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Dream sits on the floor of the prison, his fingers drumming on the crying obsidian underneath him. It’s a frantic, panicked rhythm. In the beginning, he’d replicate the songs George hummed to him on fair-weather Spring days. He’s long since lost their melody and resorted to making whatever pattern he can to fill the silence. He slumps against the rickety bed frame behind him, his posture terrible from spending his days lying on a material ten times firmer than stone, his limbs stretched out as far as they would go, or sleeping bunched up on an all too cheap mattress and even cheaper frame. He isn't sure which is more uncomfortable.
His clock hangs lazily on the wall, and if he were to hit any of the pieces of the surrounding obsidian, the clock would rock back and forth before falling to the ground with a loud clatter, the batteries sometimes falling out and rolling under his bed and bedside table. It's a fun game for him, seeing how hard he has to hit to get the batteries to escape, and how hard is too hard, causing the clock hands to mess up completely and display the wrong time. It's a fun game for him, albeit a sad one, and a painful one- as it turns out, repeatedly banging the side of your fist on an almost indestructible stone leaves a rather nasty mark after a while. So Dream spins the clock, around and around, quicker and quicker, whenever he can manage to pull himself off of the floor.
There's a scream somewhere in the distance, and Dream sits up quickly and whirls his head towards the large lava wall which separates him from the rest of the prison. The only other time he had heard shouting was the first time Tommy had visited, when he wasn't quite used to the effects of the poison potion. It didn't sound like Tommy, either , Dream thinks as he crawls across the textured obsidian on his hands and knees. He's now close enough to the lava that he can feel the heat radiating off of it, nearly unbearable. He’s used to the heat- the way it covers his skin with red warmth and pinches his nerves with an intense ferocity. He's used to the heat though. He covers himself in the lava sometimes, burning off his fingers, inching closer into the liquid fire until he can't take the pain and submerges himself in it, burning himself to death. He revels in the feeling, delights in how it drowns his senses with searing numbness until he wakes up in that dreaded bed and repeats the cruel cycle. The fire, he reasons, is his only friend. He's definitely used to the heat.
Now he stares into the liquid until he's seeing spots and all he knows is the color orange, waiting for the clicks and whirrs that signify that the lava is lowering. It pulls him in like a fish on a hook. He lets his mind drift, thinking about who could possibly have come to visit him. The name tickles the back of his mind, he knows who it is, recognizes their voice, but can't quite put his finger on it. Perhaps being away from society for so many months has made it harder for him to remember his life, the people he once knew. He wonders how little he will remember in a few years. Maybe remembering nothing would be better than reminiscing about this mistiful past, alluring and constantly evading him. Maybe he should just hope that he forgets his life outside the vault, his life full of freedom, and love. His life with George, and with Fundy. He never did get to apologize to Fundy. He probably never would.
But, then again, the apology probably wouldn't be sincere.
The lava finishes lowering and Dream looks up at the figure moving towards him on the platform. He takes in the messy dark brown- almost black- hair, the slim figure wrapped in a red robe with a large, fluffy collar, the long, pointed ears that twitch back and forth. George. He shuffles along the platform, his arms crossed across his chest and eyes pointed timidly downwards. As he gets closer, Dream can see that he's chewing on his bottom lip, tears welling in his eyes. The platform jerks to a stop and George stumbles, catching himself and finally looking up to meet Dream's gaze. "Dream," he says softly, head tilting to the side and a pitiful gaze strewn across his stunning features, white freckles contrasting the red blush blooming across his cheeks like little stars. Wood nymphs were supposed to be pretty , Dream thinks pointedly, but he had never seen any as beautiful as George. His voice, his face, it’s like a drug. He’s taken back to dark nights on the cliffside, watching the stars, where George would whisper miscellaneous secrets and soft commands.
Dream wants to reply, but he can't seem to find any words. George gently steps off the platform, shaking a bit, and looks back over his shoulder. "Can Sam see us?" he asks, voice barely audible over the dripping sounds of the lava.
"N-no," Dream stutters. "Not when the lava goes back up." George backs up a bit.
"Can he hear us?"
"Uh," Dream says, taken aback. "No. Not unless you scream."
George exhales dramatically, his arms dropping to his sides and his posture straightening considerably. He’s an actor, that’s for sure , Dream thinks passively. "Wow, okay, cool. Why are you on the floor?" His voice is neutral, unbothered. He doesn’t care as much as he should. Does he care at all?
If Dream was confused about George's questions before, he is even more perplexed now. "Well, I'm too tall for the cell. I have to kinda bend my head over- it doesn't feel great." His tone is downplayed. Be strong for him .
George looks up at the ceiling which is just an inch or two above his head and raises his eyebrows, nodding slowly. "True." He squats down beside Dream, making sure to stay a bit above him, and takes his hands in his own. "Dream," he says, and Dream tries not to focus on the way George's voice sounds like wind chimes or how he always emits the same sweet smell of strawberries and wood. "You royally fucked up," he bites, malice coating his words.
Dream recoils and George drops his hands, looking down with an unreadable expression. "Wh-what do you mean?" Dream asks tentatively, already having an idea of what the answer might be.
"We had a plan, Dream," George replies. " MY plan- and it was foolproof, might I say flawless. But you let your pride get in the way, you showed Tommy and Tubbo the vault, which I didn't even ask you to make, wasting valuable time." He’s not yelling, he’s just firm, as a parent to an unruly child. Dream is shaking now, and any hint of empathy in George’s eyes is hidden by the sparks that rise from the lava. He waits for Dream to say something but is met with silence. His voice lowers, gentler this time. "You could've been safe- away from this hellhole." There it is- the honeysuckle and cream that Dream knew too well. It’s sickly sweet, just a bit expired.
Dream averts his eyes, drumming his fingers on the cracked obsidian beneath him. "Did you-" his voice breaks. "Did you just come here to lecture me?"
"No," George giggles. "No, not just that. You know, I have my reasons."
"You do?" Dream asks, cocking his head. George just raises his eyebrows and nods, his mouth a tight line. Dream realizes after a second that he won't be getting a further explanation.
"Well I'm glad you came," he says after a beat, voice in a low whisper. He scoots over to George, sitting up on his knees so that he is at eye level with him. "I miss you. I miss being near you, sitting on the cliff over L'Manburg and watching the sunrise, I miss all the little moments."
George's expression is unreadable, and his eyes dart back and forth across Dream's face. He is breathing deeply, lips slightly parted, moving wordlessly as if he is speaking to a wall. Dream puts a hand up to his pale cheek and George twitches a bit, immediately putting his own gloved hand on top. Dream leans in and George coughs, pushing him away. "Do you have a toothbrush in here?"
"What?" Dream asks, dropping down so that he's sitting crisscross. He bites his tongue - hard - tasting metallic blood and swallowing dryly. "Uh, no. I- no, I don't."
"Yeah," George giggles, "I can tell. I'll talk to Sam, cry at him a bit, see if I can get you one." Dream furrows his brows, ignoring the pang in his chest. He doesn't speak, instead watching as George stands up and adjusts his cape, tugging the fabric away from the lava that threatens to burn it. He looks down at Dream, raising his eyes at the silence. "Aw, did I hurt your feelings? Get over yourself- your breath is gonna stink if you don't have a toothbrush."
"What is wrong with you?" Dream asks, his voice trembling. "What is wrong with you?!" he repeats, voice louder this time.
"What's wrong with ME?" George scoffs, whirling around with a disdainful expression on his face. "You got yourself locked up, you got me indefinitely dethroned, you let your ego get ahead of you and get between us!"
"It's your fault that I'm like this," Dream jabs a finger towards George, standing up to face him. "You had me pretend to be some egotistical power-hungry maniac, you don't get to complain when I do it well."
"Dream, it's not pretend anymore!" George yells then looks over his shoulder at the lava before lowering his voice. "It was always us, and now it's become just you." There's a sadness in his voice, and the sweetness that makes Dream weak at the knees has returned. He swears he can hear bells, although there's nothing in the cell that would make such a sound.
He puts a hand on George's shoulder. The room is completely quiet, save from the bubbling of the lava and the dripping of water from somewhere above them. If Dream listens closely, very closely, he can hear George's breathing too. "I'll get out of here," he says.
"I know," George replies. "I'm good at, uh, persuading people to do things for me. I'll get you out and we can finish what we started."
"Or," Dream teases the idea, "we could run away together. I'm tired of killing people. I'm tired of blowing things up. L'Manburg used to be beautiful, you know. We were beautiful."
George looks up at him, clearly unimpressed. Dream feels his heart sink even before George starts talking. "Maybe you should worry less about developing a romance with me and more about fixing your romance with your literal fiancé."
Dream physically recoils, jerking his hand away from George as if he's been burned. "That was a little... uh... that was a little unnecessarily harsh," he eventually says. Maybe it was true, Dream had given George flowers and taken him on picnics and stayed a little too close to him, keeping it all hidden from Fundy. But George had kissed Dream on his wedding night, George was the one who pushed Fundy away from Dream, George was the one who made it all complicated. Dream knows he fucked up with Fundy. But he wishes George would acknowledge that he did, too.
"Yeah. Whatever," George says, and Dream is pulled out of his thoughts. He sighs and fiddles with the golden chains hanging off his long ears. "I should go. Just needed to get a look around the prison so I can get you out."
"You're," Dream starts, laughter bubbling behind his lips, "you're leaving already? It's been all of five minutes, come on, let's just talk."
"Can't," George deadpans. "I have to somehow get my back, which you were gonna do for me until you got yourself locked up."
"Please," Dream begs, and his hands are running across George's shoulders and up to his cheeks and then through his hair. "Please, please don't leave me. I can't be here alone, Sam's gonna hurt me, he's gonna..." he trails off, not wanting to annoy George further. "Just, please."
"I'm doing more than enough for you. Not only am I getting you out, but I'm also getting you a toothbrush, I'm getting you better food, I'm getting you a blanket. Be grateful. I could just leave you here to rot," he spits. "And get your dirty hands out of my hair!"
Dream doesn't know how to react. He flinches backward, stunned, and drops to the ground. The obsidian is hard and he winces at the contact, rubbing his legs briefly to try and replace the shock running through his bones. George's expression softens and he smiles, "I'm sorry, that was too harsh. I do care about you. I'm doing this because I care about you. If I have power, then you get whatever you want. That's all I want for us. Just, happiness." Dream hates the way his guard lowers almost immediately, how the warning bells in his head are drowned out by flowers and strawberries and sunshine and happiness. "And," his slight smile turns into a full sheepish grin, "you can touch my hair if you want."
With teary eyes and a quivering lip, Dream looks up. "Oh. Okay," he says, not even trying to hide the fondness in his voice. "You still have to go, though, don't you?"
"Yep," George replies. "I have work to do. But I'm proud of you. For accepting that. I’ll be back soon." He says nothing else before pressing the little button on the wall that signals to Sam that he's ready to leave. Dream pretends like he doesn't mind, like there aren't tears trickling down his cheeks as he prepares to go back to living alone. He wants to call out again, to beg him to stay, but more than anything he wants George to be happy with him.
So he stays silent.
When George fans hot air into his eyes and slowly begins to fake tears, he stays silent.
When the lava lowers and Sam looks at George's trembling figure with concern, he stays silent.
When George shuffles away across the lava, he stays silent.
It's only when the lava has finished raising and any trace of George is gone that Dream lets himself break down, crumpling into a ball and letting out a wail. He just wants out of the prison, wants to eat something other than raw potatoes before he dies from scurvy. Wants to touch something other than hard walls and scorching liquid fire. Wants to breathe air that isn't created and recycled by a generator. Wants to love and feel and touch, wants…
No. The thing he wants most has just left. Please don’t go, he wants to whisper, I love you so. Please don’t go, please don’t go. I love you so, I love you so.
He rests against the wall, tilting his head to see the clock loosely rocking. He sighs. The hands turn. A new minute begins.
Another monotonous minute. Another minute without…
No.