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There is something absolutely exhilarating about streaming past the ungodly hours of the night in the presence of your most closest friends.
The flutter that forms in your stomach from pure and unfiltered giddiness, trespassing through the deepest depths of your body and landing on that certain spot inside your heart; the spot warm and golden like honey, ethereal like the sun, sweet like fresh berries hanging from the vine. There is something so very invigorating and filled with childlike wonder when you hang out with those you care about most in front of a live audience; filled with mirth, with ecstasy, with wonder and love.
Though, George can’t exactly encompass that much glee when it’s five in the morning and he hasn’t slept in over twenty four hours.
The five of them, Dream, George, Sapnap, Karl, and Quackity, to be exact, all collectively decided to do back-to-back streams in the span of around twelve hours, what not to keep their fans at bay and live up to their “feral boys” title.
George did not realise until just now that he would be the last person to stream on the list, after countless hours of pandering on Jackbox, cheating on chess, and fucking around on Minecraft have passed.
He is exhausted; out on his last limbs, slinking around like a snail and hanging on to a very minimal level of consciousness by a thread.
In short, George is a severely sleep deprived British mess.
George returns from the kitchen after having a glass of water, shuffling as he walks in and almost stumbling and promptly collapsing on his bed; which would more than likely result in him sleeping the stream away.
Slinking his way across the darkness of his room, just as the early morning sun is peeking in through the shades and illuminating the bedroom in speckles and flashes of yellow light, George approaches his PC and shakes the mouse gently to lure it out of its hibernating session.
He takes a seat in the plush comfort of his gamer chair and subconsciously leans in its soft touch on his back and sides. Massaging his temples with two hands, George attempts to knock the sleep out of him to no avail.
As George sits himself down and props his arms on the desk, leaning his head on one of his hands, he realises that he will most definitely fall asleep in this position.
So instead, he favors kicking his legs up and resting the bottoms of his feet on the chair, exposing his knees and quite a bit of his thighs above the wooden surface. It’s comfortable, effective, and won’t make him fall asleep. George nods to himself, content.
His monitors eventually power up and he is greeted by all of his friends already in the voice chat on discord, awaiting his arrival and the start of the stream. George hovers his hand over the mouse to join the call but hesitates.
There is something ready and relentless nagging him in the back of his mind that something is not quite right. George does a once-over of all the necessary functions to start his stream: they’re all intact and ready to go. His mic is working, face-cam adjusted, friends ready, and himself tired but prepared all the same.
What could be the issue?
George shrugs, decides nothing of it, and clicks his mouse a few times to join the voice call. He is greeted by a plethora of giddy greetings and light jabs, and George feels an involuntary smile creep up on his face, raising the corners of his lips in a small grin.
Sure, he may be completely and utterly exhausted, but even just hearing the voices of his friends brightens up his day.
(Especially one voice in particular, but George tends to ignore that intrusive thought.)
Fiddling with a few more functions and tidbits, George sets up the beginnings of his stream whilst his friends mess around in voice call.
Eventually, George is able to flex his fingers together and smile sleepily, more than ready to start streaming. “You guys ready?” he asks, tone laced with drowsiness, but it’s commonplace at this point. He fiddles around a bit more with his mouse and keyboard, just to be 100% sure he is ready.
(Though, the little voice telling him he is, in fact, not prepared at all, doesn’t seem to be giving him any sort of justice.)
After various hums of affirmation, George starts up stream. He deafens himself in Discord for the time being and goes live.
It’s almost like second nature at this point, just how easily George can morph from his current facade of sleep deprived, anxious Brit to his online persona of GeorgeNotFound; of memes and lighthearted conversations with his best friends to entertain the audience.
He easily falls into that demeanour, talking to his fans, the chat, and his friends all the same. It lights him up, burns a fire inside of his body and ignites his spirits; he suddenly feels more awake and active, ready to entertain.
“Hello, yes hello stream!” he greets, waving frantically in front of the camera. In the midst of all his excitement, he pulls his legs up a little more, tucking his knees right below his head and resting his arms on them, crossed, after he sends his salutations to the Twitch chat.
Because of his posture, the fans are easily able to recognise that he is wearing the Dream merch hoodie. They spam his chat with questions and comments about the infamous piece of black fabric. George glances over at the expanse of his stream and flushes pink. That must be the reason his conscience was nagging at him.
(News flash: it is not.)
He fidgets nervously in his seat before regaining his composure and nodding, confirming chat's suspicions. "Yes- I am wearing the Dream merch hoodie chat. Anyways…" After easily avoiding the awaited conversation topic like a bullet, George goes off to discuss what they'll be playing for the final stream of the night: Fall Guys.
George undeafens from the voice chat and promptly starts the stream.
Almost immediately, George manages to feel that absolute invigorating feeling inside of his chest that was stated prior; it only grows larger as the game goes on and his friends get more excited and in focus. Something warm and lovely rushes its way up his chest and beats to the rhythm of his heart in perfect sync. It's so comfortable, so calm, that George is able to loosen up a little bit; intentions on winning the current round set it stone and content with the atmosphere of it all.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, so subtle that you had to have your attention stoked and ready at George’s face cam in the bottom of the screen, George shifts.
It was in response to a rather tense parkour race in the semi-finals of the game. He tucks his legs a little further under his chin for a split second, biting his lip and darting his eyes back and forth across the screen in concentration.
The flash of pale, porcelain white and soft skin of his exposed thighs appears just above the cut of the camera. It disappears just as fast as it had appeared, slipping underneath the focal point of view and reverting back to that personal bubble; the subspace in which it is meant to be seen by George and George only. Chat sees it and goes berserk in response.
did ya’ll see that?
was that- SKINNNNNN
guys chill
thigh reveal THIGH REVEAL??
oH OK I SEE U GOGY
<33
George is too busy keeping his attention set on the rather difficult parkour in front of his computer than the chat. He presses his lips into a thin line as he traverses the obstacles, choosing to ignore the offhand comments from the other members of the call.
However, something drifts his surveillance away for a moment. A sharp intake of breath, covered up by a dry cough, echoes in his headset. One glance to his second monitor shows Dream’s discord profile icon lighting up in a pale green.
Huh.
Rolling his shoulders backwards, George fiddles with the keys on his keyboard more in an attempt to become a qualifier for the final competition. The clicking of his mouth and tapping of his keys try but utterly fail to keep him from questioning the rather odd response towards whatever may have just happened.
The stream passes by a little quicker afterwards, with George, Sapnap, and Karl all making it to the finals and battling so dramatically it could be considered they were reenacting something to fit the vibe of “Duel of the Fates.” It’s really all just for show, anyways.
Eventually the round ends, with Karl surprisingly coming out on top. He doesn’t forget to rub it in everyone else’s faces, earning some muffled groans and light insults. Dream remains painfully silent, and George would be a fool not to catch that change of personality from him.
There is some downtime before the next round starts. His friends all divulge into random conversations about everything and nothing at all. George tries to tune into one, but his brain is moving at a turtle’s pace in relation to how fast everyone is talking.
Stretching, George relaxes ever so slightly to relieve some of the tension in his muscles, going lax against his chair and kicking his legs up modestly.
The reactions are instantaneous, incomprehensible, and increase tenfold.
It’s slightly funny, honestly, just how much people manage to freak out over the slightest of things. There are a lot of common ideals and factors in the world. Cars speeding down on a highway, public gatherings in the dead of the night, phones and other electrical devices dying at the worst of times, and human skin being exposed for others to see.
However chat, and now the entire group call, teasing remarks and all, cannot seem to get over how flashes of pale complexion meshed with the black hoodie flicker across the screen for the slightest few of frames, shimmering in the early morning sunlight pooling in from behind and shadowing from the positions of expanses of furniture and other knick knacks organised across the room.
Various comments from his friends shoot out in the multiples, stinging George’s ears, and eventually, his dignity for finally realising what had been so off putting from the beginning of the stream: he never changed from his bed shorts, arguably the most revealing pair of bottoms he owns, showing off his legs and the expanse of his thighs.
And now the entire stream had caught a glimpse of the sight too. Twice.
“George,” he heard from the voice chat, and oh, of course Quackity was going to say something that overpowers everyone else, “what the hell did you just show stream?”
George just bows his head and forces an innocent smile on his face, pretending nothing is wrong as his friends bash him left and right, along with chat collectively all freaking out and simultaneously getting something trending on Twitter.
One voice in particular breathes heavily into his mic, sighing at the occasional risque yet joking comment from someone else in the call, and scoffing whenever a donation pops up addressing the incidents. George sits there all the while, confused and slightly concerned.
“This is bullshit,” he is able to make out from the multitude of voices keening over at various pitch and tone levels. The most quiet and reserved makes its way into George’s ears and he perks up at it similar to a wary cat. No one else seemed to have heard it, not even chat.
“Absolutely fucking bullshit,” it continues, louder and packed to the brim with an indescribable emotion. The others more than likely heard that now, what with how everyone immediately stopped speaking in favor of questioning Dream.
Dream, who is now slamming his fists on the desk in frustration. Dream, who inwardly groans at whatever has gotten him so bothered and worked up Dream, who mumbles a curt, “I need a break,” ignoring any and all protests and inquiries he receives
Dream, who leaves the call directly after. The short melody that plays in George’s ears haunts him. The call waits with bated breath and shocked silence. George feels like he's on fire.
Looking for an excuse to leave and interrogate an explanation out of the blond, George drags his eyes over to check the uptime on the stream.
Thirty minutes and forty six- no, seven, seconds. Doable enough.
He parts his mouth to address chat, who is still sending messages; wild like a boar and rampant and fast like a scorching wildfire. George internally flinches at the damage dealt.
“So so sorry, stream. But it is late here and I am very tired. Thank you for tuning in! Bye now, bye!”
George manages to press the hotkey to end stream before chat gets a winning chance at expressing their disagreement. Ignoring the plethora of accusations and mocking reflected in the group chat, George leaves that call too.
He navigates his cursor over to the private chat between him and Dream, and automatically clicks to request a voice call. Dream accepts in a matter of moments.
“Hello?” he says, like a question; sultry voice cracking through George’s headset.
“What was that ?” George asks, incredulously, waiting for Dream to explain himself.
Dream scoffs on the other end, but it’s light. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” George replies, “being like, weird and all.”
There’s a beat, before Dream responds. Almost as if he was hesitant, afraid and vulnerable of what he would reveal.
“I just- I get that it was an accident but, their reactions, hell, even our friend’s reactions! It was all just, irritating, I guess.” his words come out hushed and hurried, like he’s expecting to be interrupted at any minute.
George stares at the black expanse of the Discord call, furrowing his eyebrows, confused. “Can you elaborate, maybe?”
"They just- shouldn't fawn over you like that George. They-they're your fans and friends! And, er, and I-" Dream continues to stumble over his words, forming incoherent sentences and meshes of syllables.
“I just- don't like how they act like that,” he continues, redirecting his words, “like, it feels too intimate y’know? And not in the right way.”
“What’s the right way?” George asks.
Dream falters, breathes in, and speaks: “I guess, how we act? Like, nice and warm to each other. It’s nice. You’re nice.
“And- seeing others act that way over you, sets me off I guess? I don’t know. I- I’m rambling aren’t I? Sorry, sorry, I just-” his facade falls and crumbles , tumbling down the hill of unfiltered truth in the dead of the night on a Discord voice call.
"Dream," George interrupts, putting his hand over his mouth to muffle a yawn. He remains deadpan and relatively bored about this conversation on the outside, but on the inside George is melting; hanging onto every single one of Dream’s words like a limpet and adoring it, "you're jealous, aren't you?"
Incredulous sputtering sounds over Dream's end, along with various stumbling over words and indignant protests. George waits, with droopy eyes and a light heart, as Dream attempts to compose himself.
Eventually, Dream responds. It’s something so small, so soft and delicate, George almost doesn’t catch it. The littlest “maybe,” escapes the blond’s mouth, suffocates George’s ears with a fluttery feeling and soft pools of honey and morning dew. It echoes in his headphones for a good few seconds, and he relishes in the feeling of it; of the fact that he can make Dream react and feel like that .
George laughs, lets in filter through the computer screen before responding. “What was that Dream? I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Shut up,” Dream snaps, though there is no bite in his tone, “you heard what I said.”
George hums noncommittally, and threads his fingers together at his keyboard. He raises his eyebrows, intrigued. "That's cute."
At Dream's surprised spluttering, flusteration evident, George lets out a laugh and lets it ring like church bells. He decides to fuel the flame even more, using up the last of his gas. " You're cute."
At this Dream falls silent, and George panics at first. Worried that he went too far, that he trekked well past the line of romantic and platonic, ruining this jovial moment for the both of them.
All those previous worries dissipate away and dissolve like sand in the ocean tide as Dream responds, small and shy, “You mean that?”
George nods, before realising Dream cannot see him. Instead, he hums his affirmation, resulting in elated sounds of glee to come from the blond. George giggles, happy at his rather childish response.
“I’m glad,” Dream finally murmurs, breathless, “I honestly thought you’d be weirded out with me or something.”
George shakes his head fondly to himself. “I could never be weirded out with you. But, we are gonna talk about this in the morning when I’m not on the verge of passing out.”
Dream wheezes, and it’s just how George remembers. He basks in the domesticity of it all before Dream musters up enough air to respond. “Of course. Good night Georgie. I-I love you.”
Those three words always do a number at George’s heartstrings, tugging them in just the right direction and making him feel just the right emotions. What sort of person would he be if he didn’t allow his loved ones the chance to feel the exact same way, reciprocating the same amount of emotion and passion into his words and phrases?
“Love you too,” George finally murmurs before promptly hanging up and collapsing on his bed in a heap of an exhausted yet giddy mess; satisfaction residing in the inner works of his body and filtering throughout it like an hourglass.
And if that causes a heart to stutter and skip a few beats, a chest to fill with butterflies to the point of overflow, and a face to erupt in shades of pink in contrast to fair, tan skin, from all the way across the ocean; then so be it.