Chapter Text
George was late to class yet again; It was his third time this week and while the professor didn't care (she would be paid either way), George was starting to gather some attention. Going to class was something he was usually stringent about, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere; His shoes were damp with muddy road water and his bag half open with books haphazardly jumbled from his frantic run out the door.
He bowed his head and shuffled toward his seat in embarrassment only to be greeted by the unsavory sight of an 85 for yesterday's coding assignment; most people would not mind, but George had always held himself to a higher standard. He slumped down in his chair and Bad, his roommate, turned to him with a sidelong look of concern. George shrugged him off to signal now was not the time.
The hours ticked by ever so slowly and George found himself sink back into his normal routine. Sit, study, smile, stand, walk, sit, study, wave, walk, sit, study... It was repetitive, but the certainty was comforting. No surprises and nothing unexpected.
At around 12:45, he, Bad, and Skeppy made their way to the dining hall; most of the food was tasteless at best, but the salad bar was exceptional so the trio had fallen into a routine of consuming an alarming amount of lettuce, tomatoes, and Italian dressing nearly every day. Beside the mild constipation, the only drawback was the next table over housed the football team that joined every day after morning practice. Gross, sweaty, and hungry, they were a rowdy bunch with the habit of making a mess and cared little for the comfort of surrounding tables. George grimaced at the partially chewed food in their open mouths as they roughed each other up; he could never understand their energy after running laps and doing drills all morning—it would be impressive if they weren't so unpleasant.
"What the fuck?! Where do you think you're going!"
George turned to see an unfortunate freshman cower under the looming shadow of Schlatt, one of the teammates. Under closer examination, George saw both their shoes were buried under a heap of the slimy mashed potatoes—who would even eat those? Schlatt grabbed the scrawny kid by the collar with ease, talking too low and quiet for the rest to hear.
The freshman must have said something wrong because Schlatt roared in anger, "You wanna go? You wanna go you little bitch? I'll wipe that stupid look off your face you won't be so confident when I break your fucking nose!" The hall was filled with nervous looks as people shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but nobody wanted to risk intervention that would get them blacklisted by the football team.
George averted his gaze as Schlatt pulled back for the first swing, but it never came; through the corner of his eye he saw another player holding him back but only caught a few words "Come on man, it's not worth it, do you really wanna get reported again?"..."Coach is gonna be pissed if you can't play the game on Friday." Another one of the players seemed to be tugging on the guy's arm to back off, but he kept going, "How is this setting a good example for our team? We're all gonna get penalized if you start another fight because you can't handle some mashed potatoes." Schlatt threw the freshman to the ground and George heard his fist connect with the guy's face with a sickening crunch. "Holy mother of...Fuck!" The guy's nose was gushing blood that spilled out on the front of his white tee from the hands holding his face. The player previously holding him back rushed forward to examine the damage, and Schlatt left the hall while the freshman apologized profusely.
"Fuck man I have a test in 10 minutes it's worth 30 percent of my grade." What was presumably the guy's friend, was looking around frantically as he stuffed more napkins under the relentless flow of blood.
"Sap it's fine, just-just go to class I can make it to the nurse just fine on my own. Don't worry about me, you need to pass your test."
George watched anxiously as blood began to pool on the stone tiles beneath. He knew he should mind his own business, but couldn't look away.
"Clay I heard something snap! Just look at you, you're getting pale!" What Sap said was true. Clay was not looking too well; George was too far to tell, but he knew if he were closer, the man's eyes would be hazy. Sap turned around frantically and made eye contact with George, who felt he had seen him somewhere. "Hey George! George! Can you take him? Please I promise I'll make it up to you. I can let you copy my homework or something, can you take him?"
Looking at Sap's coffee eyes and white headband, it clicked; Sapnap was in his evening software development class. "Uh sure but I don't nee—"
"Great! Thank you so much and make sure he doesn't make too much of a mess. I can pay for your dry cleaning too!"
Sapnap was out the door and gone before George could tell him he didn't need any work to copy.
"Uh thanks but you don't need to, if he asks I can vouch for you" George turned to face Clay and saw that his earlier prediction was correct. His face was pale and his eyes seemed unfocused.
"No-no it's fine I'll take you," George assured. Clay was significantly taller and though lean, much more muscular. If this man were to faint, George did not trust himself to catch, let-alone drag him to the infirmary.
"I know I'm hot and all, but uh maybe check me out later?" Clay chuckled. It was obviously a joke, but George felt his face heat up anyways.
"I wasn't checking you out, you're just big." The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted it. Clay nearly doubled over with laughter. "Oh my god, I didn't- I didn't mean it like that I just meant you’d crush me." This made Clay laugh even more, wheezing so much that George worried the man couldn't breath. "Oh god just come on before you faint."
Clay looked up at George with a wide, toothy smile that would definitely have girls swooning—if his teeth weren't covered in blood; George grimaced and took his arm. "Oh come on now, you have to admit you dug that yourself," Clay was still shaking with laughter as George snatched up some more napkins and gave Bad a 'go ahead' look on their way out.
The nurse was on the opposite side of campus but the two walked in silence, George too embarrassed to spark a conversation and Clay too busy trying to staunch the blood. About halfway, the napkins gave out and Clay swore as he took off his shirt to use as replacement; George had offered his extra shirt instead, but Clay had refused, "It's already ruined anyway".
They arrived at the building and George rushed forward to hold the door. Empty picture frames lined the dimly lit hall and George heard Clay mutter something like, "This is creepy as hell."
They made their way to the desk where a round, friendly woman greeted them with a warm smile. The pair eased up and George reached for the pen and paper to sign in, "It says name and address?" he asked Clay.
"Oh you don't have to stay, I can do it myself." Both the secretary and George gave him a pointed look. "What?" Clay looked confused.
"Dear I think your hands are a bit full, and I would rather not wash my pen and read from a bloody paper," the woman smiled as Clay made an 'Oh' with his mouth.
"Um the name is Clay Wazten and I live in section 2A apartment 14C." George wrote the name and address before handing the paper back to the secretary.
They sat down on the bench while the secretary hustled away to fetch a spare trash can. Clay shifted uncomfortably in his seat, bouncing his knee, and George watched him adjust the white tee with a frown. "Sorry about this, Sapnap really should have just let me come alone," Clay apologized. For someone so confident, he seemed to get nervous about accepting help from others. What a silly thought, what would he be nervous about? He was probably just stressed.
"Oh it's really no problem at all. I don't have class until 2:15 today because our professor is out sick."
Clay still looked uncertain, "Still... I feel—"
The nurse had finally arrived with some bandages, a cooling pack, and a small trash can which Clay took gratefully. "Okay what are we working with? Let's see the damage, you can throw out that tee-shirt now—unless you want it as a souvenir," she laughed.
Clay pulled the shirt away from his face and George held in a small gasp. It would be better to not freak out, but his face was a mess. His nose was undoubtedly broken as it was slightly offset, and blood smeared across his chin and cheeks. Clay winced as the nurse reached out to start cleaning blood with antiseptic wipes, and hissed with pain as she dabbed over the place Schlatt broke the skin.
Once his face was mostly clean, the nurse went about organizing bandages on the bench beside her. George turned to Clay with furrowed brows, but was met with a shrug—neither knew what she was doing. The nurse turned with a small frown. "This is the not so fun part, the splint" Clay's eyes widened ever-so slightly as he fidgeted in his seat. "You might want to grab your friend's hand while I put this on," she suggested.
"Oh we're not friends," Clay said nervously. To anyone else he would seem confident, but with George's habit of people watching he had picked up a thing or two—not much, but enough to tell Clay was uncomfortable.
"Clay it's fine, you'd do it too right? He said, grabbing his hand.
"I mean I guess..."Clay trailed off. He looked embarrassed, but visibly relaxed in his seat.
"Okay great," said the nurse.
It was then that George noticed just how big Clay's hands were; rough and calloused from...football? George's hands were significantly smaller and he was thankful Skeppy wasn't here because he would surely make some embarrassing joke about it. Clay's tan fingers tightened as the nurse realigned the broken nose, and Clay's mouth spewed some very colorful language. He then realized how athletic Clay was. His fingers held an iron grip that would definitely bruise later, or maybe it was that George was weak—he couldn't remember the last time he exercised. College PE perhaps? Embarrassing.
The nurse finished and Clay hastily let go of George's hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hold on that tight, I guess I got a bit nervous," he went to scratch the back of his neck, but realized how bloody his hands were, and settled for shoving them in his front pockets. George's hands were also covered in blood, but he hid them behind his back; the guy seemed guilty enough already. They took turns washing up in the bathroom before heading outside.
Clay's chest was not worth wiping with the tiny paper towels—they had certainly tried, but the flimsy paper just broke apart in the unpleasant mixture of watery blood. As they started on their way back they were a few weird looks, but most people didn't bat an eye.
They walked several minutes before George realized he didn't know where they were going, "Uh Clay?" Clay looked at him and with his face wiped off, George could see that under the bandages he was quite good-looking. Suddenly nervous about talking with someone so above his own social status, George fumbled with his words, "Uhh... oh right, where are we going?" Clay's eyes widened with shock, and he then started laughing. George felt his cheeks heat up as he stood in bewilderment. Had he said something weird?
The laughter died down as Clay met George's worried eyes, "I have no idea," he grinned, "I've been following you this whole time!" The gears turned in his head for a moment before the realization dawned on him; they were both relying on the other for a destination, and had thus been walking around senselessly for the past 8 minutes.
"Oh my god," George whispered.
"We're idiots!" Clay howled with laughter, "Oh my god it hurts- my nose hurts when I laugh!" He clutched his sides, trying to hold it in for the sake of his nose. This made George laugh even harder at Clay's goofy smile as his face turned red.
After the two finally calmed down, they went their separate ways; George to Computer Architecture, and Clay to whatever class a football player takes.
George pushed open his apartment door and stepped in with a groan of exhaustion. Clay was fun, but now George was alone, reality set in. He tossed his sneakers aside and left his bag on the floor to slump down into his chair. Now he thought about it, George only got Clay's name, not his number...though there was no reason he should need it right? I mean why would he even need to call him when Clay said it himself they're not friends? George was not one for being dramatic, or maybe he was, but Clay was way too far out his social ring; tall, handsome, a football player, an overall cool and confident guy, Clay was way too good for George to even think about befriending. It was for that reason he picked up his bag and emptied his books onto the table. George carefully slid his computer onto the stack of papers —they were organized last night but when George woke up late, all rational thought left, and he stuffed his bag with anything he could possibly need. His laptop chimed, telling him it was awake, and George set out to finish tomorrow's coding practice; remembering the 85 from this morning put a taste in his mouth, sour enough to get the work done.
These past few weeks—well to be honest it was more like months, George felt himself slipping away again. Back in college he dealt with a lot, but coming to America for university had given him room to breathe. The way his Twitch channel took off gave some respite from financial trouble, but that was only replaced by the looming responsibility of pleasing his fans and securing good grades—not to mention, he was lonely. George was happy for them, but because Bad was with his boyfriend Skeppy so much, George had a lot of time alone with his thoughts; since Skeppy's roommate left, Bad rarely came home.
George's stomach grumbled angrily, but he ignored it. With his face far too close to the computer screen, he entered a trance-like state, chiseling away at the hours of work his professors assigned. Not all of it was due tomorrow, but without his attention on the lines of script, his mind would wander to senseless things again. He would fall into endless loops, stressing over what happened today, what would happen tomorrow, food, how he would walk into class tomorrow, how he walked into class today, the fridge, empty fridge, how he was late today, how everyone must have thought he was an idiot, how tomorrow he might be late again, how he couldn't afford to be late again tomorrow... His thoughts were cut short by the familiar sound of an incoming discord call.
George hastily set aside his computer and grabbed his phone off the bedside table. It was Dream. Thank God it was Dream. He answered without hesitation, "Hey Dream! Just who I wanted to see!"
"Fiz! How are you doing?", Fiz, was Dream's nickname for George. He never told the online world his real name, and instead went by 404...four, fourz fiz? The name evolved over time, but George shook his thoughts away, noticing that Dream sounded sick.
"I'm doing good Dream! Are you okay? You sound a little..."
"Oh yeah I'm fine I'm fine I just have a little cold is all so my nose is a bit stuffy, "he laughed a bit as George booted up Minecraft.
"Okay as long as you're not too sick for me to beat your ass!" George snarked.
"As if you could even! I'm probably too tall for you to even reach!" Dream was wheezing now and George, not ready to give up just yet, fell for the bait.
"Oh really? Sureee just how tall are you Dream? Hm?"
"Six. foot. Four." George stopped laughing.
"No you're lying, absolutely no way, prove it." George was not too familiar with American measurements, but he knew he was 5'8", so if Dream was really 6'4"...wouldn't that put him at about the height of the football player he met earlier today? George remembered Clay towering over him and how he worried he was about getting crushed should he faint.
His phone pinged— Snapchat, and Dream was giggling. Though he respected Dream’s privacy and would never ask to see him, George was filled with anticipation every time he opened a snapchat because any of them could be The One—The One that held Dream's face. He clicked the icon and to his surprise, it actually showed a fair bit of him; granted 90% of him was hastily scribbled out, but at least George knew he had legs, a torso, and feet. The second surprise was that Dream actually seemed to be 6'4" because a single arm reached out from off-screen to hold a tape measure next to his head. George took a screenshot.
"Hey what was that for? What are you going to sell me on the black market or something?" Dream exclaimed.
George ignored him, "Who even keeps a tape measure handy?" he was laughing now as he zoomed in on the funny picture, "And what poor soul did you make hold that tape measure? Did you just pull him off the streets?" His eyes were beginning to water.
"Pull him off the streets—what he's not just some stranger, he's—"
George interrupted in a fake southern accent, "Auew come ere’ jeust a minute man! I need you ter hold this tape measure—make sure I look taul and I'll pay yew twenty dallas to never speak of this again!" He was nearly crying now at the absurdity as Dream spluttered on the other end of the call.
"What? I don't sound like that at all!" If you're so smart, then how tall are you?"
George stopped laughing and with a slight frown answered, "5'8...:"
It was Dream's turn to laugh, "Oh my god you're so short!" He was full on wheezing and if George didn't know any better, he would have assumed Dream was dying.
"Oh ha ha very funny. I'm average height you know," he said wryly. He passed it off as unbothered, but thinking back to that football player...George was short in comparison. He huffed in annoyance.
"If you don't stop wheezing and start the stream I'm going to leave you here, we'll see who's laughing then," George threatened and though Dream made 'scared' noises, they both knew the threat was empty.
In the game, they resumed their playful banter taken in front of the audience and for a few hours, George was content. He almost forgot to be lonely, almost forgot to be hungry, almost forgot he was stressed, and almost forgot that he had a crush on his best friend…
Unfortunately all good things must come to an end, so at 3 in the morning, he found himself all alone once again, slipping into the usual gloomy cloud of unhappiness.
4am came around and George counted up the tik-tik-tik of the clock, counting down the minutes till class. If he could just be good at one thing, that would be enough. He would be content and peaceful, but instead he was just average... or worse, below average. George was number 1 in all the classes he took, but that didn't make anybody like him, and his skill was always proven unnecessary when working with Dream who was not only smart, but sociable and charismatic as well.
Dream. A guy who George knew so little, yet everything about. A guy who despite his many flaws, seemed entirely perfect. The same guy he was developing a severe crush on which wasn't fair because he was way out of George's league. Asking Dream out would be like asking Clay, except Dream was even smarter, and funnier, and so kind hearted—the only thing Clay might have on him would be his good looks, but then again, George had never ever even seen Clay. His chest compressed in a heavy stones of bitter jealousy and loneliness just thinking about how the two of them seemed to pull off everything George struggled with effortlessly. He wanted to cry, he wanted to sob, but even his tear ducts wouldn’t take him seriously, and his cheeks remained pitifully dry. He felt stupid just moping about and feeling sorry for himself. What would Dream say if he could see him now? Probably something sweet and comforting because that's just the way he is, George thought bitterly.
His mind swirled with all the different things he did wrong, things he needed to be better at, and things he hated himself for, but by some miracle, he fell into a fitful sleep just as the birds began to sing.