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Macbeth killed to be king. He murdered, and lied and cheated - all to sit upon the throne. It was his paranoia and foolishness that took him off it, every event encompassed within the span of about 20 years. George? George’s kingship lasted a bare blink of an eye. Yes, George didn’t necessarily want to be king, but Dream was all for big gestures, so he supposed he wouldn’t spoil his fun. Really, he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about being king. He wasn’t entirely sure about how he felt about anything at all. Shakespeare once said “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown”, but George can’t bring himself to care. If anything, it was just another accessory to put on in the morning.
He sees that the crown doesn’t garner him any respect. No, but George doesn’t care about respect either. An apathetic king is better than a tyrant, he can hear people think, and if that is the role he is assigned? So be it.
When George’s home gets destroyed, he finds that he doesn’t care much. He had been meaning to rework some of the rooms anyway. Never mind that he had spent so much time building that home. Never mind that he had dozens of tokens that reminded him of Dream hidden away in every corner of his house. With war came destruction and George didn’t care much if he was the collateral. He supposes that is the nature of loving someone like Dream. Dream, on the other hand, cares far too much. He takes one look at the ruins of George’s house and a fire is lit in his eyes.
“For you, I’d burn the entire world,” George remembers Dream saying. George is continually shocked by how much he likes that fire.
“Then do it.” he had said in response, his voice a lazy drawl, and Dream simply smirked in return.
Dream’s fire, objectively? It’s commonplace. It’s the same type of fire that Tommy burns, the same way even the Blood God is motivated. It drives them, it shields their vision with it’s red hot fury, it spreads easily, but that’s all it is. When Dream burns you, it’s a small ache. A pain that will go away should you ice it properly. George’s fire runs blue, vivid and bright, but the hottest part of the flame. It guides the red fire, pushing it the way the air folds around it. When George burns you, he’ll leave a scar.
George isn’t unaware of this fact.
“Just say you hate me.” he pleads to Dream, adding a quiver to his voice. Everyone stands in silence at his painful, tear-jerking confession. Dream looks taken aback, even. He tries to defend himself saying that he meant to protect George (which he no doubt did), but George tilts his head away when Dream places a hand on his cheek. Dream falters. He considers.
Outwardly? George is pained, hurt, but inwardly, he’s giddy. He had wanted to test whether his reaction would throw off Dream, and he had been right. Some puppet-master, George chuckled at the idiocy of the people’s whispers. He didn’t mind if they pitied him.
George is almost hyper aware of the fact that he has control over Dream. He laces into his every lingering touch, offering his bed but never allowing Dream to stay the night.
“I love you.” Dream says. George only smiles in response.
(Blue fire. It burns.)
When everyone else prepares for war, George prepares a cup of tea for himself. Dream knocks on the door of his house, then lets himself in. A silly routine. Dream knows that George doesn’t care for idle pleasantries, George knows that Dream gallivants the land choosing to enter the houses of whomever he pleases. Him and Dream are similar in a sense, they both prefer to get to the point.
He leans on the kitchen island as George pulls the kettle off the stove. “Say you’ll fight by my side, tomorrow.”
“You’re powerful. You don’t actually need me.” George says.
“You’re the only person I want there.” Dream replies, and there’s a thousand confessions in his words. George has heard them all.
“I’d be a liability.” He responds, and they both know it’s not true. George would be helpful. He could shift the tides of the war.
“Think about it?” Dream asks, and George nods, the cup pushed to his lips. He will not think about it. He has fought one war by Dream’s side, and he found he didn’t like the smell of blood. It stained, and George didn’t want to bother with cleaning his armor. It was an excuse and he realised it, though. Dream would happily buff George’s armor, the pieces sitting idly in his closet.
“Okay,” Dream breathes, and he leaves his house.
George sleeps in. He does not awake until the war is done, till all the petty battles have been fought. Till Dream knocks on his door and asks him where he’d been. Dream, for all his spontaneity, thrives on predictability. Things he can control. George knows he is probably the only thing that Dream cannot control.
“I was sleeping.” He replies, without a hint of remorse or guilt, and Dream, if he is angry, does not show it. He heads to George’s shower, scrubbing till the grime of war is off of him, and then he pushes George against his kitchen wall and kisses him.
George just smiles against his lips. Ironic, really, that a god fell for an apathetic king.
Tommy, for all his shouting and yelling and impulsiveness, knows a thing or two about war. Silly, that a sixteen year old should know so much about something that was so violent, but Tommy had seen his fair share of violence. Which is why, perhaps, he knew that George didn’t like speaking the language everyone else around him did. George doesn’t like speaking in bloodshed and betrayal. It’s far too nuanced.
Tommy knocks on George’s door, when he knows Dream won't be there, and he asks to come in, George agrees, simply, thinking he already knows where this might be going.
“I won’t fight alongside you.” He says before Tommy even has a chance to speak. “I won’t fight alongside Dream either. So don’t bother asking.” George knows about the doomsday battle, the withers and the fear Dream planned to spread. Destroy L’Manberg, once and for all.
“I wasn’t going to ask you to fight.” Tommy says, and George tilts his head, confused.
“Then?”
Tommy folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t pretend to understand whatever relationship you have with Dream. But I do understand the simple fact that Dream listens to you.” George is surprised. He had never expected such maturity out of Tommy, of all people.
“What do you want me to do, talk to him?” George asks, curious. “I doubt Dream will change his mind.”
“You and I both know that we’ll fight our hardest for L’Manberg, with or without your help.” Tommy says, and George is impressed with his vigor. A shame, really. Poor boy lost his childhood for a few disks. Fire attracts fire, it spreads, and perhaps Tommy is attracted to Dream’s fire. But he’s making a mistake picking a fight with a god. “But we’d like your help. I’d like your help.”
“I can’t promise you anything.” George warns.
“You’re a crooked king, George.” Tommy replies as he turns the doorknob. “This is a crooked kingdom.”
His words echo in George’s mind.
Dream stops by, when the sun has set. “Tomorrow's the day.” He tells George, and George can’t say he dislikes the excitement in his voice. Perhaps, that’s what George is attracted to, passion.
“You once said you would burn the world for me.” George says offhandedly.
“I would.” Dream replies. Despite the implications, his tone does not waver.
“Would you save it for me?” he asks, then, and Dream pauses. George can see his Adam's apple bob as he considers it, then he looks up.
“Destruction is far easier than creation.” Dream says. “But yes, I’d save the world for you. On one condition.”
“What?” George purses his lips.
“You tell me what you really think of me. Whether you love me or not.” The glint in Dream’s eyes is a little feral. He wants the answer badly. George walks around the furniture placed in his house and puts his hands on Dream’s jaw, his neck. He smashes his lips to Dream’s, running his hands through his hair.
“Is that answer enough?” He breathes, the tension thick between them. He knows it's not. They both know it’s not. (Blue fire, burns, scars. George, for all his fire, can’t seem to muster up the courage to say a few measly words.)
He knows he doesn’t have to mean the words. He could lie and save an entire country. He closes his eyes and he sees the desperation on Tommy’s face.
Dream thrives on having control, power. George fears the minute he admits whatever it is he feels for him, he’ll have nothing to chase anymore. Dream will have control over George, and perhaps that’s not enough to keep him interested.
If someone asks him, the disgust evident on their face, why he even associates with Dream, he’ll give them a different answer every time. He likes his passion. He likes the sex.
Really, he likes the moments in between, when he takes to dream about the things he actually cares about, when Dream looks at him as though he holds the entire world in his eyes. He trades an entire country for the feeling. When he wakes up, Dream’s freckled skin practically glowing in the sunlight that casts rays through his window?
It’s perhaps too perfect, the fact he doesn’t care.