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George stood silently, his porcelain chin turned towards the moon, his hands clenched around the hilt of his sword. There was no movement, only the soft rustling of his dark hair differentiated reality from painting. He was waiting, waiting as the hours ticked by and his legs began to tire. It was like this every night; the sun sank into a darkening abyss and his heart sank along with it.
This night was different. He could feel it in the air, the way the breeze caressed his cheek and the crickets stood still. Slight puffs of breath hovered briefly after exhalation, before being sucked back into the twilight. The coarse hairs on the back of his neck vibrated, his eyes snapping open as a small crunch gave away his attacker. The sharp whistle of incoming metal was interrupted by the loud clang of George’s sword. Sparks flew from the collision, providing light for the briefest of seconds, unnoticed as his eyes squeezed shut in concentration.
Blinking them open, George peered into the eyes of his sinful counterpart, falling into the never-ending spiral of gold and green. The colors meshed together as they always had, but they seemed brighter, more vibrant, in those eyes. He shook the colors from his head, refocusing on the logical reality that he excelled at, and repositioned his axe onto his shoulder.
“George,” Dream said, his voice tilting in amused cruelty, “you look well.”
George sneered, his mocking grin masking the pain of seeing his friend for the first time in months. “Hello Dream. Couldn’t stay away?”
“You know I can’t. At least I wasn’t the one waiting.”
George’s sneer turned into a frown, his wits fraying with the truth, and he ended the pleasantries; “why are you here? I thought you were in prison?”
“I escaped,” Dream answered, easily brushing off the deaths of nine guards as if they’d meant nothing, “I had to get back somehow.” George shifted his stance. He remembered a time before this, before his best friend had turned into a perfected machine; when they bragged about tree climbing abilities and ate peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off. When he still cared.
No matter how much time had passed, it still rattled George to see his Dream so cold and calculating, so shaped by circumstance and society that he no longer had a flaw. The only proof of weakness was the thin, jagged scar that stretched from his left eyebrow to his upper lip, pale against the tanned skin dusted with freckles. George had given him that scar.
Seemingly bored of conversation, Dream interrupted his thoughts with a swing of his axe, narrowly missing the top of George’s head. George grimaced, knowing that Dream never intentionally missed, and responded by lifting up his shield and paring with his sword. They continued like that, swing after swing, until George’s breath was a heaving mess in his chest and his weapon dragged across the ground. Suddenly, Dream stopped. He easily dodged the last of the attacks and seated himself cross-legged at the base of the tree.
George stood for a minute more, chasing after a long-lost breath, and then joined the blonde on the ground. Back to the tree, he listened to Dream’s steady breathing, stubbornly not out of place; it left his lips with a quiet puff and then disappeared into the night.
George flinched when he felt a pair of cold fingers intertwine with his own. As much as he knew that he should pull away and retreat back to his friends, the larger part of him refused. He missed Dream so much that it physically pained him, his heart was bleeding and his sleep was interrupted by fits of nightmares. The destruction left in Dream’s wake did nothing to stop these feelings, they simply crushed his soul and made him wish it would end.
He wasn’t sure if Dream knew of the effect he had. He must, otherwise he wouldn’t be holding his hand at midnight, hours after escaping the prison. George’s brain hurt, in constant conflict with what he knew was right and what he knew he felt. Because yes, George was in love.
Dream spoke up, his voice a throaty timber from their brief fight, “Do you remember when it was just us? When it was just me, you, and Sapnap. The world revolved around us then.”
“Sapnap is gone,” George retorted harshly, “and it was your fault.”
Dream flinched, pain flooding into his face, vulnerable for a hidden moment. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. He was my best friend; I didn’t want him to get involved.”
“And yet you let it happen anyways. It doesn’t matter that you weren’t the one to do it, you dragged the chaos to him when all he wanted was to protect you.” George was furious and he ripped his hand from Dream’s, tearing his heart apart in the process.
“I never meant for it to happen,” Dream repeated chokingly, “Techno never stops.”
George felt the anger flood out of him, a short term relief that gave way to even more pain. He knew that he couldn’t attribute all of the destruction solely to Dream, Technoblade’s ever-looming presence had influenced much of Dream’s life after George. Brought up by a rebellious mastermind, Dream followed in the footsteps of his adopted older brother, swayed by Techno’s threats and taunts. What else could he do, George reasoned with himself, Dream’s early life hadn’t been particularly pleasant.
The sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, framed by sage green hills speckled with cornflower blue. He hadn’t realized how long they’d been sitting like this; fingers twined so tightly their knuckles turned white. George looked down, his chocolate eyes memorizing the way their hands fit together, two halves of the same whole roughly sewn back together in a jagged painting.
Dream shifted beside him, lifting his weight from the tree and extending his legs in an attempt to recirculate the blood. He let go of George’s hand, flexing his fingers before seizing his axe once again. Looking back, he tilted his head in acknowledgement, questioning with those evergreen eyes. George nodded, he would always wait. He would always be under their tree, under their stars, waiting for him. For his Dream.
Standing up, George reached for the ragged clay mask nestled in Dream’s blonde hair. Tugging it gently over Dream’s face, he watched the tortured grimace of his best friend freeze into a static smile. Brushing a pale thumb over the blonde’s cutting jaw, he stepped back, increasing the distance.
No more words were spoken, they didn’t dare. A single goodbye had the potential to cause more pain than aid and had previously led to heartbroken tears of isolation. Now, they accepted their separate fates, always intertwined but never together. Dream looked back one more time, internalizing George’s features and the way his eyes glowed with hurt, and disappeared into the trees.