George," he called, louder this time.

George gave a soft "mmh" in response, and Dream felt his heart melt.  He just wanted a hug .

"George help," he stated, knowing that was the phrase he often used.   He'd call George at absurd times in the mornings, starting off with that phrase and George would stay on a call with him, for no matter how long he needed.

George immediately sat up, turning on the flashlight on his phone and placing it face-up to provide a small amount of light in the room.  He patted the space on the mattress between himself and his pillow.

Bringing his red blanket, Dream got beside his favorite person, pressing against him as close as he could.

"Do you want a hug?" George asked.

Yes. Dream nodded his head aggressively, burying his face into George's shoulder.

George wrapped his arms around him, and he melted.  He left the blanket between him and George, embracing his friend back and squeezing tightly, trying to stay as close as possible.

George's warmth encased him, his arms felt comforting.  The soft atmosphere returned, George's presence filling in the void in Dream's chest.  His problems felt manageable, normal, and the sleepiness of the morning returned to him.

His eyes fluttered, as Dream slowly drifted off to sleep, safe and warm in his friend's arms.

~

Grabbing a cold slice of pizza from the kitchen, Dream returned to the couch where his friends were intensely planning out their next adventure.  He sat down on the couch, looking over the list Karl had written out again. 

He and George had woken up at noon in each other's arms, laying against the bed.  They'd both gotten up quickly, without talking about it— Dream didn't want to push George any more than he already had, and George's natural shyness meant he didn't say anything.  At least, that's what he'd assumed, and he seemed to be correct given and George had been mostly silent during their planning sessions.

Karl seemed to be doing the most work— as Minecraft streamers and youtubers, none of them had ever truly been backpacking.   Karl had been camping a decent amount with the Mr. Beast crew, which gave him checklists from videos as well as the ability to borrow tents and sleeping bags.

The biggest roadblock was what they could carry— everyone had to bring a sleeping bag and clothes, two people had to bring tents, one person a stove, and the other two needed to bring food.  They weren't bringing air mattresses as Karl said they weren't strictly necessary and they'd already be carrying upwards of thirty pounds depending on what they took. 

"Who do we think is the strongest?  The two strongest should take the tents, and the middle person takes the stove." Karl looked around sizing them up.

No one wanted to respond— Dream assumed he and Nick were the strongest, but offering to take the heaviest bags wasn't exactly something fun.

"Not George," Alex chimed in, adding a quick apology after.

George looked over, nodded, and went back to staring off into space.

Silence fell again.

Dream sighed.  "Probably me," he offered, given as he did still stay relatively in shape after his competitive sports years.

"Then me," Nick added.  "The rest of y'all are pretty weak."

"You're not wrong, I'm very weak," Karl responded, writing down Dream and Nick's names next to the bullet point about tents.

"I can take the stove, George and Karl are weak."

Karl nodded, adding Alex's name.  "Food, we need to bring food," he stated, looking up for suggestions.

"Let's get some glizzys to cook over a fire," Alex offered.

"Will they get warm though?  We can't refrigerate them." Karl asked.

"Nahhh it's cold outside."

"True," Karl nodded, writing them down under dinner number one.  They were planning a two night, three day trip, that would take them up two mountains on the Appalachian Trail— it would have them walking four and a half miles the first day up a mountain, staying overnight, then walking all the way back the final day.  The trail section could usually be a one night backpack trip, but they'd chosen to pack for an extra day given their inexperience.  There was apparently 2,000 feet of elevation gain, an incredibly high number to Dream given as the highest point in Florida was a literal bridge.  The idea situation was they would make it to the top of the peak in one night, however; they expected to take too long hiking or start late, and decided to prepare for two nights to ensure they got to the summit.  They were confident they could make it back from the summit in one day, since it would be downhill, and there were some campsites on the way up.  Karl had an app on his phone that he downloaded a map of the hike on, and it appeared as though it would go smoothly.

"Ramen?" Nick suggested.  The classic college student food— of course he suggested it.

Karl nodded, writing it down.

"Karl," Alex said, laughing.  "You need to bring kitchen shit if you're gonna actually cook ramen."

Karl stared off, looked dejected, and slowly wrote pot, bowls, fork, next to his name.

The conversation carried on, the five of them eventually figuring out what to eat.  Techno was streaming in his hotel room, and had texted them that he'd take some pre-made lasagna but would otherwise not be leaving his hotel room when they were gone.

~

Karl stopped the car at a warehouse, where apparently Mr. Beast kept the camping gear they used previously that Karl could use.  He unlocked the door, leading the five of them to a room of various things.

Dream wasn't a fan of the warehouse— the concrete floors and harsh lighting were a little too reminiscent of a hardware store for his comfort, although it didn't quite spark the pain of your average home depot.  Or Lowe's.  He knew one of those stores was violently homophobic as the CEO supported Trump, but he could never remember which one, and refused to go into a hardware store as it was anyways.  He just ended up making his mom get anything he needed from a hardware store, it was effective. 

"Dream!  Take these tents to my car," Karl called, throwing two large bags at Dream's feet. 

He did as he was told, carrying a tent bag on each shoulder and tossing them into the back of Karl's car before returning.  The lights were starting to hurt, and he rubbed his forehead slightly as he walked through a corridor.  He got back to the room, and leaned against the wall.  Alex was apparently bringing something else to the car, and Nick and George remained in the room with Karl.

"Do you guys want a walking stick?" Karl asked.

Dream shook his head.  There was no need.

Nick did the same, while George remained silent, staring at the floor.   Dream really worried for him sometimes, he seemed so distant—

Dream's thoughts were cut off by Karl's speaking.  "George, you want a stick?"

After a pause, George shook his head quickly before looking down. 

"Dude give me a stick," Alex called, making Dream jump slightly.  He hadn't realized he'd gotten back.

~

The grocery store they went to had an unfamiliar hum that Dream couldn't stand. 

He was fine grabbing some ramen for food, but after only that the fuzzy feeling began to set in.   Given as he was still overwhelmed from what had happened earlier, the fog seemed to set in quicker and heavier than normal, and he began to feel physically sick, barley able to walk. 

They walked through the store, and Dream fell behind.  George stayed near him, fading in and out of his perifreal vision.

He wanted to sit down.

He was tired— it was hard to stand.  Karl asked a question, and he nodded.  He didn't hear it, all he could think about was the developing headache and overwhelming desire to curl up on the floor in a ball.

He hated it.  He wanted to leave the store, to lay down on his bed.  His real one, in Florida.  His house, where the lights were on dimmer switches so that they weren't ever to bright, where he had his blanket and where he had patches.  Where he was safe.  Where he didn't have to deal with a bullshit grocery store with half the people wearing their mask below their nose.

The group stopped in an aisle Dream didn't care to look at, and immediately sat down, placing his knees to his chest and his head down.

Almost instantly, George was next to Dream, on the ground, quietly whispering if he wanted a hug.  His heart warmed— he'd never had anyone notice when his world was fuzzy, much less ask to help him.  George was so, so incredibly nice to him.

God he loved him.

He nodded his head, and George immediately embraced him.

"Are you okay?" George whispered.

Dream nodded— the warmth of George's embrace had actually begun to clear the fog, something that hadn't happened before.  He still felt awful, but had improved slightly.  George grounded him, relieving him of the floating side to the fuzz, his arms giving Dream something to focus on besides his own head.

He was so, so thankful to have George.

He began to be able to focus on his surroundings more, noticing they were in the drink aisle.  The rest of the group was further down the aisle.  Slowly, he disentangled himself from George, standing up and waiting for George to do the same.

"Thank you," he whispered.

~

Dream woke up to an alarm going off on his phone.  Blearily checking the time, he saw it was six in the morning.  He groaned.

"Shut the fuck up," George called back, sounding like he was still mostly asleep.

Dream rolled over and went back to sleep. It was too early to be up, even if they did leave at seven and hadn't fully finished backing their backpacks.

The second he felt he closed his eyes, the lights turned on.  "George!  Wake UP!" Nick shouted, flicking the lights a couple of times for affect.

Now he had to get up too.  Unfortunate .  Dream sat up, casting the blankets aside and trying to act like he'd been awake the whole time.  He assumed he was doing a bad job, but at the same point, he was tired.  And it was six in the goddamn morning— he did not wake up in the morning.

"Are you the only one up?" He asked, rubbing his eyes and rolling onto the floor.

"Karl is, we've been discussing where the line is on waking up Alex."

"Pfft, I feel like what you did was mean enough, damn dude."  Dream mindlessly opened his phone, still trying to wake up.  "What time is it anyways?"

"It's like six-thirty."

Dream cursed in response, the time crunch waking him up fully as he started shoving his red blanket in his backpack on top of the tent, and his sleeping bag.  Nick laughed at him. 

Leaving the lights on, he got changed and brushed his teeth, before grabbing the rest of his things and putting them in his sweatshirt pocket.

"Dream!" Nick shout-whispered to him as he walked back into the hallway.  "Follow us."

He noticed Nick had his phone open, and Karl had a bluetooth speaker in hand.  He immediately knew where this was going.

Following his friends, Dream watched Nick open the door and flick on the lights, while Karl tossed the speaker inside and slammed the door.  Nick quickly tapped his phone, as the words " Hey you lil' piss baby, you think you're so fucking cool?  Huh?  You think you're so fucking tough? " rang through the house. 

They broke into laughter, as Alex shouted various obscenities over the music.

By the time they hit the chorus hit, Alex opened the door, bluetooth speaker in hand. 

"I fucking hate you guys," he said, turning off the speaker and tossing it back to Karl. 

Dream laughed, turning to go back to his room and finish packing.  When he got in, George was sitting, hunched over rubbing his eyes.  "I'm awake now," he called meekly. 

Dream threw his things into his bag allowing his friend to wake up more.  When he'd finished packing and closed his bag, he asked if he could pack anything up for George— just to help his friend, who still hadn't gotten up at almost six-forty now. 

George responded with a no at full volume, and immediately got up.  Dream shrugged.  He didn't know why that got the reaction it did, but at least the man was up. 

They ended up leaving a little after seven, with Karl driving the five hours to the trailhead.  Alex had shotgun, and George was in the middle between Dream and Nick.  Within minutes, before Karl had even gotten to the highway, George fell asleep on Dream's shoulder.  He smiled, looking at his favorite person softly, before laughing at him for falling asleep.

~

Despite Karl insisting they wouldn't stop in order to get to the trailhead on time, he stopped three hours in at a rest stop to use the restroom.  Maybe if he hadn't made a big deal about getting to the trailhead early by waking up at six and refusing to stop to get fast food earlier no one would have said anything, however; he had and was immediately relentlessly bullied for stopping after his previous actions.  Dream joined in Alex and Nick yelling at him for stopping almost as soon as he pulled off the highway.

"Pussy!"

"I thought we couldn't stop!"

"Karl we're gonna be 15 minutes late and get eaten in the dark!"

"Karl how could you!"

"And you couldn't even stop for chicken nuggets!"

"What do you have against nuggets bitch!"

"Yeah fuck you!"

"I can't believe you Karl!"

"How could you do this to us!?"

"Weak-est link!  Weak-est link!"

Karl took his keys, mask, and phone and wordlessly left the car, going into the building.

The three immediately broke into laughter.  Some how, George hadn't woken up in the shouting that ensued, which sent them into another fit of laughter upon realizing.

"I hate you guys," Karl said as he got back into the car.

"Ooooh but we can't stop Karl!  We have to get there early Karl!!" Alex shouted, still laughing.

"I was gone for two minutes!"

"Those two minutes could mean the difference between life and death out in the wilderness!" Dream shouted

"It's a well known trail!"

"But we could die at any minute!" Dream rebuked.

"No!" Karl shouted back.

"Then why did we have to get up early, bitch!?" Alex added in.

"So it doesn't get dark when we're hiking!"

"Then don't stop or it will get dark!"

"It was two minutes!!"

"Karl we're gonna fucking die and it's going to be your fault!" Alex couldn't keep a straight face as he yelled.

"No!  We're going to be safe and responsible and it doesn't matter that I stopped for two minutes!"

"See, it's the principle of it.  You're going to kill us all Karl," Nick deadpanned.

They broke out laughing again.

"If I stop at the next McDonald's I see will you guys stop?" Karl sounded dejected.

"Fuck yeah!"

Dream wheezed.  There was nothing quite like harmlessly bullying your friends until you get your way.

"Give me aux Karl," he tried.  He didn't care that much about it, but he figured it was worth a shot.

Karl tossed him the cord to play music.  He was surprised that actually worked.

As Karl drove back onto the highway, promising to stop at the next town off the highway full of big brand names, Dream pressed shuffle on a playlist he had.  Bottom by Lil Nas X started playing.

Alex laughed when he recognized the song.  "Is this, is this you and George Dream?" He shouted, laughing at his own joke.

"Oh come on!" Dream shouted in response.

"We all know it!" Karl added, attempting to get his revenge.

"George is such a bottom!  He couldn't top me."

The group paused, looking to George who was still sleeping peacefully on Dream shoulder, and broke out in laughter.

Dream smiled.  He was right .

Chapter Text

George was lightly shaken awake.  Taking in his surroundings, he noticed Karl had pulled into a parking lot next to a fully brick building.  His neck hurt from sleeping in the car, and a empty McDonalds bag sat at his feet.  He stretched as best he could in the back of a car. 

"Are we here?" He asked, running a hand through his hair. 

"Almost," Karl explained.  "This is the last town before the trailhead, so I thought we'd get out for a bit and grab something to eat."

"I thought we weren't stopping anywhere?" He asked.  He wanted to go back to sleep. 

The car immediately broke in raucous laughter, Alex hitting the dashboard and people yelling indistinctly. 

Clearly, he missed something while he was asleep. 

"We're about fifteen minutes away from the start of the trail, so it's a good stop for lunch," Karl explained once the laughter of the car had quieted down.

Fifteen minutes wasn't enough— George was still tired.  Before he could close his eyes again, Dream gently shoved him. 

"My shoulder is sore, get up."

Begrudgingly, George followed, putting on his mask and getting out of the car.  The air was cold— it had to be slightly over the freezing point, despite the sun shinning.  He shivered. 

He went back inside the car, leaning across the seat to grab a jacket, before putting it on outside and shoving his hands into his pockets.  I helped significantly, although he could still feel the cold permeating through his layers, freezing his bones and sending waves of pain through his joints.  

He quickly got pushed to the back of the group— Karl and Alex lead, followed by Dream and Nick.  He trailed behind, the sidewalk only big enough for two, listening in on their conversation.  It was very clearly derived from something he'd missed on the car ride over as he couldn't make sense of it, but he supposed he still preferred getting at least some sleep.  With the prospect of the trip looming and its implications on his health, George hadn't managed to fall asleep until somewhere around three in the morning.  Given as walking a couple kilometers caused his entire body to hurt, he was terrified of the concept of walking sixteen.  He didn't have a way to bring any heat packs on the trip, so he'd brought copious amounts of ibuprofen and decided to try and sleep as much as possible.  The ibuprofen pills rattling in his backpack acted as a good alibi for the other pills he took, but the sleep thing hadn't worked out.  He hoped he could at least sleep a little more on the way to the trailhead, although he doubted it was possible. 

George zoned out as his friends found a small cafe to eat at before heading up the mountain.  He got a small coffee in attempts to wake himself up, and otherwise ignored the conversation.  The group walked back to the car, talking about something he wasn't paying attention to.  Getting into the car, George immediately laid back against Dream in attempts to go back to sleep. 

"Oh come on George, it's like one wake up!" Dream shoved him lightly. 

He was still tired. "No," he mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning on his friends again. 

Dream said something about him being annoying, but George fell back into a comfortable sleep regardless. 

~

"George!  Get. Up!" Dream woke him up with a shout. 

He groaned.  He did not want to be awake— the familiar ache in his stomach was starting to get bad again, sleeping in a car all day had numbed his legs, and the world felt foggy in his exhaustion.  The absolute last thing that he wanted to do was hike a eight kilometers that day, and another eight back the next.  

"George, let's go," Dream was quieter this time, lightly rubbing George's shoulder. 

He sighed, before checking he had his phone in his jacket pocket and getting out of the car.  Walking to the back of the car, Karl smiled at him brightly. 

"Here's your backpack!" Karl tossed him the bag he'd hastily packed last night. 

Putting it over his shoulders and adjusting the waist strap as he was told, George immediately felt top heavy and even more tired.   The backpack was around a fifth of his weight, making it significantly harder to walk already.  He began to dread the trip ahead more and more as Karl locked the car and motioned for the group to follow him. 

They were the only car in the small parking lot off the highway; it was clearly the off season to hike.  There was a small, carved wood sign at the start of a small dirt trail, with the inscription Winding Stair Gap in smooth, curved letters.  

"You guys ready?" Karl asked with a smile, bouncing slightly on his feet. 

"Hell yeah,"

"Yup,"

"Yeah,"

George nodded, and Alex and Karl turned on the cameras they'd brought.  They'd decided the two of them would vlog it and post it, given as the three members of the Dream Team had minecraft-only content. 

"Today gamers, we're fuckin dying in the woods!" Alex started off, recording a take of the introduction to his video. 

"No!" Karl retaliated.  "We're going to have a fun time and hope we didn't forget things."

As they started hiking up the trail, George stopped paying as much attention to the conversation, instead focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, breathing in an even pattern. 

"Chipmunk!" Karl called suddenly from up a head, stopping and filming a small creature running through the sparse plants.  The stop allowed George to catch up, and he started paying attention to his friends' conversation as they continued upwards on the trail. 

"How many of those do you think you could take in a fight?" Alex asked, holding up his phone to record the events transpiring. 

"A lot," Dream replied. 

"Nah I think you could only take on a couple, max.  Animals are violent if they want to be," Alex retaliated. 

"I could definitely take on a hundred, they're chipmunks," Dream started the hypothetical argument. 

"You could not," Alex deadpanned. 

"I so could!  Maybe you couldn't because you're short bu—"

"Hey!" Alex cut him off. "It's not about height, they can climb.  Once they bite out your eyes it's over for you."

Dream wheezed.  "Bite my eyes?"

"Yeah, good luck fighting blind, asshole."

"They wouldn't bite out my eyes!"

"Yes they would!"

"No, I'd simply be friends with them."

"No!  They're attacking you in this."

It was an incredibly hypothetical situation— it reminded George of an age-old discussion about what animals would be best to fight for and against you.  He couldn't remember the full list of animals outside of an eagle and someone with a shotgun, but the chipmunk thing was certainly an interesting variant on the question.   It was also an un-winnable argument.  It would make for good content though. 

"Okay then I'd just push them off my eyes," Dream responded, ever-confident in his abilities. 

"There's a hundred of them!  You can't push them all off!"

"Yeah I can."

"No!  One will eventually get past."

"Okay then I'll just put my arm across my eyes."

"But then you only have one hand."

"So?"

"How would you fight them?"

"I'll stomp them."

"They're too fast."

"No..."

The laughing voices of George's friends grew quieter until he could no longer hear them as he fell further and further behind.  

His ankle had started to hurt again; he had twisted it on some rocks on the trail, and the sheer amount that he'd walked meant it would inevitably be sore.  He wished he had a hiking stick— he'd been offered one by Karl, but was too proud in the moment to admit that he'd need any help walking. 

He paused to climb up a rock step that was at knee height, pushing off the rock to stand up on his shaking ankle.  Stopping at the top, George stood on his left side, giving his right ankle a short break.  When the pain didn't stop, he continued on.  He didn't want to, but he knew he didn't have a choice. 

~

After what felt like hours of walking, George couldn't take it anymore.  He was fully limping, very slowly trying to get up the trail.  

After a spike of pain went through his ankle when he stepped wrong, he fully gave up.  Collapsing, he sat on the side of the side of the trail, right leg straight, left to his chest.  He couldn't do it anymore.

He laid down in the yellow shrubbery off the side of the trail, allowing his arms to splay out.  His ankle was sore and hurt every time he took a step, his knees burned, he was hungry but scared to eat, and his head was starting to hurt.  He was absolutely miserable.  To add on to the suffering, he had no way of figuring out where he was— he had to keep his phone is airplane mode as he didn't have an American phone plan, and even if he did they were out of service.  It meant no tracking where he was on the trail, no trying to call for help from his friends, no nothing.   He was stuck, alone in the wilderness, and in pain.  He couldn't rest, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't have a heat pack that Alex had given him; he couldn't do anything. 

He had ibuprofen in his backpack— he'd packed some for situations like this.  Taking off his bag and grabbing his water bottle, he opened the bag with shaking hands.  

The medicine he'd brought was thrown in his pack was near enough the top that he was able to quickly find it and pull out the bottle.  

As he tried to open the bottle, pain shot through his hand— exactly what had happened before he left.  The pain froze his body, like a cat when you grab their neck.  He could barley feel the pain in his ankle, his energy concentrated to the burning ache in the middle of his finger.  

He was numb.  The bottle fell from his hand as he shook his hand dramatically until the pain stopped.  He felt stupid doing it, but it worked when nothing else did, so he'd take it.  

The pain subsided after a little while, and George laid back down in the grass.  He was exhausted.  He didn't want to be doing this in the first place, and the actual act of hiking was worse than he could've imagined. 

What he would give to be playing minecraft with Techno.  

He carefully opened the bottle of ibuprofen, keeping his hand flat to lid and pressing down, before grabbing three pills.  He was fairly sure the limit was four but there was some rule about waiting if you took four, so he went with three.  The time on his phone said it was nearly two in the afternoon— so he could take another two at eight, before he went to sleep.  There was a fair chance that it was too much ibuprofen still, but he couldn't care less.  He was in pain and it was the only thing he had. 

Techno had warned him.  Techno had said that it would be miserable, that it was poorly thought out, and that it would be better to stay home.  George knew it too— he knew Techno would be leaving the day after they got back.  They could've spent more time with their friend.  They could have convinced Techno to do so much more— he had even said he'd consider dying his hair pink on stream using temporary hair color.  They could have done that.  They could have spent their time on twitch, laughing, doing what they loved. 

But no, Karl had to drag them hiking, George thought bitterly.  He didn't understand why Karl was so athletic— he'd completed a marathon before, yet still streamed Minecraft and ate unhealthy like every other youtuber.   He'd been stung by a jellyfish, and he'd surely sustained other injuries, so why did he keep wanting to hike?  Why did he want to hike some trail that no one outside of the granola hiking community cared about?  It was stupid, hiking was stupid, and it wasn't worth it.  It was literally a harder version of walking, where you couldn't check your phone and all your friends left you behind. 

George put three pills in his mouth and swallowed them with water.  

He couldn't fathom why people ever liked hiking— he was having an absolutely awful time.   He could not understand Karl— he continually did physical activity, continually went places, when he could have simply stayed at home.   There was absolutely no point to them going hiking— they literally had to take a break from streaming, announcing it on twitter, so they could go walk around in the middle of nowhere.  It was absolute insanity.  

This hiking trip benefited them in no way, it was just another sadistic sport to do, to hurt George and isolate him from his friends.  He hated physical activity more than anything.  Every time any sport came up, George ended up physically left behind by his friends. 

He thought it would be better with his online friends.  He never thought he would have to hike through the mountains with his twitch streamer friends.  Their entire thing was staying inside and playing video games.  They stayed up to ridiculous times in the night, slept all day, and lived in their gaming chairs.  The most activity they got was spamming the space bar with their thumb.  

Tears of anger and pain welled in his eyes, threatening to spill over. 

So why, why, did George manage to end up with the only twitch streamers who decided to casually hike sixteen kilometers?  He couldn't believe his bad luck. 

No one even cares about the mountains, he thought angrily.  There was nothing in the world that you couldn't see in Minecraft.  There was nothing special about just another stretch of land, there was nothing special about a long trail. 

Stupid outdoor people.  Stupid granola-crunching hippies.  Stupid instagram aesthetics of mountains.  Stupid old aesthetics of frontierism, stupid aesthetics of solitude.  

He hated people like Edward Abbey— people that romanticized being in the middle of fuck-all nowhere, people that spent days hiking through mountains, disavowing society and living off the land.  He hated the pretentious fucks that would chain themselves to a bulldozer or make their friends steal their dead body just to throw it in the desert.  He hated the concept of nature, he hated the idea that it was somehow better to kill yourself walking to a place you could see a picture of on google.  He hated the whole movement of environmentalism, as if times were somehow better before industrialized society.   As if there was some downside to staying on the internet, as if there was some benefit to being left behind by all your friends. 

He couldn't breathe.  He was tired, he was frustrated, he was angry; he wanted to go home.  Without his consent, hot tears spilled down his face.  

 He stared out into the vast expanse of Appalachia, trying to zone out, to escape his thoughts, his situation.  

Snow capped mountains splayed out gently into the distance, giving off a soft blue tint the further out they went.  A couple clouds lay in the blue sky, the sun hanging just above the mountains.  The horizon was no where to be seen— all there was was mountains.  They rose over, obscuring any sign of civilization past them, stretching to the ends of the earth.  He could hike for miles and miles and never reach the end.  There were rivers that stretched on forever, mountains whose peaks no one had before stood on.  Somewhere, out in the wilderness was a land that time couldn't command.  A place of natural beauty, a place free of other humans— out in the mountains was a place of solitude. 

A gentle breeze pushed against his face.  It dried his tears, leaving cool, salty residue on his face.  The air was cool, clean, and refreshing.  There was no sign of pollution or grime, only a fresh mountain breeze.  The air whipped off the snow capped peaks, through the deep yellow valleys, up the rolling hillsides, and off the grass until it reached George's cheeks, softly rustling his hair.  It was the air of the animals— it was the air of the various flora, of the towering rocks, so innocuous in the blue light on the nonexistent horizon.   It was pure, it was bigger, more natural, more complex than he could ever be.  The wind had come, all the way up through the mountains, and would continue, meeting up with the gulf stream and stretching through the Atlantic.  It had come far, and would continue far— George was merely a rock within the current.  The breeze would go around him, continuing on unaffected.  The moment was fleeting— he only got a small sample of the great wind currents.  The wind however, was infinite, was unaffected, it did not care about him.  He was insignificant, he was one with the rocks and the trees, a simple flower swaying in the breeze. 

His insignificance was comforting.  The wind had no care for his youtube subscribers or his twitch primes.  It gave no care for his homoerotic relationship with his best friend, no thought to his army of twitter followers that spammed the platform each time he breathed.   It did not matter what he said or did, for he did not matter; the wind did not watch.  The wind merely blew through towards the Atlantic, where it would be picked up along the ocean currents.  The currents would circulate, warming and cooling as it cycled through the various continents.  Eventually, the breeze would return— it did not matter when or how, for the possibilities were endless— but some way, somehow, the breeze would blow back through here again.  It was a simple  rhythm; it would continue, unbothered by speed running drama or pandering jokes, until the continents shifted over the eons, forging new paths for the wind.  Even then, it would continue.  Unbothered by the new flow, the wind would carry on, meandering its way through the steep peaks and the soft plains.  The wind was carefree. 

It was perfect, it was bliss— and George was lucky to get even the smallest glimpse of its unfettered beauty and its wondrous, timeless path through the geography that had been here longer than human history, and would stretch into existence, long after humans had wiped themselves out. 

"Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit."  Edward Abbey.  The wilderness was one of the few places he could feel, truly feel.  It was serene, it reminded him that he was merely a speck of dust on an incredible planet, a simple visitor to the great expanse. 

Fuck.  He was one of those granola-crunching hippies, wasn't he?  He was going vegan to help the planet after all. 

George sighed.  At least he had calmed down, even if he was a pretentious environmentalist that read Ed Abbey's books because he was bored in quarantine. 

He placed his ibuprofen back into his backpack and closed it up, putting his water bottle back in the side pocket.  Pushing himself up to a standing position and grabbing his backpack, he shrugged the weight onto his shoulder and clipped the waist strap back around his hips.  

He began walking up the trail, the cool breeze still pushing softly against the side of his face. 

As he walked, he thought about Ed Abbey's body, lying somewhere in an unmarked grave in the desert, never to be found.  It must be long gone by now— his flesh fed the vultures, his bones carried off by coyotes, yet another thing to chew on.  Yet another part of the endlessly cycling natural world, unaffected by youtube analytics.  

As much as he was enjoying Appalachia in the moment, he didn't think he'd want his body thrown in the middle of it. He wasn't that dedicated to the wilderness— he was a Minecraft youtuber after all. 

~

As George turned a corner into the trees, he saw a small offshoot of the trail and heard to voices of his friends.  

Despite the pain he was in, he broke out into a smile.  He'd made it.  Limping onto the side trail, he saw a sign stating it was Moore Creek Camp.  They'd made it to camp.  It had been a long hike, but he felt as though he could make it out from the camp— tomorrow it would be downhill, and then he would be done.  He was glad they could make it in one night, and so, so happy to be done with walking.  

He limped into the clearing, and upon seeing his friends, immediately threw his backpack down, collapsed on the dirt, and groaned.  He was exhausted, and so, so glad to be done, to be safe. 

"George you finally made it!"  Nick called to him, noticing his presence.   At his call, the rest of the group came over to George's spot, splayed on the ground. 

Immediately, Dream shoved a camera in his face.  "Georgeeee, how do you feel?" He called. 

George put his fist in his elbow— the international sign for "fuck off."  Alex laughed as Dream pretended to act shocked.   He'd gotten over the "glory of nature" thing pretty quickly, and was back to hating himself and the trip.  He didn't know what time it was, but he was ready to collapse in a tent and sleep for the next thirteen hours.  

The conversation eventually continued on, still filmed, and George got up, heavily favoring his left side.  As soon as he was standing, Alex came over to him, leaving the group behind.  He smiled.  Alex was a good friend— he didn't often express his emotions much, but after the long hike and emotional rollercoaster he'd went on throughout it, he seemed to feel his emotions more.  When Alex got close to him, he wrapped him in a hug.  It was the only way he knew how to express his appreciation for the friendship, as well as provided him with a way to further take weight off his right leg as he leaned on his friend. 

Alex hugged him back, and whispered in his ear.  "Take the hiking stick from me on camera," he said. 

The hiking stick would be nice— it would take weight off his leg.  "Huh?" he asked.  Regardless of how much he thought it may help, he didn't know why Alex would want to give it up. 

"I'm tired of carrying it, besides I've been hitting people with it the past hour, no one wants me to have this." He laughed slightly, mindful of how close he was to George's ears. 

George nodded.  Any reason to take the stick without having to admit he was struggling was good enough for him. 

Alex let go and walked back to the group, George slowly following him, making his way next to Dream. 

Alex immediately hit Karl in the back of the knees with the stick, laughing hysterically.  Karl fell to the ground, curling up in the dirt. 

Alex stopped laughing.  "Are you okay?" he asked, his tone shifting to one of care as he bent down next to Karl.  

"Yeah, I'm good," Karl responded, standing back up.  Once he was up, Alex broke into laughter again. 

George saw his time to take the stick.  "I'm taking this now Quackity," he said, grabbing onto the stick below Alex's hands. 

"No!" Alex shouted, letting himself fall to the ground in fake agony, simultaneously letting go of the stick. 

"Cope," George responded, taking the stick and walking back next to Dream, as Alex remained rolling on the ground.  Nick smiled from behind the camera. 

"Should we set up camp now?" George asked after some time had passed.  He'd been leaning on the walking stick with his left side, and while his ankle still burned with pain, it was starting to get more tolerable. 

"George..." Karl gave him sad eyes, but he didn't know why. 

Nick on the other hand, started laughing at him.  "Dude, we're not even close to the summit."

George felt his world collapse.  The little sliver of relief he'd built up since he'd gotten to the camp— the clearing— shattered, its fragments hitting his heart, and leaving a void where any amount of happiness might lay.  He felt like crying.  A lump rose in his throat that he couldn't push down, and he straightened his face, saying nothing.  He knew it wasn't live, but he wanted absolutely no trace of him crying on camera.  Crying in front of his friends was bad enough that he refused to do it, but crying in front of a camera was a thousand times worse.   He shifted his eyes to look down at the ground, pursing his lips together. 

"We're a fifth of the way to the top," Karl started softly.  "It's two-thirty right now and the sun sets in another three hours, so we're going to try and get past panther gap.  It's another mile there, but if we have daylight we'll try to get two miles from here."

He'd only gone a single mile.   George felt like crying even more— he couldn't handle it.  He'd have to go twice the distance he'd just gone.  He was in so much pain already, he couldn't bare to think about what he'd just been through.  

That was when it hit him.   He should have realized earlier, but there was no way he could actually do a sixteen kilometer hike.  He was way to sick for it.  Between his ankle, his knees, his stomach, his physical weakness, and his inability to tolerate pain, there was no possible way he could actually do it.  He couldn't— he absolutely couldn't.  

He didn't know what to do.  The group wasn't stopping— he couldn't hold them back.  Karl had been so excited, and he couldn't survive on his own.  They only had one stove and there could only be three people to a tent.  It was impossible to day hike almost the entire hike— George was too tired to do the math at that point— so they couldn't stop at the clearing.  George either had to go on, or make the entire group turn back.  And there was no way he'd be the one to ruin the fun, nor the vlog.  The amount he'd be made fun of for stopping, he simply couldn't take it.  

He thought he was going a good job hiding his emotions, but he'd apparently failed as Alex motioned Nick to stop recording and walked over to him.  He took George's shoulders, and walked him to the other side of the clearing, before indicating George to sit down next to him.  George didn't have to be asked twice, and immediately sat down, stretching out his right leg. 

"Hey man, what's wrong?  You look rough," Alex asked, placing a comforting hand on George's back.  

George physically bit his tongue.  He could feel the tears burning at his eyes, but he couldn't give in.  He couldn't cry when his friends were right there.  Instead of saying anything, George shook his head, putting his head in his hands against his legs. 

They sat there for a beat, Alex waiting patiently for George to give any indication as to what was happening, and George desperately trying to hold back tears.   His tears were private— he needed to stop crying so much in front of Alex.  He hated how often it happened.  Previously, no one had seen him cry after the age of twelve, and upon getting to the US, Alex had seen him cry no less than three times.  

"Georgie, I got you some food," Dream said, making George jump slightly.  He hadn't realized Dream came over, but was glad he'd stopped the tears in that moment.  Dream had only known he’d cried once, after he had to put down Luca, and he intended to keep it that way.  He’d been able to hide his face over FaceTime with Dream, but in real life he couldn’t simply drop his phone and be done.   He refused to actually let Dream see him cry.

When he didn't respond, George felt Dream place a small container he assumed was applesauce in his lap and sit next to him so that their bodies were pressed up against each other.  Dream was warm.   George didn't move, afraid to cry.  

"What's wrong?" Dream asked, wrapping and arm around George's body. 

George couldn't respond.  He was exhausted and didn't trust himself to talk.  

"He's just tired," Alex responded, covering for him.  He was grateful.  

He couldn't see Dream, and thus couldn't read his expressions.  

After a while of half sitting, half laying in the dirt, Alex whispered that he'd be back.

George sat up, rubbing his hands along his face before laying back.  As the pain in his ankle began to subside, he became acutely aware of the cramping pain in his stomach returning.  A pang went through his stomach, causing him to return to curling up against himself.  He wrapped his arms around his stomach, tears latching onto his eyelashes.  His bottom lip quivered, and he quickly bit it.   He would not cry, he would not cry, he would not cry—

Alex returned, placing his hand on George's back.  

"So George, we're going to head up another mile to the first ridge.  I can stay behind with you, do you think that will work?" He asked. 

George shook his head.  He didn't want to cheat Alex out of filming interactions. 

"What do you feel like doing instead?"

George choked back a sob.  Alex was so kind, and for why?

"I've already told the others to leave and they're going up now.  I told them we'll catch up."

George sat up and immediately wrapped his arms around Alex.  As he heard the footsteps of his friends leaving, he allowed himself to crying into Alex's shoulder for the count of ten, and nothing more. 

Ten.  He let out a sob.  He was so exhausted. 

Nine.  His ankle still hurt. 

Eight.  His stomach hurt. 

Seven.  He was hungry. 

Six.  He didn't like being trapped in the wilderness. 

Five.  He hated that he felt so weak constantly. 

Four.  He hated crying in front of people. 

Three.  He was tired of being sick and tired. 

Two.  He didn't know how he could keep going. 

One.  He had to keep going.  

Zero.  He sniffed, sitting up and pushing away from Alex.  

He wiped his eyes.  His hands still shook and his eyes still burned.  The pain hadn't subsided.  Nothing had changed.   Still, he had to try and talk. 

"I— I don't want you to loose out filming th-things," he managed to get out, pressing his thumbs into his eyes.

He felt Alex soften.  "I already have plenty of footage, but even if I didn't, your well being is way more important than a stupid video."

George gave him another hug.  

"Plus I've been annoying everyone else, they'll be glad to get rid of me."  He gave a smile that George returned to the best of his ability.  

~

After he'd calmed down and put the applesauce Dream had given him back in his backpack, George and Alex got ready to leave. 

Checking his phone, he saw that it was three thirty.  He chose not to think about what that meant for how long they had to hike.  

As they got their packs on and began walking out of the clearing and back up the trail, Alex gave George's shoulder a small squeeze.  "We've got plenty of time to get there, don't worry."

George held the hiking stick in his left hand, making his way up the trail with a silent nod.  He took all the weight off his right ankle with the stick, which initially made walking easier.  

After what felt like too long of walking, George's left ankle and knee were starting to hurt.  

He and Alex had filmed a couple interactions along the way up, but as George had begun to lean more and more on the walking stick, Alex stopped filming wordlessly.  Neither of them said anything about it, but George was grateful nonetheless.   The going was slow due to George's limp and frequent stops, but Alex never left him nor mockingly encouraged him to keep going.  With everyone else, they would encourage George to keep going, but it would always turn mocking— they'd clap, they'd shout, assuming George just didn't care to go faster.  But what they didn't realize was that he was trying.  He always tried at physical activity, he was just bad at it.  The "encouragement" was always mocking as a result, and it always made George feel worse.  

Alex never did any of that; he only wordlessly stopped when George did, allowing George to control the pace they went.  George hadn't had a friend do that before, and he was overwhelmed with the kind gesture.  

His left side was starting to burn, the pain stretching out from his ankle through his knees and across to his right hip.  He collapsed on the side of the trail, splaying out in the grass.  The light had gotten flat, and the mountains no longer entranced him.  He was just tired and in pain. 

Alex sat down beside him.  "Do you wanna talk about why your ankle is fucked?" He asked. 

No.  George hated talking about his past, he hated talking about what was wrong with him.  But at the same time, Alex was the only one who had responded in a way that made George comfortable, without any pity.  He knew he should— he owed it to Alex.  After being a good friend to him, after helping him, George felt bad keeping secrets; because at the end of the day, he wanted to tell someone.  He wanted someone to talk about what was wrong, he wanted someone to talk to.  And telling Alex wouldn't ruin his friendship with him like it might ruin his friendship with Dream. 

George signed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yeah," he said, committing to the act of actually opening up to someone for the first time in his life.  

Alex was silent, waiting for George to speak. 

He paused.  He didn't want to.  But he was committed now.  "When I was young," he started.  "I fell and hurt my ankle playing tag with my sister.  She didn't want to get in trouble, so she told our parents I pushed her."  He could feel tears misting his eyes, and quickly blinked them away.  It was just an ankle injury, he hated how emotional he got about the story.  "My parents got mad at m-me for pushing her, but I was in a lot of pain and couldn't defend myself."  Against his will, he felt tears slide down his face without his consent as he continued.  "I got grounded.  Then I remember sl-sleeping on the f-f-floor and..." he trailed off, crying quietly alongside the trail.  He knew he would cry the second he committed to telling the story— he still felt incredibly hurt and betrayed by his parents for giving him lifelong injuries.  As much as he tried to convince himself his parents didn't know any better, he could never quite manage to forgive them.  

"That's fucked," Alex said. 

Was it?  George had always felt bad about what happened, but he never put any blame on his parents.  They never knew any different and he'd been afraid to confront them. 

Yet, the validation that came with those two words lifted a weight from his shoulders.  Maybe he wasn't over dramatic, maybe there was a reason he always felt so terrible, and maybe it wasn't his fault as a kid. 

Emboldened by the prospect that things weren't entirely in his head, George continued.  "I had a limp for months after that and my ankle still hurts today.  I think hiking on it this whole time hurt it again."

Alex looked at him in shock.  "Your parents never questioned the literal limp?"

George shook his head.  "They told me to stop faking it.  I would walk odd as a kid so they stopped asking me about it after long enough."

"But you weren't faking it."

He shrugged.  "I can't remember."

"You weren't faking it.  No normal kid fakes that shit."

"Well my parents always made fun of me because I competed for attention with my sister, so it made sense to," George defended. 

"But did you actually get hurt?"

He shrugged again.  "I'm always in pain so I don't remember."

"What?!"  Alex looked genuinely shook at his declaration. 

Wasn't it normal to always be in pain?  He couldn't ever remember a time where he pain free for more than a month.  

"At least once a month I'm in pain," he said hesitantly. 

"That's not supposed to happen," Alex's expression was sad, bordering on pity. 

He didn't want pity— if Alex was going to pity him would stop talking. 

He shook his head, staring at his hands.  "It's normal to me," he said softly.  He didn't know what to make of this new information.  

Alex leaned over and wrapped his arms around George.   George placed his hands on top of this friend's arms, holding them for comfort.  He was truly at a loss— he couldn't think of words to say, and he couldn't conceptualize the fact that his everyday life wasn't normal.   He gripped Alex's arms tighter in his hands. 

They stayed like that, until George slowly let go of Alex's arm, placing his hands at his side in the compacted dirt. 

"We don't have to talk about this more." Alex told him, letting go of George. 

He grabbed his friend's arms back, placing them around him and grabbing his wrists.  Alex obliged, and George laid his head on his Alex's shoulders. 

He nodded, a tacit agreement that he didn't want to talk about his life anymore. 

~

As they hiked, it slowly got darker and darker, until Alex fell over a tree root in the path.  He laughed, unhurt, before getting up and asking if he could film some things.  

George agreed, rubbing his hand over his eyes to make sure there were no sign of anything.  

Alex filmed the mountains as they disappeared into darkness, eventually filming the flashlights of their phones in the dark.  They didn't have any other light sources, and thus had to make their way for the most part by flashlight.  

After what felt like too long, they finally heard the shouting of Dream and Nick's playful banter, and reached camp, where their friends had a single light in the middle of a flat rock, their tents already set up to the side. 

"You're here!" Karl called, as George took off his backpack and laid on the ground.  

He was too tired to pay any attention or be of any help, instead choosing to rub his ankle to try and reduce the pain.  It was nearing impossible to walk on, and would often make a loud clicking noise that would send a wave of pain through it.  

Vaguely around him, George could hear the sounds of his friends cooking and talking.  He wanted to join, he wanted to be a part of the fun— but he physically couldn't bring himself to get up and join them.  He was too exhausted.  He closed his eyes, hand on the bridge of his nose. 

"George!" Dream called.  "Come over here!"

He sighed.  He felt as if he physically couldn't get up.  Sitting up, just simply putting the smallest amount of weight on his ankle he could sent a jolt of pain through his ankle.  He barely managed to stop himself from crying out, and he knew he couldn't get up.  

"George," Alex whispered, coming over to him and crouching down.  "Do you want to say you hurt your ankle?"

George shook his head. 

"Do you want me to make a joke about how you didn't sleep enough?"

George considered it.  He liked the veil of normalcy that the sleeping joke would provide, and as much as he hated the bit it was quickly becoming the only thing he could hold onto as an excuse.  He felt as though his body was quickly spiraling— getting worse and worse to the point where he couldn't eat and couldn't walk.  He didn't want anyone to know.  Alex knew; but Alex acted normal about it.  Alex would tell him what should and shouldn't have happened, and didn't pity him.  George knew the others would pity him, and for that reason he refused to tell them.  He didn't like the constant harassment about his sleeping schedule, but he hated the alternative even more.   He nodded. 

"Let me help you up," Alex whispered.  

He grabbed Alex's hand, still heavily favoring his left side, grabbed the stick and limped over to the rest of the group before sitting down next to Dream and Alex, the stove and light inbetween the loose circle they'd made. 

"George only got like twelve hours of sleep last night, so he's still tired."

The group laughed slightly at Alex's remark. 

"Hey George," Karl asked, looking up.  "Do you want Ramen?  We already boiled the glizzies and we're cooking ramen now."

George nodded, and Dream handed him a container of applesauce, whispering at him to eat.  Dream was so insistent that he ate— he supposed it was his way of making a caring gesture, but it still annoyed George slightly.  He knew how much he could and could not eat, he didn't need someone reminding him to. 

"Guys," Karl looked up, his eyes wide.  "We forgot silverware."

"Oh my fucking god," Alex burst out laughing. 

George giggled slightly. 

"I guess we're using a knife to eat," Nick called, pulling out a pocket knife he'd brought. 

"wHAT?" Dream wheezed.

The circle broke into more laughter. 

George used the tinfoil lid to the applesauce to make a spoon to eat it, and the pocket knife worked surprisingly decent.  Consider they all had one as part of an emergency preparedness kit, George was able to carefully eat half a package of unseasoned ramen before he felt full. 

He'd been incredibly hungry all day, having only drunken a cup of coffee, but he somehow couldn't eat more.  He didn't question it, giving his ramen to Dream and sitting back. 

As the group talked, George felt the pain return to his stomach— this time accompanied by nausea.  The pain misted his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around his torso.  He went to lean over to further mitigate the pain, but the action sent his stomach into his throat.  

Oh.  This certainly wasn't something he wanted to deal with on a mountain.  He truly did feel as if he got over the periods throughout his childhood where he would get sick, but if he wasn't he didn't want it to happen on a mountain.  He recalled a few times previously where he would be sick when he was alone in his apartment, but it was relatively easy to manage then.  He simply wouldn't stream, wouldn't eat for a couple days, and spend the days in his small bathroom.  It wasn't fun, but he managed.   He was lucky that Dream had never needed him during those times, and the time passed relatively without incident.  

George sat back up, thinking about what to do.  He tried to ignore the feeling, but he was left, stuck in one spot, afraid to move.  He was in such pain, such discomfort, that he stopped being able speak or participate.  

As the night got colder and colder, George zoned out, the sound of his friend's laughter fading as he retreated to his own head. 

Suddenly, George knew he was going to be sick.  He had to get away from his friends. 

He swallowed, poking Dream to get his attention.  "Where's the bathroom area?" He asked shakily.  Dream pointed to some trees before returning to conversation, and George immediately left.   Walking was still hard— he felt the pain in his ankle, but pain in his stomach and overwhelming feeling of being sick drowned it out for the most part.  

He stumbled into the trees, trying his hardest to get away from his friends.  The ground cover was thick, fallen branches tore at his legs. 

He put his hand against a tree, leaned over, and threw up. 

Fuck.  Even though he knew it would happen, he still wished he couldn’t live avoided it.  Being sick was awful— the stomach acid burned his mouth and nose.  

He coughed, immediately throwing up again.  

Tears fell from his eyes as he coughed again.  Everything about the situation felt so much worse when he wasn't at home— he would have to return and be around people, then sleep in a laying down position next to someone.   Just the concept of doing such a thing while sick sent a pang of anxiety through him, rivaling the existing pain in his stomach. 

He tried to straighten up and immediately felt him stomach shift.  He leaned back over, wishing he had the hiking pole to stabilize himself.  He knew he'd be in the forest for a while— he was still sick.  

George closed his eyes, wishing away the situation.  He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to be sick.  He didn't want to be him.  

He threw up twice more before the nausea started to subside, some of the pain leaving with it.  He stood up, feeling okay. 

Slowly, he began to walk back to camp.  Without the desire to escape, walking became much harder.  He was fully aware of the sickening pain in his ankle, and he felt it move without his consent, ripping against his nerves, burning up his leg. 

He hit a rock and fell, a sob escaping his body as he stayed on his hands and knees.  He was in so much pain.  He could only hope that his friends were far enough away and distracted enough that they didn't hear anything. 

When George finally mustered the strength to stand up, he threw up twice more in the bushes.  

God he hated this shit.  

He was shaking, crying, and in pain, but at least he had stopped feel nauseous.  His throat burned and his stomach still ached, but he was at the very least confident he wouldn't vomit again.  Not that he could— he had a feeling he had thrown up everything he'd eaten throughout the day.  

At the edge of the forest, away from his friends, George sat down against a tree, a tight feeling in his chest, his arms around his knees.  There, he allowed himself to cry.  It was the only thing he could do— he couldn't possibly comprehend the events of the day.  Between the exhaustion, the hiking, his ankle, telling Alex, hiking in the dark, the pain, and finally to throwing up in the middle of the forest, George couldn't process it.  All he could do was shake and sob; when he ran out of tears, he simply sat, gasping for breath and shaking. 

"Are you okay?"  Karl presence made George jump out of his skin.  He didn't realize he'd come over to him. 

He wasn't.  But there was no way he would tell Karl that.  

"The guys sent me over here," Karl continued.  "You'd been gone for a while, we wanted to make sure nothing happened."

It was a nice enough gesture, but George still resented it.  He just wanted to be left alone— he didn't want to talk about what was happening, he just wanted to be normal. 

"I'm fine."  His voice was scratchy and words felt painful.  He swallowed the acidic saliva in his mouth.  He would drink water, but he was afraid to.  He'd never thrown up pure water before, but the uncertainty of the scenario made him incredibly hesitant to take any risks at all. 

"You don't see—" Karl started. 

"I'm.  Fine." George cut him off.  He was not having this conversation. 

Karl simply left.  George immediately felt bad.  He had never wanted to hurt his friend; Karl was sweet and nothing but kind to him, but he simply couldn't handle any other questions about his heath.  

His head down, limping, he headed back to his friends and sat down next to Karl. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered.  Karl turned to him.  "I'm just tired and I shouldn't have snapped at you."

Karl patted his shoulder, giving him a small smile.  "I get it, don't worry about it man."

George still felt bad. 

~

The tent was cold and his sleeping bag did little to help.  He shivered in his sleeping bag.  

"Are you cold to?" Dream whispered from beside him in the tent they were sharing together. 

"Y-yes," George whispered back, his teeth chattering. 

"Come in my sleeping bag."

That could have been phrased better, George thought.  "Dream!  What?"  He whispered back, giggling. 

"No!" Dream returned, still at a whisper.  "I meant sleep with me— no, I meant, let's sleep in the same sleeping back for warmth!"  He wheezed slightly. 

Usually, George would deny such a request, but he was too cold to protest.  Whispering back an okay, he shifted over to Dream. 

"Okay, crawl next to me and put your sleeping bag over the top."

George obliged, crawling into Dream's sleeping bag and placing his own over the top.  The were incredibly close— fully cuddling by the sheer lack of space between them.  It was significantly warmer.  

George exhaled, putting an arm around Dream and burying his face into his warm chest. 

Chapter Text

There was no better time than right then.  

Dream had wanted to ask George what he meant when he said he loved him since the night he said it, and there seemed to be no better time than when he was physically holding George in his arms.  

They were warm and comfortable— each other's body heat shielding them from the cold neither of them were used to.  He could feel George's heart beating quickly against him, and felt their legs wrapped on top of each other.  His red blanket was still against his face, draping slightly onto George's soft skin and ruffled hair.  

He was so cute, Dream thought.  He was perfect, and he wished they could stay like that forever. 

His best chance was now— when a better chance to confess your feelings than cuddled in a sleeping bag on a mountain ridge?

"God I love you George," He murmured. 

George gave a small, comfortable hum in response, pressing further against Dream.  He tightened his grip around him.  

"What did you mean when you said you loved me, that night?" He breathed, his heart pounding, more on edge than he'd been in a long time.  

He had loved George for so long— he longed for moments like this, nights sleeping together.  Soft whispers of "I love yous," kisses on the cheek; he wanted to hold George in his arms forever, to love him, to protect him, to have and to hold— his best friend.  His soulmate. 

"I um..." George started in a whisper, and Dream's heart leapt to his chest.  This was the moment.  This was the moment it all changed.  "I love your company, you're caring and..."

Dream waited.  

"You're my best friend Dream."

His heart shattered.   He couldn't believe it— after the cuddling, the flirting, the hand holding, everything— he had been so sure that George felt the same way.  He was so confident his feelings were reciprocated, that he hadn't been prepared for rejection. 

And it broke him. 

Tears sprung to his eyes, clinging into his eyelids as he shut his eyes.  Suddenly, having George so close, so snuggled into him left him in physical pain.  

He took his red blanket away from George and removed his arms, holding his blanket close against his face for comfort.  George couldn't have his blanket— it was special to him.  He pressed his face into the blanket, pushing back the tears.  He would not cry right next to George.  It was hardly a rejection to George— they were always playfully flirting, even though Dream had crossed the line into being serious ages ago.  

He heard George sniff slightly, still against his chest.  Another pang went through his chest.  He wanted to help George, he knew something was wrong— but he couldn't bring himself to do it.  He was too hurt in the moment.  Too hurt by his own ego, too wrapped up in his own head, that he had ignored reality and broken his own heart. 

He wanted to scream and sob— he wanted to punch a wall.  He hated the world, he hated everything.  More than anything, he hated himself for getting his hopes up. 

He was an idiot. 

He laid there, George still painfully cuddled against him. 

Eventually, Dream fell into a fitful sleep, the fact that his feelings went unreciprocated weighing heavy in his mind. 

~

Light shone through the vinyl fabric of the tent, the light gray color doing nothing to mitigate the rising sun.  

George was still softly pressed against Dream's chest, sleeping peacefully.  He remembered with a pang what had happened last night, and put his arm across his eyes.  He didn't want to think about what had transpired.  He didn't want to think about how horrifically he had missed George's body language for almost the entire time they knew each other.   It just hurt too much to think about, as it left a painful void in his chest. 

As he heard the sounds of his other friends moving around and setting up for breakfast, Dream resolved himself to get out of his warm sleeping bag, and into the frigid mountain sunrise.  

As he started to disentangle himself and exit the sleeping bag, George held onto him tighter.  He gave a still asleep no, burying himself further into Dream.  

His heart shattered all over again.  

Oh how he wanted this— he wanted to wake up in the mornings, George in his arms.  He wanted to fall asleep with him at nights, wrapped together, holding on the whole night.  He wanted to always be near George, he wanted to cuddle up against him always.  He wanted to be with George, and he wanted to stay with him, constantly together.  

But George didn't.   George was only wrapped against him being he was tired and they'd slept in close quarters— he would to the same thing with anyone else.  It would be wrong of Dream to stay; as much as he fawned over George, he wouldn't stay against him, hugging him— using his exhaustion as a way to be close to the one he loved would not only further lead himself on, but George didn't consent in that way.  He had to leave before anything went any further, before he shattered his heart anymore. 

He sniffed.  He wriggled his way out of the sleeping bag, ignoring George's protests and pushing his arms away.  What he would have done for George to do that before he rejected him. 

No.  He shook his head to clear it.  It didn't matter when George pulled him close to his chest, because he never meant it in a romantic context.  Dream had misread all the signs— it had always been platonic.  Regardless of what was said, George pulling him close in his soft arms was never in a romantic context, and Dream couldn't allow himself to think that it was anymore.

As he finally managed to worm his way away from George, ignoring his soft protests, he sat up in the tent, reaching for his beat-up pair of nike shoes.  He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, blinking a couple times and sniffing.

Right before he was about to unzip the tent, he saw George, holding his red blanket in his arms.  He let out an involuntary whimper.

It would smell like George.  That was good— but also not.  

He would be able to smell George, long after he'd left back to England.  He could feel the comforting smell of George at all times. 

But he couldn't.  He couldn't get over George that way— everything George touched and associated with would be incredibly painful for a long while.  Any reminders of him, especially when he was trying to sleep, would send a pang through his chest.   He couldn't handle his blanket smelling like George. 

He crawled over and grabbed onto the blanket, giving a small tug to get it away from George.  

"No, 'smells like you," George mumbled, still very asleep.  

Dream felt like bursting into sobs then and there.  What he would give to lay against George, sobbing against him.  Maybe George would hug him. 

No.  He couldn't do that— a fact which made him more susceptible to tears— because regardless of how much he wanted it, George... didn't.  

He swallowed thickly, breathing out a couple times.  "Please, George," he whispered. 

George let go, and he balled up his blanket, holding it like a cat in his arms.  He allowed himself one last hug to George— a hug for closure.  As he leaned over and embraced George, George gave a comfortable hum and Dream was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss his forehead.  

It wouldn't be fair to George.  Sure, Karl would often kiss his friends on the cheek platonically, but that was mutually agreed upon.  With George, George may feel platonically about it, but Dream certainly didn't.   If Dream were to kiss him, he would be using George as an object of his affection— and that would be wrong.  

Before he could think of anything else, Dream forced himself to unzip the tent holding his blanket in his arms, exiting towards camp and ignoring anything George said or did.  

His friends greeted him as he arrived, and plopped himself down in the dirt as Karl poured the last of his water bottle into the pot to boil water. 

"How'd you deal with the cold last night?" Karl asked.  

Dream rubbed his eyes.  "George and I just shared a sleeping bag."

"Ooooh, did you give him a good-morning kiss?" Nick asked. 

Dream merely sighed.  The cons of flirting with your best friend when you've been secretly in love with him for months. 

"You gotta kiss the homies good morning," Karl added. 

"I don't wanna talk about it," he whispered.  

Nick immediately read what was going on;  they'd known each other too long for him to not know what Dream was like when things like that happened.  "Did he...?" Reject you.  Nick trailed off, not wanting to say it, but Dream knew regardless. 

He nodded.  Nick immediately drew him into a hug, and he leaned back against his shoulder looking down.  

Karl gave him a questioning look, before piecing it together, looking shocked before his face immediately fell.  "I'm sorry," he added. 

Dream simply nodded again, as Nick patted his head. 

Alex looked confused. 

"You can say it," Dream said dejectedly.  It wasn't like the was secretive about his feelings, and he may as well clear up any misconceptions to avoid any other awkward situations. 

Karl looked sadly at Dream.  He remembered the time he'd told him, excitedly in his ear, that he had basically asked George to kiss him— what a change to now, sitting over a small stove, having been freshly rejected the night before.  

"Dream asked out George and he said no," Karl said.  Dream watched Alex's face fall, and shoot an awkward glance over to the tent they shared. 

"He told me he loved me a couple days back, I asked him what he meant last night.  He said we were just friends," He clarified.  "George doesn't know."

He didn't want his friends to think things would be awkward between them— it would only be so if he made it awkward, and he refused to do so.  He would not let his feelings ruin his friendship and push George away.  He would hate living with himself if that happened.  He would loose the best support in his life by loosing George— there was more at steak than just his romantic feelings. 

"He doesn't know he..." Karl asked, leaving off the end of the sentence, just like Nick had. 

He shook his head.  "Don't make it obvious," he whispered.  

He didn't want George to know— he wanted to get over George on his own, he wanted to keep his friendship intact and keep the flirting as a bit.  It would be painful, but he couldn't ruin things with George.  George never opened up to him as it was, and he didn't need to give him further reason to isolate himself and deny his struggles. 

His friends assured him they wouldn't.  

~

After packing up camp and yelling at George multiple times to wake up, they'd packed up camp.  It took all four of them to force George to get up, and he'd almost instantly fallen asleep against the cooking rock once he woke up, effectively forcing them to pack his bag for him. 

"George, it's time to go," Dream called, putting on his own backpack. 

George stood up, and Dream immediately noticed the shine around his eyes.  He'd been crying.  

Dream felt so bad for George; he had no idea what was going on, but he'd be blind if he couldn't see how much his friend was struggling.   Pushing his own unrequited feelings aside, he looked to George, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him in for a hug.  

Poor Gogy.  Not only was he struggling— he was going alone.  Dream just wished he could be there, to help him, to love him, to support him.  He needed protecting.  

"What's wrong?" he whispered. 

"Nothing."  George's voice was shaky, and he pulled away, Dream letting him and letting go. 

"George, you're crying," Dream said softly, cradling George's face and wiping away the tears with his thumb.  He just wanted to help— talking to George already hurt so much, the only thing he could think to do was try to get George to smile.  Maybe, just maybe, if George was happy, he could feel a little less empty and broken inside.  

"Leave me alone Dream." George said flatly, ice coating his tone.

He could hear the frost in George's voice, telling him in more words, to fuck right off. 

Dream didn't know what to do.   He didn't know what to say.   There was nothing he could say.  George hadn't ever taken that tone with him, he'd never told him to just leave.  It was always joking or deflecting the conversation, he'd never fully-seriously told him to go.  

At a loss, he simply walked away.  He had his backpack, he had everything he needed, and he knew which way the trail was.  Not saying a single word, Dream began walking further up the trail they'd hiked last afternoon, stepping wide over the rocks in the path.  

He was vaguely aware of his friends following behind, but he didn't care.  He kept walking, picking up his pace— he wanted to outpace the thoughts of self-hatred and self-pity swirling through his head.  

He hated himself for misreading George's emotions, so badly, so consistently that he'd almost made up a whole separate world inside his head. 

In his world, he and George were best friends— with just a hint of something more.  There was always something under the surface, something genuine behind the flirty banter and double entendres.  Sure, they insisted they had no plans to date, but immediately after would talk about marrying each other, about kissing each other.  They said they had no problem with being shipped and it was just jokes— but it wasn't.  There are very few straight men okay with being consistently called gay on the internet.  Hell, there were very few men in general that were okay with their sexuality in the internet.  Even outwardly queer men would often hide their sexuality under layers of irony or religious jokes, or play it off as an innocuous joke.   The fact that they could joke about their sexuality meant they were both comfortable in their own skin, but also that there was something more behind the facades they put up for streaming. 

At least, that's what Dream thought in his made-up world.  In the real world, it was apparently just a joke to George— nothing more, nothing less.  

He had thought George was his best friend too.  He knew George was a private person, who never expressed much emotion.  He knew he struggled with his mental health occasionally, but he had his coping mechanisms, he had his pets, and he was okay.  Just because he didn't overshare to Dream, didn't mean he didn't trust him.  

Both of those assumptions were wrong.  For one, there was no way George was at all mentally stable— Dream could tell immediately.  He barley talked and barley ate.  Dream was no expert, but he was certain that George had an eating disorder.

He'd done some research on google, and found the most common form of eating disorders, especially among men, came from the desire to be healthier to match unrealistic standards of fitness.  Like many issues, it was heavily stigmatized but ultimately made sense.  It was easy to become wrapped up in notions of fitness and numbers, and Dream had seen it tear some of his classmates in wrestling apart.  Even in football, weight would be brought up, but he himself was lucky to naturally have an athletic figure that it never bothered him.  

He didn't know how or why it started, but George must've gotten wrapped up in the same world of numbers and fitness, eventually leading to his obscure eating habits that Dream had observed.  George ate exclusively small amounts of apple sauce and plain crackers, and nothing else.  He didn't eat breakfast, he would eat a single container of applesauce for lunch, and another for dinner.  There was no possible way he got enough calories.  George had at least eaten half a package of ramen— still way less than he needed, but Dream was at least glad. 

He wished he could do something.  He never knew before the meet up, and he had no experience in helping anyone.  He didn't know what he could do. 

Secondly, Dream had been wrong that he was George's best friend.  It hurt to realize— it hurt more than anything he'd experienced before.  It hurt to think about the late night calls and excepted texts to his mom saying that he’d found such an amazing friend.  It was a lie.  It was all an elaborate lie crafted by George. 

No best friend would hide so much from someone.  No best friend would hate the other person so much that they'd hide dramatic mental instability, that they would refuse to let their so-called best friend comfort them as they physically sat crying.  

That morning, George had told Dream how he truly felt in his few words.  George didn't care about Dream— not truly— he didn't trust him, didn't want him around.  

Dream had thought he was different, he thought they loved each other in so many senses of the word.  He had missed every sign, every hint.  

Dream had made up an entire world in his head, publicly on the internet. 

~

Dream didn't realize the tears streaming down his face until Nick tapped his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts.  

He felt hot tears coming from his eyes, his throat hurting, salt water soaking the neck of his sweatshirt.  The tear tracks down his face left traces of salt that quickly hardened in the breeze, undoubtedly leaving his face red.   He sniffed, the action doing nothing to stop the flow of tears. 

"Dude, you're a mess," Nick stated. 

Dream simply nodded, picking up his walking pace.  If he wasn't walking, he would fall apart. 

Nick rushed to keep up, asking him what happened.  

He shook his head to clear it, wiping his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his hoodie.  Fresh tears immediately replaced the ones he'd wiped away.  

"I misread my entire friendship with George.  We’re not friends," he said. 

"That's not true," Nick countered.  

Dream shook his head.  "He didn't want to tell me what was wrong this morning."

"Is it awkward between you after last night?"

Dream shook his head.  "I never confessed," he breathed in again through his nose, rubbing his face and half jumping off a rock in the trail.  "I only asked him what he meant and didn't say anything."

"Oh."

He was fucked.  "George wasn't ever my friend."  As soon as he said those words, he choked on a sob, looking down and letting tears fall onto the soft dirt.

"That's not true," Nick repeated. 

"It is."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because he doesn't trust me.  He's struggling, and when I tried to help he told me to fuck off.  That's not best friend behavior."

"He told you to fuck off?"

"More or less.  He told me to leave him a-alone." Those words stung somehow more than his interpretation of it.  

"He could just be overwhelmed."

"But he's never told me ANYTHING!" Dream didn't mean for the last part to come out as a shout, but it did.  

"Calm down, calm down," Nick started, rubbing his shoulder where it met the strap of his backpack.  "You're going a little too far.  It's fucked that George won't tell you anything, but he does care about you and does see you as his best friend."

"You don't know that."  Nick didn't. 

"He's told me, so many times," Nick responded. 

"Told you what?" His breath caught in his throat. 

"That he cares about you so much, that you're the best friend he's ever had, and he's terrified of ever messing up you guys' friendship.  That's why he won't say anything I don't think, he's too anxious and you but him on the spot this morning.  He panicked, he must have.  He doesn't hate you Dream, I promise."

The void in his chest shrunk slightly.  "Really?" he asked, incredulous.  

"Really.  I can show you our discord messages if you want." 

"I believe you," he whispered, stopping along the trail.  

"I know it's not my place, but you might have better results telling him he can open up to you and you won't feel any different about him," Nick suggested. 

"I will," Dream nodded. 

He wiped his eyes, no tears reappearing in their place.  The lump in his throat dissipated, and he gave a smile.  He did always overthink things— of course George was his friend.  He could handle some romantic rejection with his friend at his side.  

"Speaking of George, we should probably wait for him, huh?" He asked.

"And Alex and Karl, I had to practically run to catch up to you," Nick nodded, smiling. 

They sat down on the side of the trail, taking off their backpacks and making light conversation. 

~

"It's Dream!" Karl shouted, jokingly shaking him and Alex pointed the camera in his face.  "Dream!!"

Dream laughed, going with the bit until Karl and Alex got tired and realized they'd rather take off their backpacks than torment him. 

"Are you doing better?" Karl asked, putting a soft hand on Dream's shoulder. 

"Yeah," he responded.  "I freaked George out a bit this morning by asking him what was wrong and over-reacted when he didn't tell me.  I'm going to apologize to him tonight."  He gave a small smile.  He truly was doing much better, after having time and talking to Nick, he'd managed to override his impulsivity and think rationally about what he'd done. 

Alex and Karl shared a look to each other, their facial expressions unreadable.  They clearly knew something about George that he didn't, but he wouldn't pry— if he made George comfortable enough to tell him, George would tell him.  

"Where are we?" He asked, changing the subject.  He quite liked hiking, and wanted to focus on that, rather than his drama with George. 

Karl pulled out his phone.  "We're about three miles in," he responded after a second.  

"Should we keep waiting for George?" Nick asked. 

Alex and Karl shared another look.  "He told us not to, at four we're going to turn around regardless of where we are and find him," Karl said.  Dream could tell he was trying to hide disappointment— Karl had been talking excitedly about camping on top of a peak the whole car ride and the entire day yesterday.  For some reason, likely based on his love of Survivor, Karl loved the adventure, and staying in cool places.  

"Are you sure?" Dream asked, wanting to make sure Karl didn't get pushed aside.  "You were really excited to camp on the top."

"I know, but I'd rather stay with George," he responded.  "He's clearly going through some things, I don't fully know what obviously but he was really shaken last night.  I don't want to push him too far, that's a rule we have with Jimmy to keep the fun in things."

Dream nodded— it was an incredibly mature response.  He agreed that pushing George was a bad idea, and if Karl was okay, he was perfectly okay not making it to the top.  

"Besides, I'll just bring you on a different trip next time you visit," Karl added with a smile.  

"I'd like that," Dream responded.  He liked hiking more than he thought he would, it provided a good throwback to the fun he'd had in high school sports, but significantly lower stress. 

"Yes!" Karl called, jumping up in celebration.  "So many people won't go with me."

Dream smiled, and they began to head up the trail, collectively speed walking in attempts to reach the top. 

~

At noon, they stopped for lunch, grabbing granola bars, some crackers, and fruit out of their packs.  

The wind was beginning to get colder and more intense, as it transitioned from a comforting breeze to a cold mountain air, pushing through his thin sweatshirt and freezing his bones.  

Dream shivered.  

"It's cold as shit," Alex noted, also shivering.

"Did anyone bring extra jackets?" Nick asked. 

They shook their heads. 

"I've got a blanket," Dream offered.  

"I think we should just start hiking again to be honest," Karl started, checking the tripod camera they'd put on the trail was still upright.  "If we get any colder it'll be harder to warm up, and we've still got a mile and a half to go."

They agreed, putting their backpacks on and holding their remaining lunch.  Dream figured he'd finish eating on the trail, and it seemed like everyone else had the same idea.  

Before long, the side of the trail became dotted with patches of snow, and Dream immediately stopped.  He'd only seen snow once before their skiing trip, leading to a childlike sense of wonder at a small patch of icy, dusty snow.  

Grinning, he immediately grabbed a handful of snow and tried to force it into a ball.  His hands instantly burned cold after touching it— the snow felt like grabbing one of those crushed ice treats you found at sporting events.  It was made mainly of thick, icy crystals that felt like tiny knives against his palms.  

He threw the snow overhand, hitting nick directly in the chest.

He immediately shook his hands out and rubbed them against the fabric of his sweatshirt, trying to regain warmth in his fingers.  The snow was cold. 

"What the ffffff—" Nick yelled in response, conscious to not swear near the go pro cameras they had on their backpacks.  

Dream simply laughed manically, wheezing as his friend tried to brush the ice crystals off his shirt.  

"Nah, nah, you're doing it wrong!"  Karl called from behind.  Running past him, he grabbed a handful of snow, and before Dream had time to think, he'd jumped to shove snow down the back of Dream's sweatshirt, compacting the snow between his skin and the backpack. 

Dream screamed.  It was COLD.  So cold. 

"Oh come on!" he shouted, trying to do the same.  

Karl expertly dodged, resulting in his hands only getting unnecessarily cold, and both Karl and and Nick nailed him in the face with more snow they'd found on the other side of the trail.  

The snow stung— his face was red and cold, the snow crystals burning and permeating through his skin and into his bones.  It was worse than the snow they skied on— this snow was icy and painful, and the lack of a mask meant he had no barrier between his skin and the ice.  

Karl prepared another snowball, and Dream immediately put his hands up in surrender.   "No!" he shouted.  "It's too cold!"

"Minecraft Manhunt!" Karl shouted.  

Dream wheezed.  

After some joking, the four of them headed up the trail, the snow getting increasingly thick. 

Soon, the snow covered the entire trail, the white expanse stretching in front of them.  The snow on the trees, the white mountains peaks, and the small bits of flora poking through the smooth snow would have enamored Dream, if it didn't immediately go into his shoes.  Every step he took, more snow would get into his shoes, soaking his socks and sending a shiver through his bones.  He'd tried to get the snow out, but it was pointless— there would only be more snow filling his shoes.  

The cold alone made him loose the sense of wonder about the snow in mere minutes.   Regardless, he refused to turn around.  It seemed as if an unspoken rule to keep going until it was physically impossible.  He was in the lead, and he would not be the one to turn around because of a little bit of frozen water.  Thus, he stayed leading the group, Karl behind him, both struggling to get through the snow.  

As he carefully placed another foot in the cold snow, and heard Karl yell behind him.  He turned around to look. 

Karl was in the snow, curled over and clutching his hand.  

"Are you okay?" Dream asked, holding out a hand for Karl to get up. 

"Yeah," Karl hissed out, pushing himself up by his elbow and holding out his hand.  "Who has the first aid kit?" he asked, his voice strained.  

Dream breathed in.  "I don't know," he said.  

Soon enough, Alex and Nick caught up, and Karl asked if they had a first aid kit.  They didn't know who had it either.  

"Do you want me to cut the cameras?" Nick asked, ready to turn off his. 

Karl shook his head and grimaced, still holding his hands together.  

"Let's unpack, see who has the kit," Alex suggested, taking off his pack.  Dream did the same, setting up a tripod camera and crouching in the snow.  

"Alex, can you check mine?" Karl asked, still looking pained.  

Alex nodded, quickly looking through his pack. 

"I don't have it," Nick called, looking up from the pile of camping gear surrounding him.  

Dream rifled his hand through the tent shoved at the bottom of his pack, feeling nothing.  "I don't either," he added. 

Alex was silent, looking through Karl's bag, before looking sadly up at Karl.  "It's not in either of our bags," he said. 

Karl breathed in sharply.  "George?" he asked.  

"Hopefully?" Dream added.  He had absolutely no clue what to do as he said surrounded in camping gear.  "What did you do?"

"I honked my finger I think," Karl replied, leaning over.  As Dream looked closer, he realized his was grasping onto his index finger alone. 

There was a beat of silence.  No one knew what to do or say. 

"We can keep going," Karl spoke bravely, his voice shaking.  

"Are you sure?" Alex asked. 

Karl nodded, and Dream was a little disappointed.  He honestly wanted to turn around— it was cold and it was only getting colder.  He had a perpetual shiver and he could tell Alex did too.   He would have loved the excuse to head back down to where it was no longer freezing, but alas.  He certainly wouldn't complain if Karl was continuing with a broken finger.  

Alex helped Karl get his backpack back on and he put snow around his finger, and they continued on.  

They only made it a hundred yards or so before the snow hit them mid calf, and they continuously sunk into the snow causing them to fall each time.

"Okay this is pointless guys," Alex called from the back. 

A wave of relief washed over Dream.  There was a reason the hike wasn't recommended in winter— he knew it would be pointless.  He was cold and ready to head back down.  The novelty of the snow really wore off quickly once the cold started to set it. 

"Hiking is canceled?" Karl asked sadly. 

"Your finger is literally broken," Alex responded. 

Karl paused.  "Vouch," he said, trying to jump to turn around and falling backwards.  

"We can leave the stupid snow?" Nick asked.  

They broke into laughter as they began to head back down.  Alex took Karl's walking stick for obvious reasons, and used it to poke Dream in the back like he had the way up.  Checking his phone for the time, Dream saw that it was around half-past one, meaning they'd find George with plenty of daylight, and find a nice place to stay for the night.  

~

Slowly, the snow cleared from the trail as they hiked back down, the wind turning less biting.  

Dream took in the scenery, filming some on his phone as he hiked by.  It was beautiful in the mountains; while he wasn't a fan of the snow unprepared, he certainly surprised himself by how much he connected to the towering rocks, the likes of which he had never seen before. 

After roughly forty-five minutes of hiking downhill, Dream came across George, lying on the side of the trail.  

"George!" He called brightly.  

George didn't respond. 

Was he fucking asleep?

Nick and Alex caught up, Karl coming down a minute later.  

"George!" Karl asked.  His voice still sounded strained. 

George was asleep.  Hilarious. 

"Oh my gosh," Dream said, not having to say what they all realized.  

"Do you think he's okay?" Karl asked.  

"I think he's lazy and likes sleeping," Dream joked.  George was certainly amusing, he would say that. 

Alex turned off his camera.  "Don't say that."  His voice was stern and serious, immediately turning to George after telling Dream off. 

Dream felt like he got shot— he knew Alex was often serious, but after mostly ever interacting with him in a joking context, Alex telling him off hurt much more than it should have.  He felt a physical pain in his chest and he never wanted to talk for the rest of eternity.  He hated that Alex said that, he hated that out of nowhere Alex was serious.  In that moment, Dream never wanted to say another word to Alex.  

He sat on the ground, deciding to watch what Alex did, refusing to interact. 

"Wha... What happened?" George asked, sitting up at looking up.  

"You feel asleep," ...he said.  Dream didn't want to say his name, even in his head.  It hurt too much after getting told off. 

An unreadable expression flashed over George's face, as he sat there, paused.  "Right, I remember that," he said finally, his voice measured. 

Dream had no clue what was going on— his brain was still distraught from making a single, tiny mistake, and the situation in front of him was so strange, so out of place, that he couldn't process it. 

"George, I don't mean to be pushy but do you have a first aid kit in your backpack?" Karl asked, still holding his finger steady.  Dream was honestly amazed he'd made it this long— he would've shown pain a long time ago, but Karl remained calm and measured, the only sign he was hurt being his lack of any and all hand movements.  

George shook his head.  

"Could I check, just in case?"  Poor Karl. 

George shook his head aggressively, gripping his backpack against himself.  

Karl simply nodded.  

What the fuck was happening.  The entire thing felt like a fever dream, as the actions of any single person were impossible to discern.  

"Do we have tape maybe?" Karl asked, looking around.  Dream noticed his voice was getting shaky again.  

Dream mentally scanned everything in his bag.  He couldn't think of any tape that he'd brought, and shook his head.  

"I've got a drawstring on this hoodie?" Nick offered.  

Karl considered it.  Dream watched him start to wrap the string around his fingers, before recoiling in apparent pain.  He shook his head, looking down.  

"It's a about two fifteen.  We could probably get out today," Nick offered.  

"Alright, give me a minute," Karl said.  "I'll meet you further up the trail."  With that, Karl hastily threw his backpack over one shoulder, and ran down the trail.  Dream felt bad for him— he was injured, and they were so far away from any place where they had medical equipment. 

Alex went to talking softly to George, and Dream wanted to avoid them like the plague.  They were the two people that had snapped at him that day, and there was no way for him to mentally handle that. 

"Hug me," he mumbled to Nick, standing up and melting against his friend.  Nick hugged him back, a comforting presence in the face of everything Dream had to cope with at the moment. 

~

They'd decided to stop in the first campsite they saw walking up, and leave early in the morning the next day.  When the Dream and Nick caught up with Karl, Alex and George long behind them, his face was red, and he had a couple sticks in his hand with his bandana wrapped around his fist in a clear attempt to fix his finger.   Neither of them chose to comment on it, and simply kept hiking.  

Camp came into view closer than they expected given as it was a downhill walk, and the soon hit the empty clearing.  

"We got tents, Karl you rest," Nick said immediately.  The two of them had tents and knew mostly how to set them up, and Karl would be of no help without the use of his hands. 

As they walked into the clearing, Karl tried to protest but Nick quickly shut him down.  Dream admired Karl's perseverance through the obvious pain he was in, but he wished he would just rest.  The man didn't have to prove anything, they already loved and respected him.  

After a couple of tries and a halfhearted sword fight with the tent poles, Dream and Nick got the tents set up, while Karl messed with some camera lighting around a river, about a hundred feet from camp.  

The river was well-placed: they'd forgotten to bring enough water and had been running out all day.  They put snow in their water bottles, but it would be much easier to boil out any diseases in the river water.  

By the time Alex and George got into camp, the light had gone flat and the three of them had setup camp to the best of their abilities.  Alex began unpacking his bag, and Dream gave George a couple minutes before he couldn't wait any longer to talk to him.  

"Hey," Dream said softly, approaching George like he was a scared cat.  

George didn't respond, still lying on the ground, which Dream took as an opening to continue.  

"I'm really sorry about this morning.  I shouldn't have put you on the spot, and if you ever need to talk I'm here.  I don't want to push but I'm concerned about you, so please let me know if I can do anything at all, okay?"  His words came out as a whisper and his hands shook, but after his apology, he felt some of the weight lift off his shoulders.  

George paused, and Dream's nerves spiked back up.  "Thank you.  I'm sorry for snapping at you," George's voice was measured and unreadable.  

"I forgive you," Dream responded instantaneously, more weight lifted off his shoulder.  They were okay.  He was still anxious about everything going on, but the confirmation that George didn't hate him meant everything.  Just having his best friend back was all he could ask for.  

When George didn't respond, he turned to leave.  Unspoken truths still hung awkwardly in the air— it had been the first time they truly ever got mad at each other, and Dream didn't think either of them knew how to process it.  He didn't want to push anything else, and he hoped, desperately, that George would lay against him in the car.  

"Dream," George called softly.  If it wasn't for his searching of any hint of what was happening, Dream would've missed George's words.  He turned around immediately, indicating George should continue.  "Can you carry my backpack to the tent?  I'm going to sleep."

Dream nodded, biting his tongue as to not make fun of George for sleeping.  

George was incredibly slow walking the couple yards to where Dream and Nick had pitched a tent, stopping before the one Dream indicated to.  He'd chosen to share a tent with Nick— he couldn't handle sleeping in such close proximity to George again.  It would destroy him.  

"Can I hug you?" Dream asked carefully.  

George nodded, and he wrapped his arms around his smaller friend, putting his head in his hair.  

He loved George so much.  

But George didn't feel the same, and he had to get that through his head.  He couldn't keep tormenting himself with the prospect of a relationship that wouldn't happen.  

He sighed, closing his eyes and breathing in before letting go and walking back to the rock where Alex had set up the stove.  

"How'd it go?" Nick asked as he sat down. 

Dream nodded.  "Good," he started.  "We apologized, and he said he was going to sleep."  He chose not to mention the spikes of anxiety that haunted him the whole day, instead leaning into Nick and closing his eyes.

~ 

At dinner, Alex tried to wake up George to no avail.  Dream was hurt that Alex was suddenly so close to his best friend, but he knew more than to say anything.  He was already uncomfortable in Alex's presence after being yelled at, and he wasn't going to to push anything.   Instead of saying a single word, Dream leaned into Nick and ate his ramen silently.  

After a night of small conversation, he and Nick went to their shared tent, where they climbed together in a single sleeping bag, knowing the night would be cold.  

Sleeping next to Nick felt different than with George, but his body heat helped to mitigate the cold winter night regardless. 

Chapter Text

Karl and Alex woke George up by coming into the tent to go to bed themselves.  They were laughing about some joke between themselves, Alex unfurling sleeping bags.  

George chose not to give any sign he was awake, instead listening to their conversation.  He closed his eyes again. 

"Alex, this is awkward," Karl's voice stated. 

"Yeah?" Alex responded. 

"I'm gonna ask you to pull the sleeve of my shirt off.  I can't do it with my finger."

George heard the sound of rustling of fabric, and rolled to his side.  His ankle still burned— his eyes hadn't been dry since yesterday.  It was exactly as bad as the first time he hurt it, when his friends ignored him and let him sleep through dinner.  Not that he wanted to eat, but it still hurt.  He wanted the validation, but he didn't want to admit weakness either— he wanted his friends to marvel at his strength and perseverance.  He wanted them to ask how he did it, to admire him for how much he under-reacted to the excruciating pain that he was in. 

"George might be willing, I don't want to risk it though," At the sound of his name, George zoned back in.  

"George?" Alex whispered. 

"Huh?" George mumbled, opening his eyes and looking at the shadow of his friend in the light of an iPhone flashlight. 

"Do you want to sleep in the same sleeping bag?"

George nodded, before realizing Alex couldn't see him and responded verbally.  It was already starting to get cold, alone in his sleeping bag.  

"Hold on George— Karl is your hand in a stable spot?  I don't want you to hurt it more."

George closed his eyes again as Alex and Karl rustled around, trying to make sure something with his hand was okay.  

A wave of anger washed over George as Alex took care of his friend.  How come he had to hike the whole way, but as soon as Karl got ever so slightly hurt, they turned around?  He bet Karl didn't even hurt his finger that bad— he bet it was just a bruise or something similar.  Besides, it wasn't like Karl had to walk on his finger.  He could just keep it still and absolutely nothing would happen.  Karl was absolutely fine. 

It wasn't fair.  Karl got all this attention and special treatment for a stupid, mild, injury, while George on the other hand was seriously hurt.  His ankle was swollen and the pain wouldn't subside, even with all the ibuprofen he took.  He couldn't walk, he couldn't eat— but no, Karl and his dumb finger were clearly a bigger concern than what George was going through.   He loathed Karl for it.  He hated that everyone would drop everything for Karl, but let him suffer silently.  He hated how Karl could confidently waltz in and announce his finger hurt slightly, but he had to get left behind, run away to throw up in the bushes, pass out on the side of the trail, and suffer silently in such bad pain that he couldn't move.  

It wasn't fair.  He was in so much pain, and so, so alone.  Meanwhile, Karl experienced slight discomfort and suddenly everyone was rushing to help him.  It was absolute bullshit.  

His friends were no better than his parents.  They all forced him to do things he didn't want to, forcing him to hurt himself, forcing him to overexert his frail joints until they were burning up, destroying his nerves and leaving only pain and a slight tingling sensation.  They both let him be sick in a corner, only superficially checking on him.  Never prying more, they only asked general questions and left when George said he was fine.  But he wasn't fine.  And they were stupid for not realizing it.  And cruel for not doing anything.   All of them allowed him to silently suffer, focusing on the mild inconveniences of others instead of the horrific trauma he experienced daily.  

He hated all of them for it.   

Alex crawled into his sleeping, gently wrapping his arm around George and whispering a soft goodnight. 

George immediately burst into sobs on his chest.  He couldn't take it.  A hug was all he'd ever wanted, and even then it didn't fix the burning.  It didn't fix the emptiness in his stomach, nor the residual taste of acid in his throat.  It didn't fix his world as it fell apart around him.  

Alex immediately pulled him close, running a comforting hand through his hair.  The air outside was cold, contrasting against the warmth of his tears and Alex's chest.  He shook from head to toe, barley breathing, choking on the saliva in his throat.  His ankle burned, the heat of his injury growing too warm to handle, the outside too cold to tolerate. 

He couldn't hold back the sobs, and he didn't care too— he felt so broken, so angry at the world he didn't have space to feel shameful about crying in front of people.  

Alex just held him, whispering words of comfort in his ears.  

He wanted him to stop.  It wasn't going to be okay, he shouldn't be "letting it out."  He was a fucking mess, and he hated it.  He hated anyone who enabled his dramatics, and he hated his stupid body that hurt him so much.  

"St... stop," he managed to choke out, coughing and sputtering on his words as the tears continued to fall.  

Alex let go, carefully getting out of the sleeping bag and sitting next to George.  

George sat up, leaning back on his arms.  The tears began to slow down as he calmed himself simply from the emotional release of crying unrestrained.  He took a couple deep breaths in, before wiping his face with his sweatshirt sleeve, sniffling.  

"George, we know you're not okay right now.  You don't have to say anything, but we're here for you," Alex said calmly.  The sleeping bag already felt empty and cold without him in it.  

"Me and Alex.   Right here, right now, or wherever you want," Karl added on. 

"My ankle hurts so bad it fucking burns—" he started, his eyes burning again.  

"Can I check it out?" Karl asked, turning on the flashlight on his phone, adding to the light in the tent. 

George nodded.  

"Okay, can you get your ankle out of your sleeping bag?  I'm going to need to touch it, if you're comfortable with that."

He nodded again, doing what Karl told him as Alex sat by. 

Slowly, Karl pushed into his leg with his thumbs on each side, asking him if it hurt each time.  He slowly moved down George's ankle, until he touched part of his ankle that made George yelp in pain. 

"That hurts?" Karl asked. 

He nodded. 

"Does it hurt if I just touch it?"  He kept his hands away George, before barley tapping his skin and letting out a small hiss. 

"Less," George said. 

"But still pain?"

He nodded. 

"Okay, I'm going to keep going, but hit me if it hurts."

He nodded again, immediately slapping Karl as he touched him again.  

Karl nodded, and moved on. 

Once it stopped hurting for Karl to touch him, he stopped.  

"Have you dislocated your ankle before?"  he asked. 

There was no better time to talk about it than then he supposed.  "Niki thinks I have a thing."

Neither of his friends responded, both looking to him and Karl clasping his hands together. 

He had to continue.  He had no choice now.  "It's where my joints go out of place.  And I hurt my ankle really bad as a kid.  It really hurts a lot." Done with what he had the energy to say, George stopped talking. 

After a pause, Karl responded.  "Thank you for telling me.  I think your ankle is out of place and that's why it hurts," he added. 

George nodded. 

"I could usually fix it," Karl continued.  "I have some basic first aid training, but with my finger I'm going to need Alex's help.  Are you guys okay with that?"

They both nodded.  George frankly didn't care, as he didn't believe he could be in more pain than he already was.  Whatever Karl did, couldn't hurt than however many miles he'd walked that day. 

Karl instructed Alex to hold his leg and ankle in two spots, guiding his hands, before grabbing the top of George's foot. 

"Okay George, relax your ankle as much as you can, and I'm going to put in back in place."

George nodded, trying his best to relax against the burn in his ankle.  

"Three..." Karl started counting.  "Two..." He adjusted his hand, moving Alex's and replacing it with his own.  

Before he counted to one, he grabbed George's foot, pulling it outward in a sharp, fluid, motion.  

George felt a sharp pop in his ankle, before the pain subsided significantly.   He signed in relief— while there was still residual pain, George felt it subside against his leg, slowly allowing him to feel anything besides the burning again.  

Karl was breathing through his teeth, holding a hand around his finger and shaking.  His breath was quick and shaky as he sat hunched over, not talking.  

"Does it feel better?" Alex asked. 

He nodded.  It truly did. 

Alex immediately turned away from him, paying attention to Karl.  George let it happen, as he carefully touched his ankle, the skin no longer painful to the touch.  

Glad that his ankle felt better for the time being, George closed his eyes to go to sleep. 

"George," Karl whispered.  

Tired, he refused to answer.  Karl could talk to him later. 

"George, move," Alex whispered as he began to crawl into George's sleeping bag. 

He didn't, only turning his back to Alex.  He was tired, and Alex could deal with it.  

It was their fault he was on this stupid trip anyways. 

~

When George woke up, light shone through the gray tent, nearly blinding him.  His sleeping bag was empty and chilled, and his ankle was still sore.  

Alex and Karl must have already gotten up— George was glad they let him sleep, but couldn't help but to be disappointed he wasn't included.  Trying to see what was going on, he listened to what was happening outside the tent. 

"... Small sticks," Karl's voice came. 

"Fuck!"

"Maybe just this?"

"Idiot!"

Not understanding what was happening, George put the sleeping bag over his head and attempted to go back to sleep.  He did not want to hike all the way out, and he wasn't moving until he absolutely had too. 

~

When Alex woke him up, he'd already been awake for an unknown amount of time but refused to move.  He had done too much, he had pushed himself so far past his limits that he simply could not, and would not, force himself to get up.  

"No," he mumbled, burying further into the darkness of the sleeping back. 

"What can I do to help?" Alex asked. 

"No," he repeated.  He didn't care— after everything that had happened on the trip, there was nothing Alex could do.  

"Dude, we need to leave."

"No."  He was going to keep repeating the same thing until Alex left him alone. 

"Please George.  Karl's finger is fucked and we don't have any first aid kits."

Oh but Karl.  George could suffer all the way up the mountain— limping, puking, passing out— but as soon as Karl got hurt, they all had to drop everything for him.  George didn't even know what Karl did, it could be a splinter for all he knew.  

"No," he repeated, persistent.  

He didn't fully care to know what was wrong with Karl either; he couldn't handle the pain and sickness he was experiencing, and that had manifested itself as anger.  He was angry that he couldn't walk, he was angry that everything hurt so bad; he was angry that he couldn't eat, that he had to go throw up after all the months of not doing so, that he had blacked out for no reason— he was angry that no one cared.  He was angry that he had to hide the medication he had so deep in his backpack, and he was livid that no one cared to consult him.  Yet, as soon as Karl got hurt, everyone fawned over the man, turning back early for his dumb finger, making all kinds of accommodations for him.  None of those things were offered to him.  As quickly as Alex had jumped to help him in the beginning, he'd switched to Karl and left George cast aside, like the broken toy he was.  

He hated all of them.  They didn't understand. 

"George, I know you're in a lot of pain," Alex patted the sleeping bag in a comforting fashion, and George wished he wouldn't.  He was busy being angry, not needing comfort.  "And I know the hike out is somewhat long.  All of us can split up what's in your backpack, and we can hike down with you.  How does that sound?"

Awful.  Their little plan would make him keep his medication in the open, give him no space to rest along the trail, and force everyone to stop for him, which would inevitably turn condescending.  

"No," he said again. 

"Our other option was leaving you here, then sending Dream and Nick back up and carry everything else while Karl and I go to the Walmart to get him a finger brace."

It was better, but George still didn't want to leave.  He didn't want to hike anymore. 

He stayed silent. 

"George, please."

"Fineee," he muttered, putting his arm on top of his sleeping bag in annoyance. 

"Got any better ideas?" Alex snapped.  

George didn't respond.  Alex could fuck off, he thought.  He knew deep down that Alex was only trying to be helpful and that he really shouldn't be so stiff about everything, but he couldn't help it.  The only thing he could think about was how much he wanted to punch a wall and be home, back in his apartment where he could deal with himself normally, instead of being on a hiking trip with his friends breathing over his shoulder.  

With Alex's plan he could at least carry what he wanted, but he still didn't like it.  He should have never agreed to hike, and he didn't want to deal with the consequences of his mistake.  

As George tried and failed to go back to sleep, he heard the distant sound of his friends packing and laughing.  Karl came in quickly to grab his and Alex's sleeping bags wordlessly, and returned to the shouts of laugher. 

A pang of sadness hit George— he wished he could be with his friends, laughing with them, talking alongside them.  But instead he was pushing them away, snapping at them, being intentionally antagonistic.  He was being a bad friend, and he knew it.  He hated himself more than anything for it, but he couldn't stop.  

As the area surrounding him went silent, George screamed into his sleeping bag until his voice couldn't take it anymore. 

~

When Dream and Nick walked back into camp, George had packed his personal items, drank enough water to swallow medication, and was sitting against a log, scrolling through his twitter feed from three days ago.  

Slowly, he got up, still favoring his left side and leaning on the walking stick to greet his friends.  His ankle felt much better, but it remained sore when he walked, and his hip hurt alongside it.  

He managed a weak greeting, but the atmosphere was thick and awkward and Dream and Nick took down the tent, wordlessly shoving everything remaining in the clearing into their backpacks.  

Alex had undoubtedly told them that George had been awful to him— there was no other explanation for the sudden coldness, and George didn't blame them one bit.  He'd be giving them the cold shoulder if they did what he did too. 

Nick called a quick "c'mon," and George followed the two, quickly falling behind as the ache in his ankle grew more and more prevalent. 

When he stepped wrong on a rock, George collapsed as his ankle returned to its pained, burning state.  He barley stopped himself from crying out, still not wanting Dream to know he was hurt.  

Not like he'd care anyways, the idiot.  

George didn't like that thought.  He didn't like the implication that Dream wouldn't give a shit about him, that he'd call him dramatic and a pussy.  He liked to think Dream was better than that— but he couldn't be sure.  He could never know what Dream would say.  

Dream could be caustic and reckless at times.  He knew it better than anyone, and there was no reason to believe that Dream would actually believe him and treat him like a normal, hurt, person after learning what was wrong with him.  His parents certainly didn't give a fuck about his injuries, there was no reason to believe anyone else would, besides Alex. 

Because people were assholes who could never understand him. 

~

Somehow, George made it to the bottom.  His knees ached from walking downhill and he could no longer process the emotions he was feeling,  but he’d made it.  

“Hey George,” Alex said softly. 

“Thank you,” was all he could manage to say.  It didn’t make up for what he had said and done the entire trip, it didn’t undo that he’d snapped at almost all his friends, but it was a start.  He was too tired to do anything else, and he only knew three things for certain.  

One: he would never go backpacking again. 

Two: he was going to make an appointment with the NHS when he got back;

and three: he needed to get home to figure out what had just happened.  

Chapter Text

"No!" Dream shouted, laughing.  "I don't like driving out here!"

"You drove twelve fucking hours to get to this state!" Alex retorted, still laughing gleefully. 

"Eleven, I was speeding," he grinned mischievously.  As if anyone in Florida obeyed the laws. 

"Still!"

"Maybe I'll get us killed then," he smirked. 

"I trust you Dream."

Dream couldn't help but laugh.  "You really shouldn't, I made Techno drive up the ski mountain."

"You're better than Karl, the man drives like a madman."

"I'm just good at driving!" Karl inserted in. 

"Yeah suree," Alex taunted back. 

"Dream was the one that admitted to speeding!"

"Wait are you on his side?"

Karl fell silent as Dream doubled over in laughter.  

"Dream you drive, there's a waterfall we can drive to that I wanna see," Karl replied, tossing him the keys with his good hand. 

"Just for you, and your finger," Dream joked lightly, causing Karl to stare at him for a second before leaving.  

They lasted a second before they broke into laughter again. 

Karl and Alex forced George to move to the passenger seat, before his other three friends crowded in the back.  

Dream hid his emotions, but he was disappointed— he hated driving because he would get left out, and he was upset about the seating arrangement due to George being asleep.  He had to shout for Karl three times for the address of the trail they'd be driving to, only confirming his suspicions that he'd be left out of the conversation for the twenty-five minutes it would take to reach a separate trailhead with a waterfall. 

As his efforts to insert himself because less and less successful and he drove down the dirt road towards highway '64, Dream held his phone in one hand, half looking at it in order to shuffle a playlist on his Spotify.  He tactically ignored the conversation in the backseat as to not hurt himself further; George was predictably asleep, and Dream sighed.  He knew George was struggling, but he couldn't help but be disappointed that his best friend never engaged in conversation with him.  It had hurt enough getting rejected, and being pushed away only hurt more.  

George had to know— he'd told him directly so many times, the man would be an idiot not to realize.  If George knew and was pushing him away, it could only mean...

Dream shook his head to clear it.  He refused to let himself think those thoughts, he refused to let himself go there.  Instead, he hit shuffle on his likes songs and tried to drown out the unpleasant thoughts.  

Instantly, the first few notes of HeatWaves by the Glass Animals started playing.  Of-fucking-course it had to be heat waves.  He hit skip immediately, allowing the speakers to blast Fun.  He was not going to listen to Heatwaves— it was too enertwined with his very public feelings for George, and thus brought back the empty feeling in his chest.  No one noticed, too busy laughing amongst themselves or sleeping, and Dream continued messing with the radio until they arrived at a small trailhead.  

Turning off the car and tossing Karl's keys at him, he unlocked the door and grabbed his water bottle.  "Ready?" he called.  

"I'm sleeping," George mumbled.  

He looked blankly at his friends before responding, "do you want to stay in the car George?"

"Mmh," George responded.  

Karl tossed him the keys back.  "Take the key if you need it, we'll be back in an hour or two," he told George, before grabbing his water bottle and leaving.  He didn't want to say anything to upset George, and figured it was best to let him calm down after whatever had happened the past two days.

As Alex and Karl began talking in hushed tones among themselves, Dream stopped to allow Nick the catch up with him.  The trail they'd be hiking was a short, mile-long loop with a waterfall in the middle.  Dream was excited— he'd only been to beaches in Florida, and had no experience with the gentle mountain streams.  The two walked in silence, staying left at the start of the loop, checking the other two were following them.  

"You were right," Dream burst out suddenly once he was sure they were out of earshot if anyone else.  He was trying to apologize more— if he let his ADHD get out of hand it would only take him careening into fights, but he'd found out a long time ago that if he apologized and talked through what he'd done wrong, he could mitigate the damage next time.  The only problem with this strategy, was that ADHD causes forgetfulness, and he'd forget to manage it.  It was a vicious cycle as his actions slowly got more and more out of control before he could think to moderate them.  At least he was in the part of the cycle that started looking up; he knew he couldn't change the wiring of his brain, and the best thing he could do was adapt.  

"You weren't completely wrong either," Nick responded. 

"You deserve credit for keeping me in check," he said, shaking his head.  "This trip was obviously hard on all of us, but it's definitely been the hardest on George.  We all overestimated how physically active a man who never leaves his house was, but your right that he's going through some mental health struggles right now.  I-I'm usually the one to loose it or panic, so I really discount George's mental health and I think... I think this trip proved that.  I don't know what's wrong with him either, but you're right that I need to be gentler with him."

"Thank you, I think you're right that we don't need to baby him either though.  I know he jokes about it on stream, but every time I've tried to give him sympathy he pushes me away."

At Nick's words, Dream thought to the morning George had told him to leave him alone.  He'd felt bad for his friend, and he knew it showed in his voice.  "That makes a lot of sense actually," he replied. 

"I think he just wants our treatment to seem normal." Dream waited for Nick to explain what that meant.  "I mean— he's mad at us for going on the trip is what Alex thinks, but then he got mad at you for trying to talk to him.  So he has these limits that he won't tell us, but he doesn't want anyone pointing it out.  Maybe we have to say that it was hard, and we say he did a good job.  Like a dog."

Dream wheezed at Nicks last remark as he broke into a grin, but it made sense.  "I guess that's what we did with Karl, right?"

Nick nodded.  "I think Karl can deal with himself better though, he shows emotions.  We all know George doesn't."

Dream certainly knew that one.  He could recall so many times where George would leave suddenly or never show up, refusing to acknowledge that anything was wrong.  "I don't think we should shift the blame to him, though."

"I wasn't trying to, I meant we need to approach talking to him differently."

"Oh sorry, that makes sense.  I agree."

A silence fell over them, and Dream looked to the mix of verdant trees and fallen leaves as he passed them by.  The plants were much different from what he was accustomed to in Florida, providing a refreshing atmosphere to think through his life as of late.  Even within Florida, he thought he ought to hike more— it was good escapism from the digital world that he relied so heavily on.   

He could get to North Carolina in a single day.  When the winter passed, he'd have to take Karl up on his offer to hike the AT again— it would be a simple trip for a week, or they could even meet halfway in another state.  Maybe it did contrast with being a Minecraft YouTuber, but it was a good time regardless.   With some proper planning and training, Dream was sure that he and Karl could take a fun, smooth trip.  A trip without the high tensions, without the injuries and leaving people halfway up the trail.  An actual, fun trip.  

"Do you think George only sees me as friend?" He said it without thinking about it, without filter; he'd just blurted out the sentence as it came to mind.   He couldn't avoid his ADHD that well.  At least it was to Nick— they'd already had long conversations about his feelings for George before.  After talking about past girls he'd liked to Nick, there was no hiding the feelings he felt for George. 

"Pftt, no," Nick responded immediately.  "He just won't admit it to himself."

He let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.  "How do I get him to realize?"

"I think you've done everything you can.  He's just dense."  Nick wasn't wrong there. 

"He's thick."

"Dummy thick," Nick replied laughing.

They walked in comfortable silence before reaching the waterfall.  

The white water rushed over the dark rocks, leaves and sticks occasionally rushing past.  Logs criss-crossed the flowing water, almost daring him to cross them.  Mist sprayed from the falls, soaking the leaves, and undoubtedly the logs themselves. 

"I could cross that," Karl stated, appearing from behind him. 

"You wanna break your other fingers?" Nick replied.  

Karl looked as if he was considering it.  

They broke into laughter. 

~

Walking back into the small parking lot and laughing at an already forgotten joke, Dream waved in an over dramatic fashion to George in the car.  

George looked rough.  His face was even paler than usual, the only color on his face the red around his eyes.  He was sitting straight upright, his mouth on his water bottle, not drinking.  He was wearing just a t-shirt, his hair disheveled.  

"Don't say anything, act calm and tired," Alex hissed, just loud enough to be audible to the group, but quiet enough so the sound didn't travel through the car.  

"I can drive," Karl said quietly.  "The pain's better and I'm used to the highways here."

Dream nodded, getting in the back on the driver's side.  Alex ended up in the middle, Nick behind George; they were collectively silent, waiting for George to say something, anything.  The longer George remained staring straight, the tension growing.  

Still silent, Karl played music off his phone, and began driving down the highways back to the small town.  

"Should we get dinner in Franklin or further along the road?" Karl broke the silence, speaking quietly.  

There was a pause, before Nick suggested waiting later in the evening and finding a fast food place in a rest town.  

No one contested it, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.   Karl silently skipped the exit to the small town and following the signs to Raleigh.  Dream opened twitter on his phone, refreshing his feed for the first time since they'd started hiking.   He scrolled through his mentions and timeline mindlessly, not absorbing anything and occasionally checking to see if George was still awake.  He was.  He sat, still staring straight ahead, water bottle clasped in his hands.  

Before he knew it, Karl was pulling off the highway and into a Chick-Fil-A parking lot.  "I figured Nick wanted this, we can stop elsewhere too," he offered turning to look back.

"You like the taste of homophobia Nick?" Alex asked immediately.  

There was a pause before the entire car broke into laughter, George even giggling slightly.  It was such an easy joke, but after two hours of awkward silence, it easily had everyone laughing.  There was really nothing funny about the obscene amount of money the CEO of Chic-Fil-A donated to anti-gay organizations, but there was everything funny about the absurdity of an old white man infusing the taste of centuries of western heteronormative society into a three dollar chicken sandwich.  

"I—" Nick called, still laughing.  "The waffle fries are good," he defended. 

"The waffle fries would hate crime me," George deadpanned, quietly from the front.  

"wHAT?!" Dream wheezed, trying to force air into his lungs through the laughter.  George had no right being that funny. 

George merely gave a small smirk. 

Nick quietly ordered a chicken sandwich and waffle fries from the drivers window, his friends still laughing at him as he waited for his order.  

As the employee handed the bag of food through the window, Karl calmly accepted it and drove forwards.  Pulling into a parking spot, he threw the bag at Nick and burst into laughter again.  

Karl pulled across to a Taco Bell, getting out of the car to walk inside and order.  The three of them in the back of car got out, putting on their respective masks and standing, waiting to head in.  George stiffly placed his water bottle down.  Opening the door, he stood up and immediately fell to the ground. 

Dream stifled a laugh.  George had always been so clumsy.  

“Are you good?” Karl asked. 

“I— I collapsed, did you see that?” George asked. 

“Don’t worry, I think you just tripped,” Dream comforted.  He tried to stay distant, not waning to be overly sympathetic or distant to George.  It was a fine line to walk, and one he hoped would stay along. 

“I was just on the ground suddenly, I didn’t trip.”. George’s voice was as unreadable as ever. 

Dream merely gave a hum in response, walking inside to order with the group.  He couldn’t figure out what George wanted— it was an admission that something happened, but he couldn’t help but to think it was just George being… well, George.  George had always been melodramatic over the edges, and he wouldn’t put it past him to play off tripping as “collapsing.” 

Instead of getting food, George went to the bathroom and stayed quiet as they waited for their order.  Despite how much he wanted to force him to eat, Dream restrained himself.  Their friendship had experienced enough strain over the trip.  He let the not eating thing slide for then, making a promise to get George to eat when  they got back.

Hopefully, they could make a plan going forwards— George needed to eat way more than he was currently.  

They received their food and walked back to the car, Karl eating quickly and George leaned against the window, closing his eyes.  

It wasn’t until they were back, speeding through the North Carolina wilderness on the highway, that the realization of George had said washed over Dream, flooring him. 

Did George just come out for a joke about a chicken sandwich?

Chapter Text

When George finally woke up, he was alone in his room, the blinds closed.  The heating pad had migrated across his hip as he slept, the blankets on the bed twisted around him.  Grabbing his phone, he checked the time.   Two p.m.  He could've slept more, but he still wanted to spend the time he could with Techno before he left.  

Rubbing his eyes and pushing his blanket aside, George stood up.  His knees felt shaky and hard to walk on, his ankle still sore and tingly.   His vision quickly went black, his head spinning and fuzzy, as he fell back onto the bed.  

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes.  His mouth tasted like acid, and he'd left his water title somewhere besides his bedside table.   Swallowing and breathing in, he pushed off the bed to stand up, supporting himself by his hands until his vision cleared.  He walked over, throwing on a sweatshirt and sweatpants and entering the hall to the main living room.  

"Hey George," Alex greeted, a hint of apphrension in his voice that sent the flood of memories from their trip rushing back. 

He had been awful.  He'd pushed all his friends away while he'd continued to get sicker and sicker.  His inability to cope with what happened to him sent him spiraling into a blind rage, ignoring and yelling at his friends. 

He had snapped at Dream.  He knew how easy it was to upset man, and he'd been careful never to raise his voice at him unless he was laughing or recording.   He would never shout at Dream, because it would break him.   When people he cared about got even slightly cross with him, he would spiral.   And George had told him to go away.   He didn't see because Dream left so quickly, but he knew he'd made him cry.   He'd known him for long enough to know, that as soon as he was out of earshot, Dream had broken down.  It felt like a knife through his chest— not only could George not be there to help, he was the problem.  It was his fault.  

Now, he just felt so incredibly sad.  Poor Dream.  He'd been so insufferable, for nothing— it was a simple enough hike, but he simply couldn't handle it. His body had given out, and he'd let it get to him; he couldn't think, he couldn't eat, he could barley walk.  All he knew, was that he wasn't strong enough.

Slowly, still favoring his left side, George walked over and hugged Dream sitting on the couch.  He couldn't think of anything else to do, laying his head along Dream's chest. 

Conversation continued, but George couldn't bring himself to participate.  He was too mentally exhausted, too empty to force himself to do much of anything.  He smiled at the jokes his friends made, otherwise laying against Dream.  

~

Dream took Techno to the airport on his own.  They'd wanted to talk about Minecraft or some other nerdy variation of it, and George had stayed behind.  He owed Alex an apology. 

Not just a simple "I'm sorry," or something similar— he had to give his friend a full explanation of what happened his entire life, what was going on, why he did what he did, and why he was so, so incredibly sorry.  Most importantly, he needed to take steps so that it never happened again, that he could continue on as normal. 

He took a deep breath in.  "Alex?  Can we talk?" He hated saying those words.  It also spiked more anxiety in people than ever necessary, but he couldn't think of a better way to phrase the question.  "I want to apologize about what happened on the camping trip," he added.  He didn't want to stress Alex out. 

Alex simply nodded, standing up from the couch.  

"Dream and I's room?" He offered.  He was only prepared to tell Alex, he wanted privacy.  Dream would be gone around two hours.  

Alex followed him, closing the door and sitting down on George's bed next to him.  

"I owe you an apology and an explanation."

"You do."  Even though George knew those words to be true, they still hurt— he had damaged his friendship.  He knew they could work through it, but it didn't stop the pit of sadness in his stomach. 

"I— you were right.  I have a chronic illness," he breathed out.  They were some of the hardest words he'd said in his life.  The prevalence of just saying it, almost as if speaking it into existence, was a struggle to push from his mouth.  But he'd done it. 

Alex only nodded for him to continue.  

"Niki said I have Ehler's Danlos Syndrome.". He breathed in again.  "I've been doing some research on it.  It makes my joints dislocate easier and hurt.  I've... it's something that I've always struggled with. 

"My ankle," he continued.  "I hurt it when I was young.  It always hurts now.  When we went hiking, I think I dislocated it multiple times.  I was— it wasn't only that.  Hiking, everything hurt.  All my joints."

He sighed.  "A lot of people end up with a cane or wheelchair because of it.  I don't, but I can't walk long distances either.  I obviously was very behind hiking and I... I know I'm a YouTuber, but I shouldn't be that out of shape." He gave a small, forced laugh to lighten the mood. 

"In my hands too, I... they've started hurting.  They hurt really intensely and I can't do anything, then it goes away.  I think it's all related," he had no reason to tell Alex about his fingers, but he almost wanted to— he wanted someone else to know.  

Alex rubbed a hand along his shoulder, almost waiting to see if he would continue.  He did. 

"It's been hard, really hard.  But I had... I had no reason to be how I was to you, to all of you.  I was callous, I was... a bad friend.  And I'm sorry.  There's no excuse and I am so, so sorry."  He preemptively rubbed a hand across his eyes.  He hated himself for what he'd done. 

"George, don't beat yourself up about this.  We were all tired and didn't react well either, I forgive you," Alex replied, gently giving him a small side hug.  

"It's not your job to walk on eggshells around me."

"George it's—"

"Let me speak," he interrupted.  "Please," he added, remembering not to take out his anger at himself onto others. 

Alex nodded. 

"I had no right to act how I did.  Trust me, if I could take it back in an instant.  I hate myself for it, and I—" his voice caught.  "I'm so sorry, I was insufferable.  I don't want to be insufferable I want be, I don't want to be like that I... I want to be George how you used to treat me, I want you to make jokes, I-I miss the times where you would tease me for sleeping even though I hated it because I on-only slept because I couldn't handle the pain; I can't cope with the pain and I-I'm so so sorry Alex,” he rambled.  He put his head in his hands, pressing his fingers into his eyes as he leaned over.  

"Hey whoa," Alex responded, putting a hand on his back.  "I promise you it's okay.  I forgive you.  I talked with Karl and he pointed out we pushed you too far on that, so next time just be transparent with us and we'll get through it."

"It's gotten worse," he blurted out, sitting back up.  Now that he was talking, he wanted to say everything.  

"Yeah?" Alex ran a hand over his back. 

"I threw up," he said. 

"When?  Are you sick with something temporary do you think?"

He shook his head.  "The first night.  When I left and Karl had to find me, and I did again when you went hiking the last day.  I ate a granola bar, and right before you guys got back.  Threw up."

"Holy shit George..." Alex cut in. 

"It's not new," he continued, shaking his head.  "Happened all the time when I was young but doctors wrote it off, it happens left often now."

"By happens you mean just... randomly puking?"

George nodded.  

"And it's not the flu?"

He shook his head.  "Just throwing up, and a lot of pain."

"How long does it last?"

"Usually a couple days.  It's— it's worse this time." He pressed his fingers against his eyes against.  He wanted to talk about it, but it didn't change the fact that he hated every second of doing so. 

"...How?"

"It's... the pain is worse.  A lot worse.  And I... I still feel sick if I drink too much water."

"How much is too much?"

"Not enough."

"That's fucked, that's so fucked, I'm sorry George.  You don't deserve it."

Tears burned at his eyes and his pressed his thumbs further against them.  The amount of times that he'd cried in front of Alex was getting embarrassing, but the shame couldn't overpower the fear and sadness he felt.  

"I don't know what to do."  His voice was small; his world was collapsing, and he was lost amidst the debris crashing down.  

"I think you should schedule a doctor's appointment for when you get back," Alex started. 

He nodded in response.  

"And for everything else, I will be here for you.  I can't imagine what it's like, and you handle such fucked up things so casually.  The way you downplay how sick you are is... is something.  I couldn't do it, and I'm here for anything you need George.  No matter how small or insignificant you think it is, I will do it, I'm here, and I'll still treat you like regular George." Alex pulled George in for a hug as he finished talking. 

George broke into sobs. 

Those words were all he had ever wanted.  He had only ever wanted to be acknowledged, for someone to tell him that they couldn't do it.  He wanted people to see that if anything, he was under-reacting to things.  And Alex had. 

He grasped the fabric of his sweatshirt and pulled Alex closer, his breath quicked as he sobbed uncontrollably. 

Alex only hugged him tighter, repeating that he was there for George, no matter what.  

That only made George cry harder— Alex's embrace was the embrace that he never got from his parents.  It was the reassurances, the touch that he was deprived of throughout his childhood.  It was the comforting arms of a parent, of someone who didn't laugh at him or yell at him for being on pain or crying.   It was the embrace of someone who believed him; Alex didn't think he was dramatic. 

Alex believed him.  Alex didn't hate him.  Alex didn't think he was dramatic. 

And that was all George had ever needed.

Aside from some serious medical attention, of course.

~

"I need to apologize to Karl," he said, letting go of Alex and sitting upright as he calmed down. 

"You do," Alex replied, still keeping a hand on his shoulder.  

He rubbed the dried salt off his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt before letting his hands fall and leaning against them to support himself.  

He shook his head.  "I don't want to tell him everything."

"That's okay."

"He can't know about the throwing up." Or the collapsing.  Or the passing out.  Or the increasing dizziness.  Or the sleeping th—

Alex interrupted his thoughts.  "You could just say your stomach hurt, I'm sure that's not fully wrong."

He nodded.  "Stay with me when I tell him?"

"If you want."

George nodded again, preparing himself to stand up and wash off his face.  The dizziness and spots in his vision returned as he stood up and grabbed the nightstand to steady himself, hoping Alex wouldn't notice.  

"I'm gonna wash my face and find Karl," he muttered, trying to cover the fact that he was about to fall over.  Letting go of the table and staggering carefully across the room and across to the bathroom, George leaned over the sink, elbows locked to support his weight.  The world still spun and he remained light headed.  

It was getting harder to ignore.  

He could look into it further, or he could drink water.  He knew he hadn't drank enough water, ever, and actively chose to believe that was the reason he felt so bad.  Leaning down, he turned on the faucet to pour water in his mouth.  Swallowing and coughing slightly, he let the water run over his hands before trying to rub the redness off his face.   He wouldn't be entirely surprised if he started crying in front of Karl as well with the rate his time in America had gone, but he was still trying his hardest not to.  His speech on wanting to be treated normally lost its effectiveness when he said it through tears.  

Looking in the mirror and rubbing his eyes a final time, George determined his eyes looked sufficiently normal.  His body had adjusted enough to being upright that he could walk, and he headed out to the main room.  

"Karl?" He called softly, leaning against the hallway wall.  "Follow me?"

Karl got up, quickly coming to George's side, slowing down as they both walked towards his room. 

Had he really gotten that slow?  While George always had a weird walk, he'd always been at least somewhat of a fast-walker.   He would wait for his family at street corners and make it to the Tesco before Google Maps said that he would.   He knew he wasn't athletic, but it was nonetheless disappointing that he'd somehow started walking incredibly slowly; he'd always taken some deal of pride in his walk.  It was just another thing to be disappointed in himself for.

He walked into his room and sat next to Alex, Karl closing the door behind him and sitting opposite Alex.  

He breathed in.  It felt both harder and easier to tell Karl— he knew what to say and felt emboldened by Alex actually believing him, but he hated opening up to yet another person.  

What if he was faking it?  If he was, and he was just normally sick, he'd have two people to disappoint.  Two people he'd dragged into his dramatics, two people who he'd convinced something was wrong with him.  Two people that he lied to.  

He already knew what was wrong.  He'd looked at his medical chart through the NHS earlier to remember.   

In Year Two, he'd begged his parents to do something after throwing up everything he ate, undigested, for a week straight.  He couldn't remember most of what happened— it had been such a long time and such a horrific experience that his brain had blocked most of it out, but he distinctly remembered that his mom had send him to school at day three because he didn't have a fever, and he'd refused to eat anything the whole day, still feeling sick.  When his mum forced him to eat dinner and he was sick immediately afterwards, he got to stay home. 

After he didn't get better, eventually crying that he wanted to go back to school because he was bored, his parents finally assumed it wasn't just a regular bought of the flu.  He'd gone to the doctor, and they'd diagnosed him with something called Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome— or in other words, he was sick and they had no idea why.  

He was given no solutions, no help, only a note on his medical chart that he read when he turned eighteen and looked through it on his own.  He hated that diagnosis.  It did absolutely nothing for him, only giving a vague promise that things would get better when he got older.  It was the doctor's way of pushing him off, telling him he was dramatic and to go away.  They had more important things to worry about.  Exactly what his parents did. 

As he got older and the sickness didn't get better, he'd stopped saying anything, and began to pretend it was normal.  His parents, his sister, and his doctors all dismissed him when he tried to reach for help, and after a point, he'd simply given up.  He'd written things off as normal and suffered in silence. 

"I'm— there's something wrong with me," he said before he'd given himself time to think.   He had to say it.  "I don't know what, but I've always had this... this pain everywhere.  I'm going to have an appointment with doctors when I get back to London."  He sat back, leaning against his arms and breathing in.  The dizziness and light-headedness had gone away for the most part, leaving the pain and hunger knawing at his stomach and the light pain in his fingers.  

"I'm glad you're getting help," Karl replied.  

"And I'm sorry for being rude to you the whole camping trip," he started.  The apology was easier to say than his illness.  "It was a good idea, and my... whatever is wrong with me isn't an excuse to be a prick.  I wish I could take back what I said, and I'm going to get medical help so that never happens again."

"Thank you, and I forgive you," Karl said, pulling him into a side-hug.  "We all love you George, so please, just let me know next time, okay?"

He nodded.  "Thank you," he whispered. 

"For what?" Karl asked, letting go of George. 

"For believing me.  For not being mad."

”George, of course we believe you.  Why wouldn’t we?” Alex asked.

George just shook his head dismissively.  There was no way he was going to talk about that.

~

"Dream," George called, looking up from his blankets to where Dream had opened the door to their shared room.  He'd made sure to stay awake in order to apologize, after they'd been busy streaming all afternoon and night.  

Dream turned to look at him as he sat up. 

"Turn on the light?" He offered.  

Dream obliged, turning on the light and sitting next to George at his instruction.  

He breathed in.  Of all the things that happened, George felt the worst about snapping at Dream.  He knew how sensitive his friend was, and he knew what happened when he thought people disliked him.  He knew better than to hurt his favorite person in the entire world.  "I'm so sorry for being short with you on the trip.  I shouldn't have."

"Georgie it's okay," Dream started.  

"No."  George cut him off before he could begin to dismiss what happened.  "I hurt you.  I know I did, I know how you act when you're hurt.  I was wrong, I hurt and I couldn't deal with it.  I took my anger out on you and I should never have done that.  Dream I'm so sorry, but please don't brush this of."

"George."  Dream took his hands, putting one leg on the bed to turn at look at him.  "Nick and I talked about it, it's obvious that you aren't okay.  You made a mistake but you can't control my ADHD ass.  Trust me, I've talked through it, I'm okay now."

"Are you sure?"

Dream pulled him in for a hug, one arm across his back, the other cradling his head.  "I forgive you, it's okay," he whispered.  

George felt safe and warm in his arms.  "Please don't feel like you have to accommodate whatever I'm going through," he added, head resting comfortably on Dream's shoulder.  

"I won't," Dream promised.  

For the time being, George let himself believe it.  

"Stay with me," George mumbled as he felt himself slipping into sleep.  He was tired— he'd been awake too long for his broken body and mind to handle.

"Oh-okay," Dream whispered back.  

George laid down on top of his bedsheets, still holding tightly onto Dream.  Encased in his friend's arms, he fell asleep comfortably in seconds. 

Chapter Text

Dream woke up on top of the sheets on George's bed, stated friend in his arms.

How.  

He certainly wasn't complaining about the situation, despite the numbness in his arm against the bed, but it was nonetheless confusing.  George, after refusing to say he loved him for the longest time, George, after acting as straight as he possibly could, falling asleep in his arms?  Dream rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the arm that was draped across George, trying to prove to himself this was real.  

He surveyed his surroundings— he was still in the sweatpants and hoodie he'd worn the day before, and the lights were still on.  Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed his phone, holding the blue light away from his face.  4:03am.  

The only explanation was that George had pulled him down to cuddle before falling asleep in his arms.   As in, that actually happened George had actually initiated this.  He thought back to the time he'd spent the last two days: George's silence, George telling him he loved him, George's anger at the camping trip, George friend-zoning him, George possibly coming out for a fucking Chick-Fil-A joke, George apologizing, and then seeking out his arms to fall asleep in.  It had been an absolute roller coaster.  He could barley keep up with what was happening with the man— much less at four in the morning.  

Was it a move?  Or was it just him being touch-starved like every other single person during a pandemic ravaging the globe?  With how obviously mentally unstable George was, Dream could not even begin to hazard a guess.  

What he did know, was that it was too early in the morning to be awake, and the lights were too bright to have on.  With the heat of George's body he was slightly overheating in his sweatshirt, and he was sure he needed to charge his phone.  

Slowly snaking his arm out from underneath George, Dream disentangled himself from his... whoever George was to him.  He staggered to the outlet plug on the ground, waiting for the soft buzz of his phone charging before dropping it on the ground.  He walked over and hit the lights off, leaning heavily on the wall and he did so, before flopping down onto the bed next to George again.  

Immediately, George put an arm over him, moving closer against him.  Dream hugged him back, running a hand through his hair and falling back asleep, George in his arms. 

~

At eleven, Dream couldn't justify laying in bed any longer.  He'd been awake for an hour, holding a sleeping George in his arms.  His head rested above George's, his arms wrapped around him.  It was almost all he'd ever wanted to do after meeting George— holding his long-time internet friend in his arms felt warmer than anything he'd experienced prior.  He felt safe, George's soft dark brown hair against his skin. 

But no matter how safe and precious George was, Dream was bored. 

It was one of the many things he hated about his ADHD— he often couldn't stay still and calm enough to enjoy the small moments in life.  During comfortable silences on calls, he would scroll through something on his phone or work on code.  In person, with his family, if they weren't talking he would go off to find patches, or mess with something on the table.  He couldn't sit still, he couldn't relax; and he certainly couldn't stand doing nothing silently, no matter how much he liked the people he was around.  

Wistfully, he disentangled himself from George, grabbing a different pair of sweatpants and a hoodie to change into in the bathroom.   

Once he'd gotten ready, he walked into the living room.  Nick was the only one there— he informed him that Karl and Alex had gone to some store.  He sat down on the couch next to his friend. 

"I hate George," he started, leaning against the couch as he began to process the last couple days.  

Nick only laughed in response, knowing he meant the opposite.  "What'd he do now?"

"He..." Dream sighed.  "He apologized to me yesterday."

Nick raised an eyebrow.  "That's good."

"That's not, that's not all," he began again.  "He fell asleep in my arms, we uh... we cuddled together."

"Get it dude!"

"I'm just," he curled his fingers into a fist and let go.  "It's such a rollercoaster man." 

Nick laughed.  "British people barley have emotions dude, would you expect anything else?"

He laughed.  Nick was right— Dream would be shocked if George directly asked him out.  

"Take him on a date."

"What?!"

"No hear me out," Nick explained.  "Go out to lunch with him, do something like that, see what he does."

Dream shot his friend a questioning look. 

"It could be platonic if it doesn't work out.  Karl and Alex do things on their own, it only makes sense for you and George to as well," he shrugged. 

"But where?" Dream asked.  "It's still a pandemic if you haven't noticed."

"Take him to the Walmart gun aisle," Nick grinned. 

He broke into laughter and Nick kept a smug grin on his face.  "That's a terrible idea!" he countered. 

"It's not, do you know how obsessed with the gun aisle non-Americans are?"

He wheezed.  "I don't think that's a good thing."

"Okay but it's funny."

Dream couldn't argue with that point.  "I— it's..." he fumbled. 

"A normal facet of Walmart?" Nick offered.  "Dude we live in Florida and Texas.  It's normal to us, but no where else is that shit normal."

"It's... I'm not going cary a gun Nick."

"That's not the point you idiot, the point is it's funny to watch George be unable to comprehend the gun aisle."

Dream had to admit, the idea was growing on him.  It wasn't like there was anything else open, and he certainly wouldn't take George on a hiking trail.  "It will fuel his British-superiority complex jokes, you know."

"Hit 'em with their long history of colonization," Nick retaliated.  

"Out of pocket," Dream wheezed.  

"So is the gun thing, the British are way to comfortable making fun of gun violence."

"True.  We're an imperial empire too though."

"Brexit?  We have Biden and Kamala now, they're still stuck with Borris."

Dream laughed. "Yeah, we have a better leader now."

"Mmm, ambitious there," Nick countered.  "It was settle for Biden, remember?  He's done some fucked shit in his past."

"Both our countries really suck, huh?"

They both broke into laugher, for the sheer fact that there was nothing else they could do.  Both the US and UK had incredibly questionable human rights records; especially overseas, they were responsible for most the ongoing violence, whether directly or indirectly.  They could only laugh nervously at the fact that no gun control policy debates ever addressed the underlying issue of alt-right radicalization behind the violence.  They could only pretend to joke about the sad fact that most Americans simply didn't care. 

"So..." Nick started again, breaking the awkward silence that fell as they were reminded of the sociopolitical climate of the world.  "Walmart gun aisle?"

Dream laughed.  "Why not, we'll get food first."

Nick looked at him.  "Put on better clothes then."

He scoffed.  "As if you're one to talk."

"I'm not going on a date," Nick replied. 

"Okay fine, but I'm counting it as friends.  No way the fucking Walmart gun aisle is our first date," he said, still laughing at the absurdity.  Oh how the pandemic had changed entertainment standards. 

He got up to put on a pair of jeans and a fresh sweatshirt. 

~

"George!" He called, looking up as George blearily entered the room, giving a small smile as he did so.  

"Mm?" he responded, sitting down next to him.  Nick was in the kitchen, making food. 

"Do you, um, want to get lunch out?  You need to experience American culture," he didn't know why he was suddenly nervous as he was asking as a friend.  Regardless of how he felt about George, it was a completely normal request. 

"And what's American culture?"

Guns, basically.  Dream smiled.  "I'm not telling you, but we can get vegan food."

George seemed hesitant, and Dream thought he knew why.  "You don't have to eat the big American portions, don't worry," he added in an attempts to make George feel more comfortable.  He knew that George would benefit from eating real food, but he also knew that he couldn't push it.  If he overwhelmed George, forcing him to eat huge amounts of food, he simply wouldn't.  He would decline, and knowing his stubbornness, would eat nothing.  It was best for George to get at least some food in his body, and Dream would try his best to gently push him in that direction.  His insecurities be dammed— he needed food.  

George nodded.  "That sounds fun Dream."

He didn't sound that excited, but Dream didn't push it.  Getting food must have been scary for him— the websites Dream and found said so.  They also said that in order to get over it, he would need to face his fears.   Their time in the US may be winding down, but Dream was determined to help George before they parted ways.  Even simply convincing him to seek help back in England would be enough, even if the system there was slower.*

~

After staring at Karl's fish waiting for George to get ready, Dream drove the two of the to a Moe's burrito place, as they didn't exist in the United Kingdom.  It wasn't his favorite, but he wanted to give George the true American experience, through fast food joints and the fabled megastore that sold machines of death.  They'd also brought two masks to wear in Walmart, as the place was now notorious for people outright refusing to wear a mask, if wearing it so improperly it was rendered useless.  

He pulled up to the small storefront, finding a parking spot close to the door.  

"Ready?"  He asked, smiling.  

George nodded— they'd made comfortable conversation the way there, conversation dying out as Dream pulled into the parking lot.  

Dream slowed his walking pace to match George's.  The man walked slow, or he just walked fast; he'd heard the joke that queer people walked faster, but he couldn't prove how true it was.  All he knew was that he did in fact walk faster than most people, but he also held onto his athleticism from high school.  

The walked in, standing in the short line and looking at the menu. 

"You can get things without meat and cheese if you ask," Dream offered immediately, not forgetting George's diet choices.  He didn't fully agree with it on the basis that it must have triggered an eating disorder in his friend, but he'd never say that, nor would he tell George to stop.  There were many reasons to go vegan outside of diet, most notably something about using earth's resources correctly.  He hadn't looked much into it, but George had told him about a book he'd read towards the beginning of the quarantine.  

George nodded alongside, as they went up and placed their orders, standing off to the side to wait.  Dream insisted on paying on an empty threat to George, and the two of them got their food and left.  George had got a kid's size portion, but Dream didn't say anything.  He didn't want to freak George out too much by pointing it out, and anything the man ate was good.  He knew he couldn't get George to eat a full meal after however long of starving himself, so he'd settle for a portion made for ten year olds.  Usually, he'd make fun of George for that, but he didn't dare.  It was a delicate operation, trying to get someone with an eating disorder to eat without ever saying it.  

They ate slowly, George getting through half of his before stopping.  That was a ridiculously small amount of food to Dream, but he knew more than to comment.  He just forced a smile, asking if George was ready to leave for Walmart.  It was still a ridiculous premise to him, but he was always amused when non-Americans lost their mind over the casual deadly weapons sold at a grocery store.  

George nodded, and Dream tapped start on Google Maps, following its directions down the road.  

He pulled into the parking lot after a couple minutes of silence between the two, as the automated voice directed him where to turn.  George staring silently out the window, fiddling with the takeout bag in his lap.   Dream found a parking spot halfway across the parking lot, as close at he could get during the lunch hour crowd.   He parked, taking the key out of the engine and layering on face masks.  

"Ready?" He asked, smiling despite the fact it wasn't visible under the layers of fabric. 

George got out of the car in response.   Dream couldn't help but to feel disappointed in the silence, but he forced himself to get over it.  He couldn't allow himself to over analyze things— he didn't know George's stance on their relationship, and letting himself think about it too much had only proven to upset him.  He convinced himself George was usually like that.  

Shaking his head to clear it, Dream grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys, shoving them into the pocket of his jeans before getting out and locking the doors.  He caught up to George quickly. 

"Where are the bathrooms in Walmart?" George asked quietly as Dream walked beside him, slowing his pace to match. 

"At the front I think, I can show you," he offered.  

George stopped, saying nothing.  

Dream waited.  

George starting walking again, staying silent.   Dream was so confused.  

A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind.  Was George okay?  Did he say something wrong?  Did George not like the idea?  Was he hurt?  Did he only go along to make Dream feel better?  Was he upset because Dream made him eat?  Was he actually scared of guns?  Was joking about the aisle of assault rifles too out of pocket outside the US?  Did Dream miss something?

He realized he had stopped in the parking lot.  Speed walking a couple steps, he caught back up to George, slowing back down to match his pace.  He looked at the British man in concern, trying to read his facial expressions through the mask.  He didn't have any success; George's eyes were set straight ahead and the rest of his face was obscured by the double layer of masks.  

At the door, someone checked their temperatures and presumably that there was a mask over their noses, and Dream headed straight to the candy aisle.   He wanted to show George American chocolate, as he'd heard British people couldn't handle it.  

George hit him on the shoulder, clearly intending to startle him, even if it wouldn't leave a bruise. 

"Dude, what?" Dream stopped, turning to look at him.  It wasn't like George to do that. 

"Bathroom, remember?" George muttered.  

Right.  "It's uh... this way," Dream pointed and began walking towards the sign, waiting outside for George.

Dream wasn't sure if it was his own impatience or George was actually taking forever, but he quickly became bored.  He stared at the lock screen on his phone, the facial recognition not working and not wanting to type in his passcode.  

His time away from the constant stimulation of the internet quickly sent him down a dark pathway in his mind.  He had nothing to do but speculate just how deep George's eating disorder struggles went, and what the lengths man would go to if he was forced to eat.

George wouldn't... would he?  Eating disorders were dangerous and unhealthy, but would George really go that far?

Dream had read how eating disorders could spiral into dangerous habits, but he felt so wrong accusing George, even in his own head, of forcing himself to be sick.   He wasn't even fully sure George had an eating disorder— he could have simply missed every time the man ate.   Thinking his friend was trying to be healthier and accidentally not eating enough was one thing, but that?  That felt like a completely new level, something that felt intrusive to speculate on, and something he was incredibly ill-equipped to deal with.  He'd even skipped over sections about in his readings that because he didn't believe George ever would.  

But was he really wrong to speculate?  George had only eaten applesauce and crackers since Dream had been there, which certainly wasn't on the low-end of the eating disorder spectrum.  The more Dream thought about how little nutrition that was, the worse he felt about how George was doing.  If he was doing that bad, was it really that out of the picture for him to do something rash?  Dream must've forced him to actually eat for the first time in god knows how long, it would make sense for him to freak out over that.   And yet... he'd barley eaten anything.  

Dream was half-tempted to walk into the bathroom and confront George.  Even as he thought those words, he knew it was a bad idea; he knew he wouldn't actually do it.  He wouldn't know what to say or what to do, and he certainly didn't want to cause a scene.  

God, what the fuck was he supposed to do?

Before he could spiral any further, George emerged, standing next to him, leaning against the wall.  His eyes were bloodshot— the distinct look of someone who had tears in their eyes only minutes before.   He looked pale, even with the mask, and he shook slightly.  His eyes had a sadness behind them, as if he wanted to be anywhere but there.   Dream didn't want to think about what that meant.  Despite his relative certainty in what George had just done, he didn't want to think about it.  He couldn't— he had no idea how to handle such a situation, and no one to turn to, lest he out George.  

He wanted to hit his head— not hard— just enough to clear it.  It made people stare in public, but it worked.  Something about the physical feeling of the pressure helped clear his head, to get him out of his thoughts and back to the physical world.  He settled for nervously curling his hand into a fist instead, not wanting to concern George.  

"C'mon," he said, trying to push all thoughts from his head.  He just wanted to have a good time with the man he'd spent all his time with over discord and phone calls. 

They began walking back towards the front of the store.  George grabbed a small cart from the corral as  Dream lead him back to the holiday candy aisle.  

"We don't need a cart," he added, continuing to walk. 

"I'll take it anyways."  George's voice was still small.  He seemed to have slightly more energy, but Dream still couldn't shake the fact that something was seriously wrong.  

Instead of saying anything, he just shrugged.  "Oh George, you need to try American chocolate," he said, trying to cover any concern in his voice.  The last time he'd said anything it hadn't gone well, and he didn't want to risk it again.  

George merely hummed in response.

Taking it as a cue to fill the silence with pointless rambling, he began to talk about all the different types of Christmas candy Walmart sold, throwing random things into the cart. 

George watched him silently.   When he ran out of words to say about different types of chocolate, a silence fell between them. 

"Okay well, it's time to see the assault weapons now," Dream joked, knowing George wouldn't break the silence.  

George merely hummed again, and indicated Dream to lead him.  He did so, but Dream couldn't help but to be disappointed— George was rarely so quiet that he simply wouldn't engage.   He was quiet, sure, but he never outright ignored Dream.  There was a very real possibility he was mad at Dream for making him eat, but Dream couldn't handle that.  In no way, shape, nor form did he know how to help George.  

He felt helpless.  So, so helpless.  

"And here, are enough guns to storm the US capitol probably," he joked as the gun aisle at the back of the store came into view.   When George didn't reply, Dream kept talking, walking towards the glass cases of guns.  "So here we have a shotgun, that... shoots people," he began.  "And this is an A-K I think... I actually don't know anything about guns," he laughed, turning to George to see his reaction.  

George seemed un-phased, and all Dream's remaining excitement evaporated on the spot.  The only benefit to the insanity of American gun culture, especially with all the regulations written with the intent of upholding white supremacy, was scaring people that didn't live there with it.  It was a comedic relief from the very real realities of the dangerous mix of a rising alt-right and access to as many guns as you can buy.  He vividly remembered hiding under desks and in closets with the lights out in preparation of a mass shooting event since he began going to school in Kindergarten, and the continuous drills ever since.  He'd been lucky to never have anyone bring a gun to his school, but nonetheless he remembered many nights, especially when he was in middle school, staying up late, scared due to the latest mass shooting in the news.  He'd faced down a taser gun from police and had been scared enough— real guns still scared him, even though he was much less phased by them than most Europeans.  

And that was the reaction he wanted— he wanted his European friend to experience the prevalence of guns and be startled by it.  Not only was it funny, but it had an underlying therapeutic aspect.   It validated his fears of gun violence and showed that maybe he wasn't just weak.  It validated the fears that lived in the back of his mind; it validated how fucked the United States was, even for incredibly privileged people such as himself.  

"George, how do you feel?" He tried.  He just wanted George to acknowledge the absurdity of being able to buy snowman-shaped Reece's Candy and an assault rifle in the same store.

"I'm fine," George responded.  

Dream couldn't stop the feelings of frustration and disappointment washing over him.  He thought this would be a funny activity, why couldn't George even pretend to give a fuck?

"About the guns," he added. 

"They're guns," George supplied, looking down.  

"Isn't it fucked?"

"I guess," George looked down as he spoke, gripping onto the cart. 

Dream gave up.  If George didn't care about what he wanted to do, then so be it he supposed.  It wasn't like he could do anything about it.  "We can check out of you want I guess," he said, knowing his disappointment showed.  He couldn't help it— the gun aisle was supposed to be one of the amusing parts of having international friends.

"Sure," George replied flatly, and began walking back to the front of the store.  

A tension formed between them as they walked in silence, Dream unable to hide his disappointment and George as apathetic and unreadable as he always seemed to be in person.  The tension didn't go away as they checked out and drive back to Karl's.  As Dream silently turned off his car and headed inside, George immediately disappeared down the hall, not even bothering to say goodbye.   Dream flopped down on the couch, unlocking his phone and staring at the bright home screen, lost in thought and disappointment.   

He could feel George slipping, but he didn't know what to do.

Chapter Text

As soon as George got back to Karl's he immediately went to brush his teeth.  He felt bad about disappointing Dream and the pain in his stomach was only getting worse, but more than anything, his mouth tasted awful.  

He had known as soon as he stood up to walk into the Walmart that he was going to throw up.  He generally suspected that eating American fast food would make him sick after the camping trip, but he'd hoped he would get through it.  

He had to take his mask off inside for obvious reasons, and it made him feel even worse.  He was always so careful, isolating alone the entire quarantine, only ever seeing his parents who worked from home.   He never went out unnecessarily, and only went to safe stores with a mask on.   Yet, as soon as he got to America, in possibly the worst store to take a mask off in, he'd done it.  Rationally, he knew he didn't exactly have a choice, but it didn't fix the guilt, sadness, and fear he felt about the scenario.  It was an airborne virus and many people took their masks off in public restrooms for some reason.  He could very well have been exposed to COVID for no good reason.  

He didn't know what was truly wrong with him, but he couldn't imagine it would mix well with COVID.  He'd seen what happened to people's lungs— he didn't need that on top of his other medical concerns.  He didn't know if he'd be able to handle that.  

To make the situation worse, putting a mask on after throwing up and not drinking water was not a good experience.  The acidic taste in his mouth didn't get any better as he walked around, and quickly became unbearable, almost to the point of making him feel sick on that alone. 

Dream kept talking about various topics during their time in the store, but George hadn't been able to do anything to respond.  He felt bad, but he couldn't do anything except focus all his energy on not getting sick again. 

Spitting out his toothpaste, George noticed his mouth still tasted terrible.  Fuck.  He went in to brush his teeth again, resigning himself to staying in the bathroom as long as he needed.  

He eventually got the taste of acid out of his mouth, and left, heading back to his and Dream's room.  His stomach was seriously hurting, and it was getting hard to move because of it.  

He slowly sat down on his bed against the wall, turning the heat pad on and placing it on his stomach.  He grabbed his water bottle and headphones, allowing himself to take two small sips of water, careful not to make himself sick.  He unlocked his phone, trying to distract himself or fall asleep; he would do anything to forget about the pain and sickness, even just for a short period of time. 

~

At six pm, George felt better enough to rejoin his friends.  He had scheduled an appointment on the NHS website to talk to a doctor after Christmas on his phone, and texted his parents to see how his pets were doing.  

Moving the heat pad and turning it off, George slowly stood up, leaning on the bed for support.  As was typical at that point, he immediately became light headed upon standing.  He'd figured out if he leaned against something and waited a couple moments, the blood flow would return.  He took another small sip of water, wincing slightly at the taste of the plastic in his water bottle.  Setting his water bottle down and putting his phone in the pocket of his jeans, he slowly walked out to the main room, looking to greet his friends.  

Dream was the only one in the living room, doing something on his computer.  He sat down next to his friend.  

"Hi," he said quietly, trying to figure out what was going on, and what to do.  

"Hey, the others went to get food.  I stayed back for you, figured you wouldn't want pizza," Dream said, not looking up from his laptop.  

George appreciated the sentiment— he really didn't feel like throwing up again.   Not seeing a need to reply, the silence between them grew.  He knew that Dream was upset with him, but he also knew they'd both had time to calm down.  He had to talk about it with Dream— it was the eighteenth of December by that point, and he'd be heading back to England soon.  

"I'm sorry," he said.  "You can ask me about what happened, I won't get mad."  He was past the point of anger at that point— he was just sad that he couldn't do anything fun.  He still didn't want to volunteer any information about his conditions, but he wasn't going to shut Dream out either.  Dream probably just assumed he was sad, which wasn't entirely wrong, but didn't come close to the full story.   That being said, he could completely accept Dream just thinking he was sad, and would take it over saying whatever was wrong with him.  He didn't think he'd ever have the strength to tell Dream what was wrong with him, even if he did get a diagnosis.  

"I... I care about you George," Dream began.  George didn't understand where his friend was going, but he appreciated the sentiment.  "And... I may not understand what you're going through, but you can talk to me whenever."

It was some of the most vague bullshit George had ever heard, but it reassured him— not because he could suddenly talk to Dream, but because he knew the man had no idea what he was going through.  Good.  Dream didn't know that he'd thrown up— he didn't know that he hadn't been able to eat anything since the camping trip, he didn't notice that George continually shook, that he could do less and less by the day.  

"Thank you," he said.  He wasn't thankful that Dream had parroted an webpage about what to say to someone sad; rather, he was thankful that was all Dream could think of was wrong.  Dream didn't know even the beginnings of how George truly went through each day, and he wouldn't ever know.  It was George's thing to deal with, and his alone.  

"I'm going to miss you when we leave."

Oh.  That one hurt a lot more than he would have liked it to.  He hadn't been seriously considering what it would be like to go back into complete isolation, away from Dream, away from his friends.  He wasn't sure if he wanted to consider that fact.  

"I'm going to miss you too," he settled on replying. 

"I don't know how to say this... but I want you to get help.  Professionally.  A therapist," Dream said awkwardly.  

If only he knew.  George wasn't particularly one for therapy, as it hadn't helped much went he went the first two times.  But of course, Dream didn't need to know that.  Dream didn't need to know any of his medical history from early in quarantine— it was something only he needed to know about, something he could push under, never to talk about to another human.  He would barley even acknowledge it to himself, let alone another living being. 

He still wanted to avoid suspicion from Dream— he didn't like the concept that people knew something was wrong.  "I actually scheduled an appointment with the NHS, after Christmas," he replied.  It was a lie by omission as he knew full well he wouldn't ask for a therapist, but he didn't exactly care.  He knew all the help he needed was some anti-nausea medication and his pets, and he could handle that on his own.  He convinced himself that really, he was doing what Dream would've wanted if he knew what was going on.  Dream would never know what was going on, and it would be easy to make up little white lies about therapy for a couple months. 

His lie had the intended effect, as Dream broke into a smile and congratulated him on working to get better.  George couldn't help but to feel a little bit guilty, pretending he'd really address anything that was wrong with him, but he pushed it from his mind.  

He did a quick google search, trying to see if he could make things up to Dream.  The first article said it was generally okay, and he was willing to take the risk if it meant seeing Dream smile.  

"Dream, do you want to get ice cream?" he asked tentatively.  He hoped to shift the conversation away from himself. 

Dream immediately smiled.  "Really?"

He nodded.  He was hungry after being sick, and he didn't want to leave having disappointed Dream.  

"We're going to dairy queen, grab a mask," Dream responded, slamming his laptop shut and getting off the couch.  George smiled at his excitement.  

He grabbed a the N-95 mask he'd worn to the airport, explaining quickly to Dream that he didn't trust the walmart air and wanted to wash the ones he wore.  

His excuse sent waves of anxiety through his body.  What if he had gotten COVID from taking off his mask?  What if his actions had actually gotten him infected?

He was an idiot.  He should have just thrown up in the parking lot, not in a crowded fucking building.  He could have just played off food poisoning to Dream, or even told him he didn't know why.  He didn't need to endanger not only himself, but Karl, Alex, Nick, and Dream.  How stupid was he?  Why did he do that?

He could have just fucked himself for life.  He'd seen the chronic conditions that people who got over the virus had.  With his unexplained illnesses already hindering his life, he could pose be jeopardizing his ability to even play Minecraft.  Not only that the social repercussions on the internet would be immense— he had a large platform, going to America will irresponsible enough as it was, and getting COVID there was a whole other level. 

Fuck. 

Fuck Fuck Fuck. 

He was stupid. 

George felt Dream's arms around him, hearing his friend's whispers as they started to bring him back to reality. 

"It's okay, it's okay," Dream soothed.  

George rubbed a hand over his face.  "Sorry," he said, realizing he was sitting on the floor and he didn't know why.  

"What's wrong?" Dream asked, rubbing his shoulder lightly.  

It was normal to be anxious around COVID, he told himself.  There was nothing wrong with being anxious about a deadly virus— he didn't like talking about mental health, but he could acknowledge that he was scared of the virus.  Before he came to America and entered a downward spiral, he would never have thought of it.  But now, after Dream had watched him struggle, he didn't mind.  He could handle Dream knowing just a sliver— it might get him to stop bothering him about things as well.  

"I'm... I'm worried I got COVID from that Walmart.  I've only ever been to stores where everyone had masks," he forced himself to say.  It wasn't the real reason he was worried about getting it, but it covered enough.  He wasn't wrong— there was a frankly shocking amount of people wearing their mask below their noses.  

Dream hugged him tighter.  "George, we got temperature checks at the door, and stores clean the bathrooms often.  I'm sure they do that with the rest of the store, it will be okay."

It would be okay if he kept his goddamn masks on, he thought.  Dream did have a point though— people were screened for symptoms at the door.  He nodded.  

"You can buy tests as well, you can get a test if you want to be safe."

He nodded again.  It would be okay— if the people that never wore a mask somehow avoided COVID, he could convince himself that he would be fine.  

"You okay?" Dream asked again.  

George smiled.  He could tell Dream had little experience comforting people in a mental health crisis, but he found it endearing.  It was cute, how much Dream tried. 

"Yeah, help me up," he responded.  Dream pulled him up, and he immediately embraced his friend.  Not only was it a nice way to get closer to Dream, but he could lean on him as the blood flowed back to his head.  

He was a mess. 

~

George was able to keep up a light banter with Dream for the duration of the their time getting ice cream.  It was light, and fun, reminiscent of every other time they’d talked.  It reminded him of what he envisioned meeting Dream would be like; they kept their usual conversation and jokes, with just a few lingering touches that made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. 

As George complained about the color choices of stoplights, Dream pulled up to Karl’s house, turning off the car and getting out.  The pain in his stomach was beginning to get worse, but he forced himself to ignore it.  He could sit down soon enough; he only had to walk up the short pathway to Karl’s front door. 

He followed Dream inside, immediately collapsing on the couch.  Karl greeted them form where he sat, sitting on the couch with Alex and Nick.  

“George, have you checked the news recently?”  Karl asked before George could pull out his phone. 

He shook his head.  

“There was a new variant of COVID discovered in London a few days ago.”

Shit.  He couldn’t say he was surprised that the virus mutated, but it wasn’t ideal that it had mutated in his city. 

He must’ve looked scared, as Karl continued, care evident in his voice.  “It’s not more deadly, only more contagious, but England is probably going back into lockdown.”

He nodded.  He’d learned to handle lockdown by that point, especially considering he never needed to leave his house.  “That’s… not too bad.”

“It’s probably going to spread here eventually, but I think it would be safer if you didn’t travel back.”

Karl wasn’t wrong, but the implications overwhelmed George regardless.  He’d planned on moving to the US since he’d met Dream, but he wasn’t prepared at all to leave then.  He had only packed for a couple weeks, he hadn’t figured out how to get Dog and Cat over, he still had doctors appointments, he didn’t have healthcare in the US— he was not at all prepared.  At the same time though, he didn’t want to go back into the isolation that was his apartment.  He was struggling, sure, but the concept of facing things alone, of waking up alone, scared him even more.  He hadn’t been able to handle things early on in quarantine, and he was terrified that another lockdown would destroy the last remaining bit of his sanity.  More so, he’d had plans to move in with Dream formally in 2021, but the pandemic could shut him out of that opportunity.  If there was a lockdown, which there would be, flights would get grounded and he would end up stuck.  All his friends would be able to see each other, and he would be stuck, missing out on the fun.  He couldn’t handle that either. 

Still, he didn’t say anything aloud.  

“You’re welcome to stay here of course, I know none of us live in the safest places but there is less of a travel risk,” Karl added on.  

“Mhm… where do you think is safest?” He asked, looking around. 

“Raleigh is liberal enough, but the surroundings areas are bad,” Karl started. 

“So center?” George asked.  He wasn’t well versed in American politics— he knew the democrat republican divide, but their other words always confused him.  In the UK, the Labour party was the left wing one, and the Liberal Democrats were a small, centrist party.  They never won many elections so he never paid them much mind, but the divide got confusing. 

“Huh?” Karl asked. 

“Liberals.  The liberal democrats are center for us,” he responded.  

Alex laughed.  “That’s not wrong, but liberal democrats are as far left as the US gets,” he responded. 

“What?” George asked incredulously.  The state of US politics suddenly made a lot more sense to him. 

“Every part of the US is fucked up man, I took a course on it,” Alex responded. 

“Wait isn’t AOC a socialist?  She’d be Labour,” he asked. 

“Probably,” he responded.  “But she can’t even get a National Healthcare system passed.”

“That’s insane.”

A silence fell between them.  

“So the democrats believe the pandemic is happening,” Karl said.  

George shook his head is disbelief.  The US was batshit insane.

“But statewide North Carolina isn’t great,” Karl continued.  “Alex, are you going back to California or Mexico?”

“Mexico,” Alex responded immediately.  “California is so bad, no way I’m going there.”

“I thought California was democrat?” George asked.  He could barley keep up with the conversation— not only were the politics foreign, the US had too many countries to remember.  

“They are, but they opened everything and filled up their hospitals.  No way I’m going back there,” Alex responded.  

George could see how that could happen— it wasn’t like Borris had handled the pandemic well either.  

“George you’re invited to Mexico with me if you want,” Alex offered. 

“Thank you,” he responded.  It was kind of him, and might be the safest place out of where his friends live. 

“I know Florida is bad,” Dream started.  “But I’ve isolated and been safe if you want.  Plus Nick’s moving after the holidays.”

George nodded, considering it.  “Can I think about it?  I can tell you tomorrow,” he said.  

In reality, he didn’t have to think about his response— the answer was obvious to him.  The actual reason he wanted to end the conversation was due to the growing, sharp, cramping pain in his stomach.  It was beginning to get hard to keep a straight face, and he began feeling sick.  

He got up, saying his goodbyes for the night.  The light headed-ness, the pain, and the nausea was a strange combination, and he almost passed out upon standing.  He managed to force himself upright, barley fighting the urge to double over in pain, and walked to the bathroom to shower.  

Despite the pain and uncertainty, he felt almost relieved that he didn’t have to go back to isolation in England. 

Living with Dream would be fun. 

Chapter Text

“I think I'll go with Dream," George announced, walking into Karl's living room at one pm.

Dream could feel himself break into a smile.  He and George had made plans to live together a long time ago, but he hadn't expected it to be so soon.  He'd mentally prepared himself for a lonely holiday season, before battling US customs to let George move there. The two of them had prepared for the likely reality that George would get stuck in the UK, and they would have to continue talking every day over discord until the pandemic was under control, an event that was looking more and more unlikely by the day.

With George driving back to Florida with him, they wouldn't have to worry about it. There weren't state checkpoints, and he could order groceries and pick them up in his car.  They didn't have to try and break rules, and they wouldn't get exposed to the virus despite the inaction of the Florida state legislature.  He and George could be safe; quarantined together, they would be able to record together, to hang out together, to live together.  In January, Nick would join them, forming the official Dream Team household. They'd planned it for ages, and were all optimistic that it'd work out. They all got along well, and given as none of them did hard drugs nor drank excessively, they would be able to renew leases, unlike the misfits. The work-life balance was certainly a challenge when they all worked together, but they spent all their free time together as well. Almost nothing would change with them living together, except they'd finally be able to wake George up in time for things.

More so, Dream could get George help.  Back in England, it would've been easy for George to hide all his problems away from Dream, just as he had done for so long.  Dream didn't know how long he'd restricted calories or outright refused to eat before Dream had met him, but Dream never had any inkling that anything was wrong.  He'd seen George eat food before, but he could never get a sense of when or how much, and he'd assumed normality.  As he should— or at least, as he assumed that he should.  He didn't like accusing George of an eating disorder, even when he'd seen his friend's actions with his own eyes.  It felt wrong.  George had never seen off in all the years Dream had known him, yet once they'd met up, Dream couldn't think of a better explanation.   He'd watched George eat nothing but applesauce and crackers, save the camping trip, and he had his suspicions about what happened after he made George eat regular food.  It was so shockingly obvious in person, and so well-hidden online.  He would have felt uncertain that George ever got better had they gone back to an online friendship.  But there, down in Florida, he could keep an eye on George.  He could see that he got a therapy appointment through the healthcare system in the UK, and he could remind George to eat.  And if George did... un-eat food, Dream would know.  He still felt bad accusing George of such things, even in his mind, but he knew his allegations weren't unfounded.  The timing of everything, George getting back and disappearing for so long, his panic attack about covid— the evidence was almost irrefutable.  In Florida, Dream would know if he did such things again.  He may not know what to do, but he could figure it out in the safety of his own home, George only a doorway away.

Plus, there was no way the two of them could live together and not talk about their relationship at least once.  With the amount they flirted and the things Dream had said, he was sure it would come up.  The tension had been enough when they were sharing a place with four other people; left to their own devices, in perfect isolation, they would have to address it.  If George rejected him, he could still handle living together he thought.  He may need a week or so with Patches trapped in his room to sob endlessly until he passed out, but he could get through it.  If George rejected him, he would still be able to look him in the eyes.  It would take a while, sure, but he could do it.  He was sure of it.  Despite his pre-planned coping mechanisms, he was almost sure he wouldn't need them.  George acted different around him, and reciprocated his flirty jokes.  Nick had agreed that there was something between them, and Karl had smiled encouragingly when Dream told him the things he'd said.  He was confident that once he and George had settled down and gotten George's mental health under control, they could address who they were to each other.  He was sure of it— and he couldn't wait.

Dream was positively ecstatic— he felt as though he was entering a brand new chapter of his life, and beginning to live out every dream he'd ever imagined. 

He agreed enthusiastically, and began making plans with the rest of his friends.  It was best for them to leave as soon as possible— they didn't know when the more contagious strain of COVID would be discovered in the US, but they all knew it was only a matter of time.  They had no idea where it would be either— Texas, North Carolina, Florida, or somewhere else they didn't care about, like Colorado. Regardless of when and where the virus would crop up, it would spread quickly across the entire country, and they didn't want to be traveling during it. It was unlikely that flights would be grounded as America tended to care more about profit than human life, but being in an enclosed tin can in the sky would be a sure fire way to contract an even more contagious form of the virus.

Alex booked a flight for two days out back to Mexico— the safer option than going to LA. For Nick, it was a seventeen hour drive back to Houston. Trying to rent a car at nineteen would be a logistical nightmare as you legally weren't allowed to, so he had no option but to fly as well. He booked a flight for the following day; it was sooner than they would have liked, but the safest option regardless. Techno had long since gone back to the Bay Area, and given as he went out even less than the rest of them, would be perfectly safe. That only left Dream and George, who would be driving the ten hours back to Orlando, and weren't constrained by airport times. They could leave at any time, but decided on leaving at eleven am the next day— the same time Karl and Alex would be driving Nick to the airport.

It was a sad conversion as they discussed their collective futures, but they knew it was inevitable. Dream toyed with the idea of possibly moving to Raleigh, but knew it was too soon to consider such a thing. He hadn't yet grown tired enough of the wet Florida heat to consider moving to a place with snow, and he certainly wouldn't move during a pandemic. Not only would it make the moving process hundreds of times harder, but it also made it outright dangerous. George joked that in five years he could move, as by that time not only would the pandemic be over, but Raleigh wouldn't get snow anymore and Florida would be underwater anyway. It was a grim reality, but they laughed for virtue of having no better response. Besides, knowing how many rich people lived in Florida, someone would just wall-off the state like they did in the Netherlands.

The five of them decided to collectively stream that night, and sent Dream, George, and Nick off to pack their things. In his and George's room, Dream shoved some clothes into the one suitcase he brought, and elected to just throw everything else in the back of his car. George opted for the same option; having a car to drive back in was beneficial as the two of them didn't actually need to pack. Leaving everything but his blanket and space in his suitcase for his toothbrush in the morning, Dream took armfuls of various clothes to his car, throwing them haphazardly into the backseat of his car. George opted for the more sophisticated option of folding a couple sweatshirts and placing them on the backseat, with the suitcase in the trunk. He said he would just put his pajama pants in his backpack, which made rational sense to Dream, but regardless kept to throwing things in the back. It took much less energy and focus to do so.

That night, they sat in front of the camera of Karl's computer setup, ready for a however many hours they could handle of chaos. Dream still kept his face mask on to maintain anonymity, even though it did lead to many questionable faces photoshopped on top of it (he'd checked twitter after last time).

After four hours of unfettered chaos and yelling about how they were "popping off,” the five of them went to bed, setting alarms for the morning.  

~

Dream wouldn’t admit it, but he felt himself tear up a bit as he hugged his friends goodbye.  He would see Nick soon enough, but he had no idea when he would see Karl or Alex next.  He would probably speak to them that night on discord,  it wouldn’t be the same, not after he’d experienced the joy of having in-person best friends.  

He could’ve sworn George was going through the same thing, but forced himself to ignore it.  George didn’t cry; he barley showed any emotions, and Dream suspected he didn’t want anyone to know when he did.  

At eleven, Dream went to his car, tossing his suitcase in the back.  Karl, Alex, and Nick drove off to the airport, and waved goodbye aggressively.  Dream waited in the car, imputing directions to his house, and gave George time to compose himself in Karl’s driveway.  He couldn’t help but to feel a pang in his chest at the concept of George crying— he and Alex were such good friends, and it must have hurt to say goodbye for the last time in a long while.  They would be on complete opposite ends of the continent, and wouldn’t be able to see each other anything soon. 

As Dream prepared a playlist for the drive over, George silently got into his car, placing his backpack in the back seat, on top of the disaster that was how Dream “packed.”

“Ready?” He smiled. 

“I still can’t believe we’ll be in a car for ten hours,” he responded incredulously.  

Dream laughed in response.  They were driving longer than it would take to get across George’s entire county, and that was the fault of the UK.  It wasn’t Dream’s fault George lived on a tiny island, and besides, it was easy to zone out for five hours on a highway.  There weren’t any winding mountain roads on the way to Florida, so he had zero qualms with driving non-stop.  He’d just play Heat Waves on repeat again while George slept.  

After the forty-minute duration of Dream’s playlist, they finally reached I-95, the highway they’d stay on until just before Daytona Beach.  Looking halfway at his phone, he ended his google maps trip so it wouldn’t drain his battery, and tapped the repeat function on the Glass Animals’ classic Heat Waves. 

George gave a small laugh as the familiar first notes began playing.  

“It’s a good song,” Dream defended immediately. 

George only laughed at him, raising an eyebrow sarcastically. 

He sang along quietly, re-starting as the song repeated.  

“Are you looping this?” George asked after the first line. 

“Maybe,” he responded, switching across the lanes to pass the people going the speed limit.  

“We’re not listening to the same song for ten hours, Dream,” George smiled, despite his obvious seriousness.  

“Why not?” He teased. 

“Because it’s ten hours,” George countered. 

Dream fake-pouted, trying to mimic what George pulled on stream constantly.  “It’s only nine hours and I have ADHD Georgeeeee,” he whined, barley suppressing laughter at the end. 

George laughed.  “Any askers?”

Dream burst out into laughter.  It was such a stupid reply, he couldn’t help but to laugh at their inside joke. 

Knowing he’d lost, he hit shuffle on the Glass Animals’ Spotify page, allowing their older music to play.  George accepted it and went to staring out the window, watching the cars pass.  

~

Three hours in, Dream stopped off the highway to get lunch.  It was way to late to eat food, but he’d zoned out driving, and didn’t want to wake up George.  It wasn’t until he felt as though he was starving and the Glass Animals songs were getting more and more obscure that he finally pulled into a small town in the middle of South Carolina.  

“George,” he whisper-shouted.  “Wake up.”

“Huh?” George asked sitting up and blinking a couple times. 

“Where do you want to get food?”

“Um… I’m not really hungry.  I don’t eat on road trips.”

Dream couldn’t say he was surprised by that point.  Still, George needed to eat, and he wouldn’t be a good friend if he didn’t get the man to eat at least something.  

“You have to eat at least one meal.  We can stop for dinner instead if you like, but I’m not letting you not eat,” he decided on, the words coming out a bit more firm-sounding than he would’ve liked.  He figured it was a fair compromise— he wanted George to eat a normal three meals, and George didn’t want to eat anything.  One meal was more than generous to George. 

George just rolled his eyes.  “I’m fine, Dream,” he responded, leaning his head back against his seat. 

“Now or later?” He insisted.  He would not give up— George would not starve himself on his watch, regardless of if he got annoyed or not. 

“Dream, I’m.  Fine.”

“Someone that’s fine would eat.”

“Dream!”

“George.”

“Seriously, don’t.”

George’s reaction only solidified Dream’s suspicions.  If he reacted like that to Dream asking him to eat one meal, Dream was scared to think about how long he’d been not eating.  “George, please.  You need to eat food,” he said gently, trying to de-escalate the situation before it got any worse.  George was stubborn, and Dream was struggling to walk the line between getting George to eat and not pushing him back into his shell. 

“Ugh Dream, can you just leave it?” George asked, the discomfort clear in his voice. 

“No,” he responded.  “I care about you, and you can’t just refuse to eat.”

“I can actually.”

“George, you need food.”

George rubbed a hand across his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Fine, you know what Dream?!  I get motion sick, so I don’t eat on road trips, okay?” He snapped. 

Oh.  Dream hadn’t considered that.  He and his family were consistently fine with moving vehicles, and he’d forgot that not everyone’s road trip tradition was to eat as much unhealthy food as possible.  If George got motion sick, it made perfect sense for him to avoid eating.  Frankly, Dream would be a bad friend for forcing him to eat if it would just make him feel like shit. 

Alternatively, George was lying to him.  It pained him to even think that— within the short time he’d met with George in person, he had lost all trust he had in the man.  He hated it.  George was his best friend; he should have no reason to keep secrets from him, he should believe his friend.  It was a terrible indicator of their bond— what if Dream was making all this up?  What if George had no self-confidence issues, what if he was perfectly fine?  At the same point, Dream couldn’t convince himself that everything was okay with George.  There was something wrong with him.  He got way to defensive and ate way too little to be okay.  As much as it strained their relationship, Dream knew, deep down, that it was for the best.  If he didn’t help George, he would be actively failing him.  

Still, seven hours in a car with George mad at him and the possibility of him being genuinely sick sounded horrific.  The sooner they got home, the sooner George could eat, and the sooner he could see patches again.  He admitted defeat. 

“Never mind then, you’re fine,” he said. 

“Thank you,” George responded. 

“Can you still drink gatorade or something?” He tried.  He wasn’t fully sure what was in gatorade, but it had to be better for George than simply water.  He knew at the very least there was sugar in it. 

“Sure,” George sighed.  

“Thank you,” he replied, checking for the nearest grocery store on his phone. 

~

Dream stopped in Jacksonville, Florida to get dinner from a drive through.  As he waited at the window, he noticed George had barley drunk any of the blue gatorade they’d bought, but elected to ignore it.  The last three and a half hours had been awkward— George barley drank anything, and said nothing.  Dream could tell he was at the very least annoyed, but he couldn’t give in either.  If he gave in and said George didn’t need to eat, he’d be allowing the man to starve himself.  He had to do it, and he convinced part of the reason George was quiet was simply the motion sickness and exhaustion.  

He’d put on a podcast a while back after running out of music he wanted to listen to, so he simply kept it on while he ate and got back onto I-94.  It was an easy way to fill the silence, and ignore the growing tension.  

Two hours of random trivia knowledge later, Dream was finally pulling into his driveway.  He had was ready to get out of the car, and finally get back to his cat. 

“George we’re here,” he called, getting out of the car and leaving everything but his phone and keys in the car.  He was too tired to unpack the mess. 

He walked up to his door, George following far behind and unlocked it, finally back home. 

“Patches!  I’m home girl!” He called. 

Chapter Text

Ever since George had started streaming, and even before then, he had made three promises to himself: he wasn't going to address the fact that he was definitely depressed, he wasn't going to address the fact that he was definitely physically and chronically ill, and he wasn't going to address the fact that he was definitely in love with his best friend Clay.  In the year 2020, he'd now broken every last one of those promises.

He'd been forced to address the depression when the UK went into lockdown.  At first, early on in the lockdown Mid-March, George felt as if he would be fine.  He barley ever left his house anyways, and his job was already online; he was in the perfect place in his life for a casual lockdown to occur.  Yet slowly, after the first couple weeks, that attitude began to dissipate.  He starting loosing the last remaining contact with his friends from uni as there were no longer places to hang out in and they got busy, and his text conversations with them became more and more infrequent, often a single, surface level conversation taking days to play out.  

April and June passed slowly, as he began streaming to pass the time and ignore his worsening mental health.  Talking with Dream and the rest of his friends was fun, but it only reminded him of his old friends, the ones he could no longer see.  Sometime, over those second two full months, he'd stopped talking with his Uni friends entirely.  Collectively, they began sending texts that needed no answer, and no one would send a text that re-ignited conversation.  When George sent a picture of Luca to their group chat and his friends merely liked the photo, he knew it was over.  They'd moved on— they'd gotten careers, families, and they'd left George and his youtube career behind.  At one point, George had seen a group of his friends hanging out on instagram when the lockdown lifted slightly.  It hurt him.  He'd realized that they'd grown apart, that he'd become strangers with the people he used to live with.  He still had his friends online, but it wasn't the same. 

And then Luca had died.  He went into July without much excitement, merely another monotonous month, broken up only by a couple days where he'd been sick after getting pizza with his parents, but he never realized how close he was to his breaking point. 

It started out with Luca's breathing being irregular, and he'd took him to the vet.  Then, before he had time to process what was going on, Luca had to be put down.  He'd begged the vets when they told him, sobbing, asking them to give him at least another night with his cat.  They'd obliged, and given his cat pain killers and George a slip of paper telling him to come in at ten the next morning.  His family had stayed the night in his apartment for support, and he'd slept on the floor of his room, right near Luca.  He must've only gotten an hour of sleep, as he held on tight to his precious cat, listening to his ragged, pained breathing.  His buddy was so young— he didn't deserve the pain, and he certainly didn't deserve his life to end so soon.  When his parents told him to get up, they drove him to the vet as he cradled Luca in his arms in a daze.  

He stood, leaned over the cool metal table, as he watched the life drain from Luca's eyes, sobbing.  He didn't know how long he stood there, but his parents eventually left the room, allowing him a moment with his cat.  He held his frail body in his arms, as the cat slowly became cold, warmed only by George's tears on its fur.  By the time the veterinarian came back into the small room, instructing him they needed the room for a check up, he could barley stand.  He took some of Luca's fur as it fell out in his hands as a final remnant of the creature that was keeping him stable, and allowed the veterinarian to take his arm and lead him back to his family, still crying.  It became hard to breathe with the accumulation of snot and tears coating his mask, and he collapsed into his mum at the doorway.  She held him, his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt clutching part of Luca's fur, and slowly forced him to walk back to the car.  His chest hurt from crying, and he began to feel physically sick as he sat in the passengers seat, and eventually his living room couch.   His parents ordered dinner, and he refused to eat.  He put Luca's fur in a ziplock bag and hid it in his room, and otherwise laid on his couch, staring at the last picture he'd ever taken of his cat.  

His parents left the next day, and Dream called him on FaceTime that afternoon.  As soon as Dream asked how he was, he broke into sobbing all over again, dropping his phone as he tried to stop crying for Dream.  After he'd hung up, he’d resumed the violent sobbing.  He eventually fell asleep in his chair that night, and the week only got worse.  

By the end of the week, George couldn't take it.  He only felt sadness or a numbing nothingness, and he was alone, suffocatingly alone in his apartment.  The hallways echoed, and the air remained still, too still.  The only sounds were the tears falling on his desk and the low hum of his computer fan.  His chest was perpetually tight, his eyes burned, and his hair had gotten greasy.  

He was a mess. 

At five in the morning on a day he tried so hard to forget but knew he never could, something in him snapped.  Every day was the same— his only friends were an ocean away, he wouldn't be able to advance in his career as someone normally would, he wasn't dating anyone, he didn't have anyone, he didn't have a cat; he had no one.  He was alone, with no one to talk to. 

Soon, all too soon, he found himself climbing out the window, standing on the fire exit scaffolding that was more of a fire danger than a help due to years of austerity.  He lived on the first floor; if he jumped, he wouldn't die.  He could climb over and jump leg first, landing on the pavement below.   The fall wouldn't kill him— and he didn't want it to.  He didn't want death, he just wanted something to happen.  He wanted a reprieve from the drudgery that was the suffering and loneliness that was his daily life.  A jump from the first floor would be enough to break his leg.  It wouldn't affect his Minecraft, but it would provide something to do besides staring at pictures of his innocent creature, and something to feel besides the Luca-sized hole in his heart.  It would offer something to think about beside the pandemic, a way to focus on himself.  

He leaned over the railing, watching the tears fall to the empty streets through choked sobs.  

He couldn't take it. 

He was so alone. 

He was so sad.  

Before he knew what he was doing, he was looking up a number and tapping on it.  He placed the phone on speaker, staring at the screen as an automated message played, his tears quickly distorting the images on his phone. 

When a worker greeted him, the only thing he could do was continue to sob.  It was the first time he'd ever reached out to someone, crying, since he was young.  He couldn't stop himself crying in front of his parents, and he couldn't stop himself from crying on call with Dream— but he was okay with the lady at the crisis hotline knowing, for the sheer reason that he'd never meet the person on the other end of the time.  

Slowly, the reassurances on the end of the line slowed his sobs.  Tired, he sat down on the metal grating below his feet, leaning against the brick wall of his flat, too scared to go back inside.  

There, he had opened up to another person for the first time in his life.  He talked about his cat, his friends moving on, the ocean between his new ones, the emptiness he felt, the numbness he felt, the pain he'd always felt.  He talked about how he felt as though his parents never took him seriously, and how he felt like he couldn't open up to his best friend.  The lady convinced him not to break his leg as it would only further complicate his life, and he climbed back through the window, eventually calming down enough to say a thank you and hang up. 

He'd taken a cold shower to shock his system and get rid of the redness in his eyes, and put on a fresh pair of clothes.  From there, he'd booked an appointment with the NHS for a couple days out, and asked his parents if he could come over for dinner. 

The doctor diagnosed him with depression after an hour, and marked down signs of an anxiety disorder, but he didn’t have enough symptoms to fully qualify for a diagnosis. From there, he gave him a prescription that he'd need to fill up every month and referred him to a therapist.  He'd been to two sessions and not much had changed but he'd started to feel better and be able interact with his friends normally, so he stopped going.  As for the medication, George was almost certain it was a placebo.  He didn't feel any different after going on medication, even after the three months the doctor said it may take.  Regardless, he didn't want to go back to the doctors, so he'd simply kept getting more medication and taking it.  As much as he thought the thing was fake, he didn't dare risk getting off it, lest something happen again.  

He'd been forced to address his physical health the entire US trip.  It was rapidly deteriorating, and although Ehler's Danlos explained the pain in his ankle, fingers, and various other joints, he didn't have any answers past that.  He had attempted to google search his symptoms, but quickly gave up.  His symptoms didn't match with IBS and there was no chance he'd had cancer or the stomach flu his whole life, and anything past that he didn't know about.  He'd tried to look up different conditions, but couldn't understand things enough to test himself, and couldn't find matching symptoms.  At a point, he'd decided it was just easier to consult actual doctors, who would likely immediately know what was wrong.  An hour with a psychiatrist was enough for them to know he had depression, and he assumed there was something similar for physical illnesses.  Physical illnesses weren't even stigmatized— once he made the decision to actually get help, he was confident it would go well.   The final medical problem he needed an answer to was why he would suddenly get lightheaded and dizzy, and why he even passed out on the Appalachian Trail.  

It was the second day of hiking when it happened; he'd told Karl and Alex to go ahead, wanting to be alone with his thoughts.  He had been in a bad place mentally— he was angry at the world and his friends, and didn't want to be near anyone, nor yell at his friends.  After throwing up the night before, he'd been incredibly exhausted.  He hiked slowly, knowing he wouldn't make it to the top, and not wanting to walk back further than he had to.  The tactic was to go slow, and avoid much of the hiking that he was on the trip to do. 

When the hunger became too much, George sat down on the trail and considered his options.  He was ultimately terrified of throwing up again, and chose to eat two crackers and drink a sip of water.   Despite the amount of food, it surprisingly made a dent in his hunger.  He sat on the cold ground, waiting for the food to settle for some time, until deciding he'd be okay.  He put his water bottle in his backpack and the crackers on top, and went to get up. 

As soon as he stood up, he felt all the blood rush out of his head, and darkness cloud the edges of his vision.  

Before he could figure out what happened, he was lying on the ground, a growing soreness in the side of his legs and the sun in his eyes.  

At the time, he'd been too exhausted to acknowledge, too scared to even say the words in his head.  He knew it was bad, and he knew it was something he had to address— but he didn't want to.  The process was terrifying, and it presented another problem that he wasn't fully ready to admit at the time.  

Thus, instead of acknowledging it, he'd simply closed his eyes and willed himself to believe the hiking trip was simply a bad idea.  He fell asleep at one point or another, and was woken up by Alex.   He had played it off at the time, but his experience passing out had shaken him to his core. 

On the way back, he'd collapsed.  It happened when he got out of Karl's car at the McDonalds— he stepped out of the car, and was suddenly on the hard ground.  He didn't black out that time to his knowledge, but it didn't make it any less scary.  His friends insisted that he'd simply just tripped, but he knew it wasn't the case.  He didn't know why or how, but he knew that he'd collapsed.  His body had simply given out, and he couldn't explain why. 

Having his friends deny and laugh off what happened hurt.  It hurt more than he liked to admit— he told himself it shouldn't bother him as his parents had ignored his illnesses his whole life, but it didn't stop the sinking feeling in his chest.  Even though he was used to it, the denial from others felt like a fresh knife in his chest each time. 

That was why he almost looked forwards to his appointment after Christmas— he would finally have answers.  He could get the medication he needed for his stomach and the passing out and his joints, and he could tell his friends.  He could tell Alex that everything had worked out, and he could tell Dream his joints were better.  He wouldn't have to tell Dream he was sicker either; once he got medication, he could go back to normal, and Dream would be none the wiser.  More so, he'd know that he didn't trip.  He'd have proof he fainted, and he'd know that he wasn't just dramatic.  

Finally, George was quickly having to address his feelings for Dream.  He'd had a sneaking suspicion he was gay for most his life, but he continually pushed it aside.  Sure, he'd dated girls before, even going all the way, but he never got the appeal of it.  He could appreciate the girls he dated were nice and objectively pretty, but he didn't feel anything past that.  He felt the same about the girl he'd dated in college as he did about Minx after Austin's dating show— they were good friends and he could appreciate they were pretty, but he felt nothing past that. 

When he'd gotten closer to Dream, he began to develop as what he could only develop as "feelings."  Dream was the only person he cared to hang around, and he laughed more at Dream's jokes than at anyone else's.  Simply being around Dream made him feel complete; he had never been closer to a single human before Dream. 

Those feelings only intensified when they met in person.  Dream gave the best hugs, and George felt safe and warm whenever he hugged him.  The two times he'd forced Dream to cuddle him as he slept, he'd never wanted it to end.  He could feel himself becoming more and more drawn to Dream, never wanting to be away from his touch. 

More than once, he'd considered what would happen if he actually kissed Dream.  

As long as he tried to deny it, he knew how couldn't deny it any longer.  

George 'Not Found' was in love with Dream, his best friend.

He wouldn't say anything— he was barley ready to admit his sexuality to himself— but it was something he knew he'd increasingly have to confront.  He certainly couldn't just platonically live with Dream for the length of the pandemic and long after.

~

Sitting on Dream's guest bed, George felt silent tears trace his jawline, running  down his neck and soaking the collar of his shirt.  He hated thinking about everything— it overwhelmed him every time.  He hated thinking about that summer, and he hated thinking about his past.  His childhood memories weren't much better, as while he did have a lot of good ones, every time he recalled a story about his childhood he'd end up feeling abandoned by his parents in some way.  He hated it. 

Patches opened the door he'd left cracked open, and jumped onto the bed with a soft meow, rubbing her head against his hand.  

He smiled, petting her with one hand and wiping the tears off his face with the other.  Dream had left to the supermarket at eleven pm, insisting that it was open until one am for the winter holidays.  George wasn't one to question why the US would have stores open that late, and he'd stayed behind to sleep.  He'd asked Dream to buy apple sauce, crackers, and apple juice, and Dream had insisted he find more vegan food.  Late at night, after a long road trip, George didn't contest it.  He'd figure out an excuse to doge eating later— he only had to do so for a week or so, before he had his doctor's appointment. 

Instead of sleeping as he told Dream he would, George had stayed up thinking.  Not only was he addressing the trifecta of issues that he promised he never would, he had another, more pressing issue.  

The prescription he had for depression only lasted to the end of the month, and he had no idea how to get it refilled.  The prescription automatically refilled to a pharmacy by his flat in the UK, but if the prior pandemic response was any indication of how the new coronavirus strand would be handled, he wouldn't be back home by January.  As much as he felt his medication didn't do much, he knew that going off it, without medical advice or any plan was a terrible idea.   Even so, he had no idea what to do.  He couldn't ask his parents to mail him his medication as he refused to tell them, and he couldn't ask Dream how prescriptions were filled in the US as he refused to tell him too.  He knew America had a disastrous healthcare system, but he found it difficult, if not impossible, to figure out how to get NHS coverage abroad.  

It was daunting, but it was one of the only things he had left to figure out in America.  He'd already texted his parents, explaining the situation, and they'd agreed with his decision and said they'd take care of his pets.   His parents said if he was still stranded by February they'd work on mailing over his gaming PC, but he hadn't thought that far in advance.  Dream still had an old computer he could stream on— he'd have to pull a Technoblade and use his laptop for chat and wouldn't be able to run shaders, but he would be able to stream from Dream's in the meantime.  He would likely get another SIM card for his phone or change his phone plan in the UK to an international one so that he could use cellular data, but it wasn't a pressing issue.  He and Dream would be staying inside when at all possible— the only reason Dream had gone inside a store was because he didn't have any food in the house, and the only other time they'd be leaving the house would be to visit Dream's family for the holidays.  

Patches jumped off the bed, walking around and sniffing George’s suitcase.  With her absence from the bed, George took his pajamas from his backpack and changed quickly before shakily walking over to the light switch and flipping it off.  He got into bed, leaving the door open and his phone somewhere.  He’d thought about too much for a single day; he was tired. 

Chapter Text

The days passed quickly; He and George had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, and Dream had loved every second of it. Even though he didn't see George much, ending up talking to Nick more than the friend he physically lived with, the presence of George made his house feel complete. He'd been productive— he released a video on his second channel explaining his side of the speed running situation and finalized the issue.  He knew there were people that would never believe he was innocent, and he'd come to terms with it.  He had gotten lucky on his speed run and the statics showed that, but he knew the truth himself.  He'd shown the odds were less outrageous and learned more about math than he ever did in school, and learned to put the issue from his mind.  He'd learned to make jokes about the odds the mod team put forth, and he'd apologized to the team as a whole for his initial reaction.

Given as he would soon be spending time with family and no longer needed to co-ordinate sleep schedules with someone across the Atlantic, Dream had actually adjusted to a normal sleep schedule. He went to sleep around two in the morning and woke up at ten, when he'd get breakfast and start doing the paperwork he needed to do, and joining his friends' streams in the afternoon and night. George emerged from the guest room around four pm most days, and began eating dinner with Dream.  They would get dinner around seven, and after go to their respective rooms to join streams, going to bed after.  They would then often talk on call— they hadn't quite figured out how to be on stream when they lived together, and neither wanted to invade the other's space. 

Dream was proud of George— at first, he'd been hesitant to eat anything at all, but as the days went on, he would eat small amounts of food at dinner. He'd stick around a little bit afterwards, and would then return to the guest room. He certainly wasn't getting enough food still, but it was a huge step from his time at Karl's house. It gave Dream hope— he felt as if his friend wasn't too far gone, and could believe that George hadn't lied to him on the road trip.  He could believe that maybe George did just get motion sick, and maybe that explained why he didn't like eating from fast food joints.  He wasn't naive— he knew George struggled eating food,  but it was a comfortable delusion.  It was comforting to think that George only had very mild struggles with an eating disorder, and that with online therapy, he could recover fully within the US.

"George," Dream called, looking up from the pasta from Publix that he'd made for dinner.  It had taken him about five minutes to cook, but he was proud nonetheless— his parents always told him he'd get scurvy living in his own, so any cooking he did made him proud. 

George looked up, nodding to him to continue.

"So my mom sent me this trail we could hike," he started, carefully selecting his next words so George would know it was nothing like the backpacking trip they'd done.  "It's rated easy, and the backpack trail we did was rated hard, plus it's only half a mile, which I know is the wrong units for you but it's not far at all, I promise it will be fun," he rambled, trying to prevent George from immediately dismissing the idea.

"Mhm, why?" George responded.  A typical response from George, but considering he didn't immediately say no, Dream counted it as win.

"We can go tomorrow as the day before Christmas Eve, since we'll be with my family then, and I thought it would be fun to do something together.  It's always empty according to the app and we can leave in the afternoon," he elaborated.  "Please George, I love you and I want to show you Florida," he added. 

The pathos argument was all he had to persuade George— he knew the man didn't understand the appeal of hiking, and from a strictly logical standpoint, he didn't blame him.  In actuality, there was zero point in going along a dirt path and back when they could be playing Minecraft, but something about hiking drew him in. 

The forests cleared his head— he loved the internet, and he loved the sense of belonging he had amount his stand, but getting away from it all felt like a weight off his shoulders.  The fresh air outside the city filled his lungs, and the escape from civilization almost allowed him to forget the hellscape that he often lived in.  He could forget the constant criticisms of the thousands of people that hated him, and the countless controversies that he had to address, despite not being the cause of it.  He could forget the crippling weight of sixteen million people waiting for him to post videos, and the anxiety that came with trying to produce good content.  He could forget the problems that making his feelings for his best friend so very public may eventually cause.  He could escape the constant eyes on him. 

Nature allowed him to think— about himself, about his friends, about the world, and often nothing at all.  It offered a reprieve from the disaster capitalism that sought to make money off people loosing access to water, and a reprieve from the pressures of social media and its constantly unrealistic standards.  While his desire to fuck off to the wildness was recent, he couldn't wait for the next time he could escape society, and he knew of no one better to spend time with than George.  The man who, to his knowledge, absolutely hated hiking.

"Sure," George responded.

Dream hadn't expected it to be that easy, but he broke into a grin regardless.  "I'll bring water and snacks, but really we can't get stranded so we don't need to worry," he enthused.

"You know I don't hate nature, right?" George asked, cutting up the pasta on his plate with his fork.

Dream didn't.  He certainly didn't seem happy about the time they'd spent two full night in nature.  "Not really," he responded.

"Why would I go vegan if I didn't care about the planet?"

George had a point.  It was late that summer that George has been talking enthusiastically about ways to protect the earth, talking about science concepts that neither of them fully understood.  Of course he would care about nature— he'd revolved his diet around reducing his carbon footprint. 

Dream merely nodded, waving a hand in acknowledgement to George, as George laughed and called him an idiot. 

Shortly after, George left quickly, per usual, to shower and go to bed. It baffled Dream how much the man slept, but would never say anything. The sleeping fourteen hours or more was just a normal aspect of George's personality. At the very least, he was in a good career for it. Besides, George needed to sleep that night; they would be leaving for the trailhead at two in the afternoon, which was incredibly early in George time.

Leaving the dishes in the sink, Dream headed back to his room for the night, checking his phone.  He texted his mom that he'd convinced George to go hiking tomorrow, and switched over to the conversation he had with his older sister. He closed his door and sat down on his bed, trying to figure out how exactly to text her.

He'd finally reached out to someone about George— he didn't say who, but he knew he had to. His friends would immediately know who he was talking about, so he'd gone to his family. He knew that his sister had a friend growing who'd had an eating disorder briefly, and that eating disorders were most common in women due to societal standards. As the oldest sibling, his older sister always told him he could ask for help, and he'd taken her up on that offer. He told her about George's eating disorder, and asked what he could do.  He'd told her everything besides the time he suspected George had made himself sick as it felt like too much speculation.  Besides that, he'd told her everything— George's announcement that he was going to be vegan, to him only eating applesauce all day.  He made sure to text like George was still an online friend and used they/them pronouns as to not drop hints, but he was fairly certain that if his sister wanted to guess who he was talking about, she'd be able too— especially with George coming over to his family's Christmas dinner. Regardless, he knew she wouldn't say anything.

Today 7:44pm
I think they're getting better. I ate dinner on call with them the past couple nights and they ate. I'm still really worried about them

He tapped send on the text message before he could think through it. He didn't know why he was still nervous when all the signs pointed to George getting better, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It was nonsensical; it was speculation, but Dream couldn't get the thought out of the back of his mind. Something was off, something was wrong, but he couldn't begin to know what.

His sister texted back quickly.

Today 7:53pm
I'm glad! If you're worried, I would make sure they aren't just cutting up their food instead of eating it. You said you they just struggled to eat, so they should be okay if they're eating. I get the nerves, I really do Clay, but when they get to their appointment and get help, they'll be ok I promise :)

The words put a smile on Dream's face. He read them over and over, the reassurances doing their job.  Repeating to himself that he was simply overthinking George's actions, he tossed his phone on his bed and opened Minecraft.  He began working on MLG clutches with scaffolding— a useful tactic for the nether.

~

It was 1:30 in the afternoon and George still hadn't gotten up.  Dream had gotten everything ready— he had a backpack with two water bottles and a couple snacks, and had the address pulled up on google maps.  The trail would be a two hour drive with traffic, and overall a good day trip.  He'd found a place he could pick up food from, contactless, on the way back, and eat it at home.  He had planned it perfectly, the only thing left was to get George to actually wake up.

Knowing George had alerts for him on, he pulled out his phone and called him, before realizing that George had didn't have cell service in the US yet.  He hung up, and called George on FaceTime instead, knowing his call would wake him up.

Holding his phone close to his face, he waited for George to reply.  A screen popped up, stating that George hadn't answered.  Strange.  George usually always answered his phone.

Assuming he'd simply just hadn't gotten up on time, Dream called again. 

Still, no response.

After three more repeated tries, Dream gave up, assuming George wouldn't answer.  Instead, he walked down his hallway, and knocked on George's door.

"George!" He shouted.  "It's almost two!"

There was no response.

He called again, knocking loudly. 

Finally, George called him on FaceTime, the image on his phone showing a black screen.

"Wake me up a two," came George's quiet, hoarse voice before he promptly hung up.

Dream sighed.  After knowing George for as long as he did, he wasn't surprised.  Regardless, it was disappointing— he didn't want to be caught outside in the dark, so they had to leave by three at the last eat.

He knew it was near impossible to wake up George when he didn't want to wake up.  Resolving himself to try again at 2:30, knowing George would tell him another thirty minutes at two, he went to bother Patches and scroll aimlessly through twitter.  He had a little under an hour and could have technically done something productive with his time, but given as he hadn't intended to and had something to do within that hour, he couldn't do anything.  It didn't make sense whenever he said it out loud, but he simply couldn't.

When his alarm to wake George up went off, Dream released patches from his grip, giving her a soft goodbye.  She immediately ran off, jumping on top of his couch and laying down.  Dream smiled.

Walking down the hallway, he banged again on George's door, telling him it was two-thirty now.

George groaned in response, barley audible through the wood.

"George?" He asked again.

"What?" George responded, his voice still hoarse and small.  Dream was not at all surprised he hadn't gotten up.

"Can I come in?" He asked, knowing George wouldn't get up on his own.

He heard a small hum from George in response and opened the door.  George hadn't locked it, and he walked through the frame, leaning against the wall by the light switch.  The room was pitch black, his only sense of  where he was in space coming from the feel of the light. 

"Get up idiot," he said, crossing his arms.

George groaned again, and he heard the sound of him hitting a pillow over his face.