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Episode 1
The first words you should utter if you find a person of your liking is this:
“Are you going to make me cry, too?”
Technically, it should be hi, nice to meet you. Technically, you should get to know them. Ask how their day went; talk about the weather. Ask how you can help them. All that.
Technically, it doesn’t really matter. You don’t often remember first conversations. They’re fleeting. Like a foggy warm breath dissipating in the cold of January.
Maybe you won’t remember their words when you first met. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because that was when the words from their mouth meant nothing, far before they meant something, and then later, everything.
Break-ups are stupid.
George is amazing.
He’s hot, he’s cute, he’s handsome. He can code!
He can twist his tongue like a clover and it’s a pretty useless skill but it’s great as a filler when asked to tell us a fun fact about yourself .
He’s amazing.
So he doesn’t know why he’s in the park beside a big lake, skipping stones and bawling his eyes out because his boyfriend of two years had broken up with him.
Oliver is stupid. Break-ups are stupid.
Throwing the rock he was holding with his right hand, he wipes the freshly flowing tears with the other. The stone skips two times before sinking to the bottom of the lake. George picks up another.
Stupid break-up.
He throws the stone. It skips three times.
Stupid feelings .
He feels for another blindly and throws it, wiping his runny nose on his shirt like the very elegant man that he is.
Stupid tears that don’t know when to stop—
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a body rises from the middle of the lake, and the stone George threw hits them. Straight in the forehead.
Short, glistening, wet hair. Chiseled jaw. Broad shoulders. It’s a guy.
The man exclaims in pain as he clutches his forehead in both his hands.
“What the…?” George says in shock. He looks around the huge lake. Where the heck did this guy come from?
He’s literally in the middle of the water, whole body soaked except his shoulders up. In his misery, did George not see somebody else go to this side of the park and took a swim in the lake? Was he too busy crying?
God , now he’s hurt a stranger because of his stupidity. Well, Oliver’s , if he thinks about it, but he’d really rather not.
The man raises his head in a flash like someone had called his name. He sees George, and as if he’s now only putting two and two together, he narrows his eyes towards him.
“YOU.” A booming voice echoes through the clearing, and with an unbelievable storm, the guy walks across the lake forcefully. It would’ve worked to scare George if paired with the anger on the man’s face, but the trudge in the space between them and how the man seems to struggle to get to George from all the mud makes the situation look ridiculous.
When he gets to the bank of the waters after two minutes of just George looking at the man pathetically hoisting his feet one after the other, with the loud voice from earlier, he says, “HOW DARE YOU STRIKE—” he cuts himself off as he gives George a once over.
“Why are your garments like that?” The man asks.
George’s eyebrows furrow. He's wearing a simple shirt and jeans, his garments are fine. He returns the scrutinizing look.
The stranger is wearing a dark green cloak with gold writing that George does not recognize lining the hood of it, the gold running all throughout the entirety of the seams of the cloak, as his white silk undershirt, equally as flowy, is tucked by the high waist of the pitch black pants that hugs his legs fine. There is a pair of knee-high boots that look soaked to the bone as the water that comes from the rest of his upper body drips back down onto the lake. His gloved hands point to George as George runs his eyes once again all over the stranger. He looks like he came out of a sci-fi movie, maybe a cosplay event, maybe a party. At this point of society, George really does not have any idea anymore.
“Why are yours like that?” He spits back, feeling offended.
Is there a shooting nearby? Perhaps a festival or a conference? George should really learn to read signs. Perhaps he missed a big red one that says there’s going to be filming somewhere in the area.
George snaps out of his musings when the man walks in front of him, his scowl deeper than ever, as he unceremoniously shoves his finger at the center of George’s chest. George’s shocked and disbelieving expression is a huge contrast to the storm brewing on the stranger’s face.
“Answer me, death-bound.” He says.
Death-bound?
“The hell, dude?” He ignores the weird comment in favor of slapping the hand away from him. The man looks at his slapped hand like it personally offended him before putting his glare back to George.
“I said, where am I? This isn’t the End.” The stranger mindlessly gestures around the lake. George just gives him a strange look.
“We’re in Central Park.”
I’d figure you’d know if you’d take a swim in one if its lakes in the beginning of summer. George almost says but he holds himself back. He’s heartbroken, not an asshole.
The man is mouthing Central Park to himself like it’s in another language, and before he can even get a word out, George continues, “Look, mister, I’m sorry for hitting you but you really shouldn’t touch another person just like that. It’s not very nice, you know.”
The man just stares at him like he’s the weird one here.
“This can’t be the Nether, I’m in the middle of water. It’s supposed to be full of rocks and lava, from what I’ve heard. And Sapnap would have already been here if it was. Oh, am I in the Overworld? Which part of this realm is Central Park? I’ve never heard of it before. Is it a new town by the edge?”
As the man’s monologue continues, the confusion growing on his face probably rivals that of George’s.
What the hell is going on?
Before George’s head explodes, he holds a hand up and presses the bridge of his reddened nose. He doesn’t know what’s happening but at least the crying has stopped.
“Look,” the hand he’s holding up interjects the rant the other is going on about. “ Sir , I’m sorry but are you high? Nether? Sapnap? Overworld? Is this a prank? Where’s the camera?”
George looks around. This side of the park is barren at ten in the morning, but you can never know who’s hiding in the trash bins and the bushes.
“If not, are you shooting for Netflix? A movie? A series? Because if I’m going to be on television, you need to set up an appointment because I do not want to appear looking like this.”
He voices out his thoughts, but instead of the guy looking like he’d been caught off his ill intentions, he looks more confused— like confusion is a competition for the two of them.
The stranger waves a hand in dismissal. “Must be a new town, then. I may be a powerful god but unfortunately, I am not all-knowing. I believe I— mo...vies? se...ries? tele...vision? —do not speak your dialect well, peasant-” peasant?! “-so tell me, what is a.. Net… Netflick? Is that your main source of agriculture? Fishing? A new tool you overworldians have invented yet again? Are they better than fishing rods because I think that they are your kind’s peak.”
George may not know what overworldians are, but there is something in the man’s condescending tone—like he’s above these overworldians— that the brunet does not really like. George does not like this man’s attitude one bit.
“I haven’t explored for so long but maybe I should fly to the edge again once I go back home.” Then the man shakes a bit before angling his body erect. Like he had meant to take off. He stays there. George stares at him, dumbfounded.
Is he… is he trying to fly?
The horror that struck the man’s face as he looks all over his body is almost comical, that if George had any capability left to feel anything positive, he would have laughed.
“Where are my wings? Curses , here are my powerful arms?” His hands flit through his entire body, as if he’s missing several limbs, before his two hands make its way to his face. “Where is my mask? My halos? What in Bastion’s castle is wrong with me?”
The man grows increasingly more panicked, ignoring George as he keeps trying to pat his body for parts and jumping up and down, trying to fly .
George makes a face. He decides he’s had enough of whatever this is.
So without a word, he crouches down to get his things and then leaves. Shouldering his bag, he wipes the dried tear tracks on his cheeks, leaving behind the panicked voice of the weird man behind. He walks towards one of the exit, trying to shake the strange encounter, and any negative feeling he was having before all of that. Screw break-ups. He’ll just go home and maybe get some ice cream if he can.
He’s two steps away from the gate when the phone in his jeans pocket rings. The caller ID reads spawn of the devil ; it’s his landlord. Begrudgingly, he takes it out and answers on the second ring.
“ Your things will be outside this time of the day tomorrow if you don’t give me my money tonight, George! I’ve put up with you for months, been the kindest I have ever been towards anyone, but if you continue to abuse my generosity like this, I will kick you out. If you do not have it later tonight, I do not give a fuck if you sleep outside. Pay your rent or say goodbye to the roof above your head!”
She drops the call, without hearing as much of a sigh from George, which, in retrospect, is probably wise considering George doesn’t have a good thing to say to her except fuck off .
He groans. His landlord is nice to him, but she can be a real pain sometimes. Given though that it’s probably his fault for not being able to pay rent. He quitted the part-time job he had before at the library because Oliver had demanded for them to spend more time together. The money he earns from that job used to go for his part of the rent. Oliver had moved out a few weeks ago. The rent price stayed the same.
Look how well that turned out.
Before he thinks of yet another self-deprecating thought, he places his phone back in his pocket in frustration and continues walking. Maybe he can ask for another extension from his landlord. Maybe he can take another part-time, college assignments be damned.
As he picks up his pace walking back to his apartment, he wishes he was born in a life where money isn’t a problem.
Maybe if he tries to become one of those streamers who earns easy money by playing stupid games in front of thousands of people. A businessman of the modern age. A god amongst men, in a way.
His eyes widened as he stopped in his tracks in realization. Stops in his tracks as a painfully crazy idea brews at the top of his head. He dashes back to the park, laughing at himself internally as the feeling of desperation being the only thing that gives him hope.
George finds the man not far from where they met earlier, just by the park walkways where a lot of people are hanging out and passing time, including a small crowd that’s slowly forming around two people deep in argument.
George almost paid them no mind if he had not recognized one of the voices.
“Are you deaf? Or do you lack the mental ability to understand me? This town’s people are more lacking than in any other town I’ve seen in this realm! I said I demand you to take me back to the stronghold for me to go back home, death-bound!”
Like he did with George, he’s looking down, nose upturned and sea green eyes bored, at the other person he’s talking, err, commanding to who looks like they could actually throw a punch really well.
“What the fuck did you say to me?” The big man angrily hisses, shoulders squaring up as he regards the weird cloaked man up and down. The cloaked guy is taller, but he’s lanky even through his clothes that his bones will probably break even with the slightest punch from the buff man. So before anything can be landed, George cuts through the crowd and pulls the weird stranger by the wrist, bowing and muttering apologies to everyone as he drags the guy behind him in haste, walking away from the scene and the audience they have gathered.
When the people are nowhere in sight, George settles behind a huge tree, letting go of the stranger’s wrist and glaring at him as he catches his breath.
“Stop calling other people names! You are so rude, oh my god.” he lectures and the man looks taken aback from it, like he isn’t used to being reprimanded by broke college students. Maybe not . He furrows his brows again, face looking like it’s in a constant scowl. The man says nothing and huffs before crossing his arms and looking off into the distance.
George’s eyebrows raise in return.
“What’s your name?”
The man scoffs at him. “Not so fast, mortal . With my kind, names are very powerful. It’s not to be given so easily.”
“ Your kind?”
“I am a god.”
George snorts. “Yeah, okay, sure.”
The man gives him a look, and without any prompt, his whole body glows a gentle white before it rises from the ground, his feet merging into one gentle wisp.
George’s eyes widened.
He’s floating, holy shit.
George stares at the ground, where feet once stood, and then back to the satisfied grin on the other man’s face. Like he is pleased at whatever is going on.
Okay. Okay. Okay.
What?
“You float.” George deadpans as he looks around, trying to see if anyone else is seeing the same thing he is seeing. Disbelief bleeds from his tone but the man is looming over him is a gentle reminder.
“Yes.” he answers. “I am the most powerful—”
“Alright, alright.” George cuts him off. This is real. “And what else?”
The man lands back to the ground before frowning, weird hand gestures going around as if trying to do something, but to no avail, the air stays as air.
It continues on for a few attempts until George speaks up, “So, you’re powerless?”
“No, I am the End’s most powerful—”
“-and kinda dumb-”
“You insolent—”
“-and kind of super obnoxious-”
“This kind of mortal sin—”
“-and just an asshole in general.”
The man does not interject this time. George continues. “But you must probably be rich, right?”
He goes for the direct approach.
“I possess luxury beyond this realm—”
“-but at the same time you’re just ignorant to the ‘ mortal’—” George air quotes, “realm which means that technically… you’re homeless.”
George grins as the man scowls.
“What is your point?” the god deadpans.
“Okay, first, tell me your name and what you are.” George figures that this is a good start.
The being sighs, body sagging on itself as he gives George a doubtful look. “People from this town are beyond odd. But since you are ignorant and I am benevolent, I shall inform you of who you should be bowing down to. I go by the name Dream. That is not my real name but it is only one of many that mortals have taken to call me . I am a God of the End, one of the Highest Supremes, the birthright Prince, heir to the City of Ender.” Dream says, voice and posture proud and if George is any saner, he’d laugh in the other’s face. All of this sounds like crap George might actually believe it. Desperation really makes you believe in impossible things.
“Okay, sure, let’s go with that. I’m George, and I have something to tell you.”
Dream just cocks his head to the side. Preventing himself to roll his eyes, George stands there, shifting on his feet.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this is not your world. I don’t know where any of the places you’ve said are, but they don’t exist here on Earth. This is Earth and you are at the center of civilization right now. This is New York.”
There is a lone bird that whirs above their head as George gestures around the park. There is a small unwarranted tug on his lips as the level of ridiculousness of this situation sinks deeper and deeper into his mind, but the god is quiet.
George just goes with it. If none of this works out, he can just go home, laugh at himself, cry at himself, and drown in his tears and a tub of ice cream as every impending deadline in his life looms closer and closer to bid him doom.
“You said you are a god, right? A prince even! So does that mean you have money or some form of riches ?”
At that, Dream scoffs. “I don’t. Riches are only of mortal sin… But I can do this.”
Picking up a random stone from the ground, Dream holds it in the palm of his hand, the space around it darkens in a split second and once he opens his hand again, the gray stone from earlier is replaced by a shiny golden ingot.
With widened eyes, George pulls the man’s hand close to his face, trying to see if the gold is real without wanting to touch it directly.
Dream huffs quietly, taking a hold of George’s hand and turning it over, placing the ingot at the dip of his palm. George waits for it to burn or explode or hurt him, but the light weight of the gold just sits there. He takes it to his eyes. Assesses it for a few seconds. Bites it. Hard.
Dream gives him a disgusted look but George ignores it as the cogs in his head turn. It’s real.
Holy shit, George, you are a genius.
“Right! Oh my god… So! Dream!” His enthusiasm kicks to life, mind running a thousand thoughts per second, eyes moving even faster. Okay, okay. Rocks. Stones. He needs to gather stones. Dream can turn rocks to gold. Okay. Holy shit.
“Do not address me so lightly, mortal. I am to be called Lord, Prince, or Liege. Be mindful of your place—”
George waves a hand in dismissal, already on the ground picking up big enough rocks and hands them to Dream who just stares at his offering hand in disdain.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, Lord Supreme Ultimate Divine Final Bossman whatever, just, hold this and do your thing and turn them into gold, will you?”
Dream, somehow pleased at the ridiculous title, takes the rocks begrudgingly and encasing each and over one of them in his hand. George tries not to stare at whatever magic is going on in the other’s palms.
“It’s not just gold.” The man grumbles.
“What?” George looks up from the ground.
“I can turn any material to ore.”
“Ore.” George says dumbly.
Dream shrugs. “Coal. Iron. Redstone. Lapiz. Gold. Diamond. Emerald. Stuff like that.”
For the nth time that day, George’s eyes almost popped out of his socket. Gold. Emerald. Diamond .
Oh my god.
He stands up, letting go of every rock he was previously holding and claps his hands together to get rid of the dust and dirt. He stands tall, at least as tall as he can be, and gives Dream a thousand-watts smile.
“Do you have somewhere you need to be? How did you get here? Do you need any assistance? How can I help you?”
Dream looks at him suspiciously but he answers the question nonetheless. “I know not why I am here in your world, but clearly, I have to go home back to the End. I have no memory of how I got here, too. Does this place of yours have a place called Stronghold? Maybe if I go there, I can go back.”
“What is a stronghold?”
“It’s an underground temple where a portal is located which leads to the End. I have been taught that it is the only way mortals have access to my City.”
George shakes his head. “Not that I know of. There is no definite place called Stronghold here.”
Dream sighs. “Then until I figure things out, I am afraid I shall be here.”
George’s grin grows impossibly wider. He nods, offering Dream a sickly sweet smile.
“Okay, so you’re loaded. But you clearly don’t know your way around this world, seeing as well, the whole thing of being transported here from wherever you came from. I’m like, really knowledgeable at being able to survive—” George ignores the brief flashes of instant noodles and empty bank accounts, as he tries to make his voice sound more convincing.
“—you know, peak Gen Z culture—” a year born late and he’d be called a millennial but he won’t talk about that to someone who doesn’t even have the barest knowledge on language slang, “—all that. So I can, you know, help you get used to everything here until you figure out your own stuff, right? The only thing you need to do is that little weird thing with your hand and you get a handsome tour guide while I get to keep my lovely apartment. How does that sound?”
George shoots him a toothy grin. Maybe stone-turning-gold gods are the answer to George’s midmorning prayers. Who knows? You don’t know you have a chance until you take one.
The divinity seems to ponder over it for a few moments, his hands absentmindedly doing the thing and turning the small rocks into gold— to which George all tries to catch subtly.
“You teach me, give me temporary dwellings, and feed me and keep me safe, I assume?” says Dream to which George begrudgingly nods. Dream nods back.
“You do all that in exchange for what? Minerals?” Dream clarifies and George grins at the direction this conversation is going to.
“Yes!” answers George, albeit too excitedly.
Shrugging, Dream hands George the new dozen of golden ingots, before turning on his heel to leave. “Come on, then, peasant. I wish to be out of these wet garments as soon as possible.”
George pockets all of the stuff in his bag and runs up to the man to follow and drag him to the proper direction back to his apartment. Actually, maybe they’ll reroute to a pawnshop first. The thought that George can greet his landlord happily; without guilt but with months worth of overdue bills, brings a smile to his face so big you wouldn’t imagine he had been crying his eyes out only an hour prior.
“Okay, first rule.” says George as he drags the man again by his wrist. “you need to stop calling people names. Like ‘death-bound’, or ‘mortals’, or ‘peasants’. That’s rude!” he looks back to the man who is surprisingly following him without resistance.
Confused, Dream tilts his head at George’s words.
“Am I not merely stating the truth, though? Are you not mortals who all have death following their trails? Are you not currently penurious and thus the reason you are making me do this simple thing is to use me to gain mortal wealth?”
George stops walking. Turns back to Dream who is looking at him, clueless. With as much graveness as his face can muster, he gives the man a deadpan look and nods. “...True.”
Hey, at least, he’s self-aware.
Maybe being self-aware is the key to getting gods who turn rocks into golds and turns unpaid bills into an extra dollar for ice cream. Maybe George won’t drown in tears for today.
The thought is enough to bring some sort of ease into his heart.
Reel:
“So are you my servant, then?” Dream asks once they’ve arrived in George’s apartment.
“Huh?” Toeing off his shoes, George places the grocery bags down by the foyer and pulls the door closed behind him.
“You teach me, feed me, keep me safe. All the duties a servant bound to a Prince must perform.” Dream says as he looks around. George’s apartment, although a bit small, is cozy. Even without the other person making it a home, George likes the house he’s built in here.
It’s probably not what Dream is used to, wherever he might have come from.
As the sentence sinks into George’s understanding, he scrunches his nose giving Dream a disgusted stare. “Oh my god, no. That’s weird. I wouldn’t want to be called a servant, much less to the likes of you.”
“HOW DARE—”
“Hey! What did I say in the pawnshop earlier? Indoor voice, Dream, indoor voice.”
“...how dare you treat me with such insolence? You are serving the future king of Ender. Mortals, much less peasants like you can only dream of having the greatest privilege.” There is his upturn of nose once again that George had now accustomed with a roll of his own eyes. He strides to his room in quick steps and fetches the largest clothes he owns—they’re not his, but he prevents himself from lingering over that fact— and hands them over to Dream.
Dream reaches for it hesitantly as George nudges him to the bathroom. He murmurs a silent ‘I’m assuming you know how to wear clothes?’ to which the other apparently hears as he gives a bitter scoff to George’s general direction and turns to the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door, doors apparently not a thing in his world, so George politely turns away as Dream strips off his cloak and silk shirt, just a brief glance to a solid back and nothing more. A few beats of George unpacking the grocery bags and Dream comes out of the bathroom, the river-soaked clothes not dripping wet as it was earlier but still heavy enough that they sag against the laundry basket when George gestures that Dream puts them there.
Dream, in a worn out white t-shirt and jaded grey sweatpants, stands awkwardly in the middle of George’s kitchen. His wet blond hair is sticking to random directions, and the green in his eyes are more apparent than ever. George looks at him and he realizes that without the cloak and silk shirt, the man looks like a normal American college student. George scoffs. What an eyesore.
“Technically,” George picks back up the conversation as he continues to keep the groceries to their proper place, ignoring the man who looks stupid standing by the door.
“—you aren’t a prince nor a king here. This is America. You aren’t even supposed to exist here in this world, it’s impossible.” George says matter-of-factly, waving his hands in emphasis after he places the fresh cartons of milk by the fridge.
Dream’s eyes widen. He points an accusing finger towards George. “Are you putting a threat to my life now, death-bound? You can’t kill gods, you know?”
George rolls his eyes at the other’s dramatics. God, how is he supposed to stand this man?
“No. Watch your tone, Dream. This is my house, which means you abide by my rules. I don’t care what you were in your past life or your past world. You are in the George household now and you have become my tenant. That is what you are.”
Even in George’s small stature, he knows he can sound threatening if he wants to, and apparently it works on gods, too. Dream looks at him mildly horrified.
“A tenant?” He asks.
“Yeah! We’re kinda like roommates, I guess? Yep! Roommates.”
Dream mouths the words to himself, lips forming around the term ‘roommate’, before trying it out outloud.
“Fine, roommate. I am parched. Fetch me some water.” Dream says, as he approaches the counter, arms crossing by his chest, nose upturned once again. George shakes his head and props himself by the kitchen aisle, hand crossing over in order to flick the man straight in the forehead. Dream snaps back to hold his head in his arms.
“Ow! You impudent!” Dream glares at him. George glares back.
“That’s not how it works, dickhead! I’m not your servant. I’m your roommate. Roommates are equal. Actually, if you think about it, I said that you’re my tenant. So, you get me water, instead!”
George, college senior George, level-headed George, slips his tongue out in teasing. It’s Dream’s turn to look disgusted now. He scoffs.
“Such childish insolence.”
“ Such childish insolence.” George mimics as he continues making faces at the other. Dream just scowls at him in return. “Show me to my quarters.”
George keeps the last of the canned goods by the cabinet and walks out the kitchen, knowing that Dream is following close behind.
“Quarters, my ass.” he whispers, as he leads Dream deeper into the apartment, into the living room. He points at the couch with fluttering jazz hands, giving Dream another over-the-top smile, as the barren old couch of his lays bare for Dream to see.
Dream, for the first time since George had met him—which was only a few hours ago— turns so red he looks like he’s about to burst.
“You. Expect me to sleep here. In a piece of measly furniture?” The disbelief is visible in his tightening posture and his heightening voice, so evident that it makes George throw his head back and laugh in mock amusement.
“Get your shit together, your highness . It’s called a couch.” He rolls his eyes yet again as Dream regards him condescendingly.
Dream’s eyes follow the motion and narrow at that. “Roll your eyes at me once again and I will assure you that you shall be punished for your disrespectful actions.”
George rolls his eyes again at the dramatics, but this time, he feels a bit warmer than he did earlier. Must be all the crying.
Storming off towards his bedroom without a glance back, he says, “Whatever, Dream. I’m getting you some blankets.”