Work Text:
It had become mind-numbing for George, watching as his closest friend wasted away behind obsidian walls. Deservingly so, yet increasingly painful.
Little did he know, however, the man in the prison was not Dream. Dream was in a prison of his own, forced down in his thoughts by a demon so possessive that it had taken part of his name: The Dreamon. Or, at least he was addressed as such.
It was a briskly cold Tuesday when Sam had alerted the members of their surrounding nations of the cataclysm of events that had unfolded.
Sam ordered an official meeting of all global leaders, making a formal announcement. It went as follows:
---
I am sure you are all wondering why I have called all of you for attention. Usually, I myself would be baffled that I would have to do such a thing. I come, however, bearing news. A fortnight ago, Sir Sapnap of Kinoko Kingdom and Lord Tubbo of Snowchester had visited the prison together, rambling on and on about some sort of demonic creature. I only caught small fragments of what they were speaking on, not wanting to intrude on their conversations.
This morning, however, they had returned to Pandora’s Vault. Both Lords had followed necessary safety and legal requirements, thus rendering them capable to visit Dream. Only a few moments into their visit, however, I was hastily called into the prisoner’s cell by the two men. Before going any further, I feel the need to preface: both of my Lordships have given me permission to share this information.
Anyhow, I entered the cell to find a bare and pale-looking Dream. He was barely clothed, only a stained and ripped white toga covering a frail and unearthly looking body. What was perhaps more threatening, however, was his usual white porcelain mask laying on the floor. Unlike usual, however, it was jet black. The smiley face usually apparent was now replaced by a frown.
Out of curiosity (and concern for the prisoner, of course- after all, our primary priority is his well-being) I picked up the mask, only to find an inscription written on the inside of the mask in unworldly golden ink. The text read “You Have Won. - Dreamon (Kakó).”
Naturally, I was panic-stricken. I turned to Sapnap and Tubbo, only to find my level of fear in them expressed to the same degree as glee. I shot them a confused look, and Sapnap, thank God almighty, spoke up.
“We did it,” he spoke. “We killed the Dreamon. Dream is himself once again.”
I find it necessary to tell you all this, not only because you deserve to know, but because I will officially be releasing Dream from the prison.
He has not spoken since before his usual state. If there is even a minor security issue following this very moment, I will not hesitate to force him back into confinement.
Sapnap has designated that King George of Kinoko Kingdom be responsible for taking care of Dream. Shall he decline, however, other arrangements will have to be made.
Thank you all for listening. I, Sam, as Warden, vow to protect and demonstrate honor regardless of my own morals. I hope you shall all do the same.
---
Without hesitation, George agreed to take care of Dream.
This is how he now, Wednesday afternoon, was left sitting in silence across from a mute and panicked-looking Dream in the comforts of his Mushroom Cottage in Kinoko Kingdom.
Out of concern for his friend's decency, George had ordered Karl to commission a seamstress to craft Dream a new and familiar outfit. He was now wearing a white poet blouse and red slacks, crafted only of the finest amanita mushroom threads George had access to. George had ordered his servants to spare no expense, wanting to bring his friend as much comfort as possible.
Dream, however, still did not speak. In fact, he wouldn’t even meet George’s gaze. His head was down and hidden.
It was strange, really; George wasn’t exactly surprised that Dream was not responsible for his evil deeds, always suspecting he was more morally sound than others had let on, but more so shocked that people were so quick to pardon Dream.
He wasn’t exactly complaining, however. If his friend was good, and his friend was back, he held no grievances.
George stared at his blond companion, who was sitting feet away from him, arms hugging his legs. He looked like a lion cub, large and gold by look but small and vulnerable at heart. Slowly, not wanting to frighten the man, George walked towards the boy. He made sure to keep his steps light, careful not to incidentally create any unnecessarily loud or abrupt noises.
He was now only a foot away from Dream. George sunk down to the floor, sitting on his knees to meet Dream at the same level. At this, Dream finally looked up. George had to bite back an exhale; Dream’s eyes were watery and blood-stricken, and it looked as if he hadn’t rested in days. His face was riddled with small nicks and bruises. His nose was bleeding, however nearly all of it had dried above his lip. He looked like he was wasting away. Still, however, Dream did not speak.
George stared at the boy, afraid to accidentally scare him. Slowly, George raised a hand a couple of inches in front of Dream’s face.
“Can I touch you?” he asked tentatively, voice barely above a whisper.
Dream nodded, almost unnoticeable, unless you knew him. Thankfully, George did.
Slowly, George let his thumb graze gently below Dream’s nose, trying to remove whatever remains of blood he could without applying any pressure. Thankfully, Dream did not move away. He simply stood still, breath so quiet and stagnant that it was nearly inaudible. George, however, could hear his own heart thundering through his ears. The last thing George wanted to do was hurt Dream, but it looked like Dream had already come to him in vain.
“Is this okay?” George whispered quietly, pulling his hand away.
Dream half-nodded once again. Almost instantaneously, the area around where George had touched was returning to its usual tan and golden color.
“Did I cause that?” George asked, gesturing towards the returning blush and orange shades in Dream’s skin. A nod . “Is that okay?” Another nod .
George’s breath hitched as Dream leaned his face closer to George. George raised an eyebrow in concern. “Do you want me to touch the rest of your face?” George asked, internally praying that that was what Dream was hinting at. Nod . Thus, George did so.
He let his finger drag lightly over each corner and line of Dream’s face, careful not to linger in a certain area. Like a needle holding a golden thread, every area George touched turned aurelian. George tried not to acknowledge the feeling of aurous fire in his chest as he grazed over Dream’s sharp and prominent features.
Finally, George pulled his hands away.
Dream’s face had now returned to its usual luminosity, skin pigmented and eyes auric. He looked just as beautiful as he used to, before evil had corrupted his soul. He was pure. He was entirely and sickeningly Dream .
What George realized finally, however, pushed him to sharply exhale.
Instead of a tight-lipped frown on Dream’s face was an ear-to-ear grin, teeth blindingly white and smile charmingly lop-sided.
Then, he spoke.
“Thank you, Georgie.”
George turned sharply at the sound, incredibly startled. Dream’s voice was nothing short of honey-like: deep, warm, and wild.
George couldn’t help but smile. Not only had Dream returned, but his Dream had returned. The golden-haired, golden-eyed, golden-hearted man who he had known for years, but lost for months. George mentally cursed the evil being that had kept Dream from George for so long.
“For what?” George asked, unsure of what exactly he had done. He wasn’t the one who had saved Dream; that was Sapnap and Tubbo. Yet, Dream was looking at him with such earnestness and gratitude in his eyes that it might’ve as well been him.
Dream smiled, shaking his head. George took mental notice at the way his gilden hair tantalizingly fell onto his head as he did so.
“There is so much you do not know. I have so much to tell you.”
George still wasn’t used to the sheer beauty of his voice.
“Then, go ahead,” George suggested, smiling.
Instead, Dream seemed to pull out a letter from his red pants pocket. George took a peek at it, noticing the forest green parchment and unworldly golden ink. Dream smile seemed almost nervous as he handed George the letter. And thus, George read.
---
Dream.
He is known to many as a friend. Or, perhaps, to some, an enemy. To Us, however, he is a deity. Almighty, Dream is the King of Kings. Each cell of his body was crafted individually, piece by piece, by Hephaestus. Each celestial sphere in his irises were formed by Orion.
Dream was sent down to be, live, and absorb mortality. In doing so, however, there was an adverse effect. The good of mortality was centralized as Dream. The bad, however, materialized as Kakó. The mortals have coined Kakó, the vessel of Evil, as “Dreamon.” The universe condemns this name; Do not dirty the name of Dream with such heathenism.
You mortals have defeated Kakó. The Gods offer you ever the most Gratitude. Your love has been reborn so strong that it can defeat immortality.
Love is one of the few things uncontrollable to divinity. The Universe loves, because you are love. I love you, because you are love. Dream is the vessel of love and mortality, and is yet immortal all the same.
If you are the one he has chosen to give this scribe to, you are love.
Dream loves you because you are love.
Your touch brings pietism and devotedness. Your touch brings color and pigmentation. Your love is what makes Dream himself. Your love is Dream, and Dream’s love is you.
Who We are is unimportant. The universe is unimportant. Dream is the metempsychosis of Helios. Dream is a child of the sun. Dream is warmth and he is aubade.
Dream has told us about you, when he was trapped. He sang of a boy in blue, eyes hidden and heart difficult to splinter. Thank you for taking care of Dream for Us.
Thank you, George. Like Selene, you are the moon.
Helios thanks you.
The Universe loves you. You are love.
---
George looked up to Dream with wide eyes. He hadn’t even realized he was tearing up until a cold morsel dripped down the expanse of his cheek.
“So you are…” George started, words lost off of his tongue as quickly as they arrived.
“Empyrean,” Dream finished, an unreadable look on his face.
This made sense to George, however. Dream had always been perfect. Perfectly beautiful, perfectly ludicrous, perfectly bothersome. Dream was everything and anything, fully intense and fully present.
Dream was the sun.
He was fire, and to George, he burned. He scorched with scintillation, but soohed George all the same. Dream was the sun.
George sat for a moment, trying to fully grasp the contents in the letter. Dream being a God was not surprising. Other words written were, however.
“Is this true, Dream?” George asked, his heart pleading for something , anything.
“Is what true?” the golden boy asked.
George swallowed thickly. “Do you love me?”
At this, Dream chuckled. It was honey and it was sweet. His laugh was eerily and sickly warm. “George, you are my everything. The Universe has told me I am the Sun. I turned to Him and said, ‘I refuse, unless George is the Moon.’ They said you were already my Moon. You are everything and nothing, George. You are coolness and you are beautifully and wholly blue. Of course I love you.”
George was crying. He didn’t want to wipe away his tears, afraid if he closed his eyes, the man would disappear.
George raised his hand up and let it glaze across the face of the man before him. Speckles of gold riddled his fingertips at the touch. He felt real. He was real.
“Dream?”
The blond nodded. There was a stagnant smugness in his smile. It sent waves of familiarity to George of before . Before the demon. Before the imprisonment. Before Dream’s corruption.
“I love you too.”
At this, Dream chuckled and sighed in what sounded like relief. “Jesus Christ,” he said between laughs. “Thank God, or else that would’ve been awkward.”
The two boys’ faces met.
Light met dark.
Sun met moon.
Helios met Selene.
George and Dream were smiling into the kiss, warmth and chilliness molding into a comfortable temperance. Their lips fit comfortably together, as if they had done this before. Something in George’s mind was nagging him to believe that they had.
When the boys pulled away, Dream’s face was flushed. George assumed his was portrayed in a similar fashion.
“You’re an idiot,” George said between giggles, light-heartedly nudging Dream with his shoulder.
“Hey,” Dream retorted, playfully annoyed, “This is a God you’re talking to here.”
George let his laughter dissolve as he studied Dream’s face.
Beautiful .
“I love you, Dream.”
Dream laughed. It sounded aurelian. George giggled deliriously as he leaned his head onto the blond’s shoulder.
“I love you, George, because you are love.”