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Warm sunlight shines down from the skies, filtered by the thick foliage of the forest’s trees. A breeze blows past, warm and soft and smelling of sweet flora. It’s a rare day on the SMP when he is alone, with no one but himself and his thoughts. George tilts his head back, allowing the light to warm his pale skin. It’s nice out here, listening to the songs that the birds sing and the gentle rustle of leaves brushing together. He sighs, hands brushing against the soft grass, relieved at the lack of clunky armor on his body. The only thing he had brought along was his sword, purple sparkling netherite glimmering at the edges of his vision.
Distantly, he wishes that all days were like this. That all days lacked the tense conflict that always seemed to appear, whether it was Tommy and his discs or Sapnap and his pet murdering tendencies, or even Skeppy and Bad’s arguments that always, somehow, ended in them splitting up for a few days. He almost smiles at the thought — most of the discourse between the two is funny, if anything.
It’s nice here, in the forest, peaceful. He likes it.
Unfortunately, no one else seems to share the same opinion.
The panicked cry that splits through the air like a bolt of lightning makes him jolt, the hairs on his arms raising. He turns his head, seeing the familiar flash of pink hair stark against the dark green of the forest, and instantly recognizes it as Niki. Which is odd, considering how they’ve never been the closest of friends — especially with the conflict between their two respective factions — so a visit from her, especially on a day where he’s alone, is enough to make his stomach curl with consternation.
“George!” She cries, and the urgency dripping from her tone is enough to make him scramble to his feet and turn around, alarm spiking on his skin.
“Niki?” He breathes, eyes widening when she grabs his arm in a vice-like grip, nails digging into his skin. “What — Niki, what’s going on?”
“It’s Dream,” she says, through heavy breaths, and motions back from where she came. “He’s… Tubbo didn’t get rid of it when he and Fundy… Sapnap is trying to… he’s trying to hold him off.”
George blinks. Oh. Oh. “He’s… is it the..?” He asks, and Niki only has to nod to make the color drain from his cheeks. He mutters a curse under his breath, grabbing the sword he had set down on the grass and slipping it back to the sheath at his belt. “Stay here, I’ll go help Sapnap, okay?”
“Okay,” Niki nods, her eyes bright with concern, “be safe, George.”
“Don’t worry about me.” He says in return, and takes off running.
He gets there after what feels like hours of nonstop sprinting, following the sound of trees crashing and splintering bark. The sound of strained grunts reaches his ears shortly after as he pushes through the forest undergrowth and — oh God.
The destruction that greets him is… terrifying. There are felled trees looking as if they had been toppled over by giants themselves, whilst the grasses have been torn out of their roots to reveal the dark dirt underneath. He can hear the clash of metal on metal, the strained grunt of exertion, and he only has to look around a little to catch sight of them. They’re fighting, enchanted netherite armor reflecting the bright sunlight from above, sweat glistening on their skin and eyes alight with determination. He comes to a halt, breaths heavy, trying to get air back into his lungs enough so he can handle the situation — and prays that Sapnap can hold the blond off for just a little longer.
Sapnap just barely manages to throw up his shield in time for the blade of Dream’s axe to embed itself into the wood, the material splintering under the sheer force of the swing. Dream laughs — sounding so unlike himself that George has to push down the urge to flinch, and tears his weapon out of the wood effortlessly, throwing his body weight into the shield and observing in triumph as Sapnap stumbles, back hitting the floor. One booted foot slams down on his opponent’s wrist, a grin that is borderline maniacal curling his lips. Sapnap cries out, and George swears he hears the crunch of bone as Dream grinds his foot down. Sapnap’s weapon finds its way into Dream’s hands, and with one smooth movement the blade of Dream’s netherite axe is pressing into the skin of his younger friend’s neck. Scarlet blood beads at the edges.
“You’re not Dream,” Sapnap bites out, voice raspy. “You’re not my friend.”
He — it — grins ever wider, humming almost thoughtfully. “No,” it says, after a moment, and the tone makes shivers crawl up George’s spine, “I suppose you could say I’m not. It’s always nice to get a breath of fresh air every now and then though, isn’t it? My host is rather… persistent, I’d say.” And when Sapnap growls, low in his throat, it only laughs. “You put up a good fight, though. I wonder if I should let you go or just kill you again, once you come back.”
George swallows, forcing himself to move despite the visceral fear that is gripping his limbs. His tongue feels heavy, but he takes a deep breath and speaks. “Dream.”
It stills, and says nothing. The only sign that it’s heard is the way it’s grin dies, lips flattening into a thin line. It’s back is turned to him, enough so that he can see the orange gleam of Sapnap’s eyes flickering towards him for a split second before they dart back to the emotionless mask of someone who is — was? — their friend.
He takes a step forward, grass flattening under his feet, and tries again. “Dream. This isn’t — you’re not him.”
“Arguable,” it says, simply.
George takes a breath, and moves closer. It turns to him then, white mask pale in the sunlight, jaw clenched and the hand on it’s axe curling tighter, almost imperceptibly, the knuckles whitening at the action. “I know you’re there, Dream,” he says, softly, “talk to me.”
“Go away,” it hisses, and steps back. He can hear the sigh of relief from Sapnap as the boot lifts off his wrist and the blade of the axe retracts. Sapnap crawls away, dragging his shield — or what remains of it — with him. George ignores the wary glance his younger friend shoots at him, orange eyes brimming with concern. He can handle this. Dream looks at him, emotionless, and he takes another few steps forward. “Go away. I will kill you.” It threatens, stepping back.
“You won’t,” He shakes his head, smiling wryly, “You would’ve done it already, if that were the case.”
“You don’t know that,” Dream says. It takes another step back, and George follows. “You don’t know anything — you never know anything. You’re stupid, George. An idiot. You ignore everything that happens and acts like it’s fine when it’s not, all you care about is yourself.” The words spill from the other’s lips fast, dripping with venom and anger and contempt that sends needles plunging into his heart and makes him falter. Dream is right — and it hurts. It hurts a lot. He swallows. The lump in his throat doesn’t budge. It snarls out, “I hate you.”
It’s not Dream anymore.
“You don’t,” he murmurs, resisting the urge to smile when Dream’s back bumps into one of the few trees left miraculously standing. It freezes, the hand around its weapon tightening, stuck in place. “Most of it true — what you said about me — but you don’t hate me.”
“I do,“ it snaps, armor scraping against rough bark, “I do, we do. Go away. Don’t touch me.”
Strangely enough, despite it’s harsh words, it doesn’t do much when George’s fingers press against the smooth material of it’s mask — Dream’s mask, running over the solid material gently. It’s breaths still as George leans closer, slipping off the green hood to reveal dirty blond hair underneath. The leather strap holding the mask tight on his head is rough under the pads of his fingers, and George gently, slowly, pries the mask away from Dream’s face. He’s met with two glimmering pools of forest green and emerald, bright with something that’s so inherently human that George can’t help but smile. He’s still there — Dream is still there, somewhere, even if it claims that he’s not.
“Stop,” it says, voice low and raspy and guttural. It sounds scared, apprehensive. Less like the Dreamon and more like Dream. “Stop it, go away.”
“I won’t,” he says quietly, letting the mask clatter to the ground with a muffled thud. “Not until he comes back to me.”
Dream’s skin is soft in his hands when George cups his cheeks, stomach fluttering when Dream unconsciously leans into the touch, tilting his head into the warm palms. His eyelids fall shut, long golden lashes brushing against pink dusted cheekbones. It doesn’t fight him, it won’t fight him. It never has, and never will, even now when George has it trapped like this. He knows Dream is in there somewhere, fighting for control, surfacing for a few moments only to be dragged deeper and deeper into his subconscious by the Dreamon inside. The way he’s leaned into his touch, the way a gentle sigh slips from between his lips, the way his muscles have relaxed and he isn’t pressing against the tree anymore — everything about it screams DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM like a thousand wailing alarms in his head.
Dream is inside, fighting the hooks of control that drag him down.
The only thing George needs to do now is reach in and pull him up.
“Hey,” he says, softly, “hey, it’s me. You know it’s me, I’m here.” And the Dreamon is there again, squeezing it’s eyes shut, trying to lean away, trying to fight, but George holds it’s head still. “Dream.”
A low, angry growl in the back of it’s throat is the only response he gets in return. George shakes his head a little, sighing and inhaling the scent of warm oak with the subtle, underlying sweetness of summer flowers. It’s the smell of Dream. It’s the smell of home.
The Dreamon, surprisingly, does not react when George tilts his head up, leaning closer and closer, slowly, breaths soft. He can feel Dream’s gentle puffs of air against his lips, soft, trembling breaths that almost makes him feel sorry for this. But he doesn’t feel sorry, the only thing on his mind now is getting Dream back.
And so when he presses their lips together and Dream doesn’t resist, the only thing he feels is satisfaction. It’s always the same — kissing Dream — with his soft lips that taste of sweet strawberries and chocolate. A tingling warmth spreads throughout him, starting from his chest and reaching further, seeping down to the tips of his fingers and making him feel as if he’s going to burn from the inside out.
He barely even notices when Dream’s axe makes a thud on the ground as it’s dropped, simply pressing closer, their lips moving and fitting together in a way that’s almost addicting. Dream’s kisses are like drugs, sweet and intoxicating, never failing to leave him wanting more. And Dream is pressing back now, hands settling onto the curve of his hips and pulling him close, leaving no space in between their bodies.
The short breath of air he allows himself to take, pulling back from Dream’s addictive lips, is only long enough for him to let out a tender whisper of “Oh, Dream, ” that reeks of sympathy and fondness and understanding. Dream is crying too, hot salty tears rolling down his freckled cheeks and making the stars in his eyes even more prominent against the kaleidoscope of greens.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fingers digging into the soft blue of the other’s hoodie and lips brushing just barely against his as he speaks, “I’m sorry, I didn’t... I was trying I swear but it—”
“I know,” George soothes, pressing their lips together again for a short moment before pulling back to run his fingers through blond hair, “I know, I know, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re with me,” Dream presses his face in George’s neck, inhaling shakily, and something in George’s heart cracks a little more at just how vulnerable he is now, so unlike the emotionless, commanding Dream that faced off against L’manberg — unlike the sly, cunning Dream that he faces during manhunts.
“I’m sorry,” Dream mutters again, wet tears soaking into the material of George’s shirt. He doesn’t mind, instead whispering soothing nothings into the former’s ears and threading his fingers into the dull colored strands that he’s run his hands through so many times before. “I’m sorry George. I’m sorry. I love you. I don’t hate you, I don’t.” George laughs lightly, hoping the other doesn’t notice the crack that pitches his voice up because as much as he knew it wasn’t true it still hurt — hearing those harsh words from Dream. Dream sniffles, arms tightening around him and repeating again, “I’m sorry, George.”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs gently, “it’s okay. I understand, love. I love you, too, you know that? I’ll never stop loving you, even if that shithead Dreamon takes you again and again and again, I’ll be here, bringing you back.”
Dream gives a watery, muffled laugh before falling silent again. His tears have calmed now, and so they stand there, holding each other tight. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he whispers. Dream nuzzles deeper into his neck, sighing softly, and George’s heart bursts with warmth and love so strong that he’s certain the Dreamon, even with all it’s loathing and anger, will never be able to take this from him. It’ll never be able to take Dream from him, because he’ll always be here to prevent it from ever fully taking control, even if he gets hurt in the process.
In the end, it’s worth it.
Dream is worth it.
This — these moments spent with him drowning in Dream’s smell and melting in the burning warmth that his simple touches bring; these are worth it.
George would sooner die before giving this up.