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There's a slight restlessness in him that tips over to the outside.
It’s an important day, obviously, but that doesn’t take away how nervous he is for this.
Tommy's distaste in George's lack of conviction is evident when they go over their plans feverishly. On the bridge to Snowchester, he's asked, once again, to confirm if he really wants to do this. George begrudgingly agrees, and he knows it puts Tommy on his guard, and makes him look inconsistent. George should be feeling the same way as Tommy, he should act like a professional, but he can't get himself to.
"You okay there, George?" Tommy asks, eyeing him somewhat curiously. They trudge across the glass bridge side by side, keeping their pace brisk to avoid losing precious daylight. Tommy's armorless today, he's not got anything big to do for once. George is in his shitty but temporary iron set.
Temporary, because he's going to be in Dream's Nightmare soon. The armor set was special to Dream. It always has been, and he can't help but feel a sense of sick excitement to be able to see the set again.
"You look somewhat... glazed, big man."
George blinks. He's not sure what Tommy means by that, but he can make out from the tone that he needs to pull himself up to keep Tommy's faith in him. Dream's armor is a necessity for him to be able to kill him. It's not an accessory, George's not being taken to a fucking mall for clothes shopping.
"I'm fine," he tells the younger boy, before adding a 'it's just the day, it's quite important' when he realises it sounded too curt.
"If you say so," says Tommy. "Think you'll be fine?"
George just nods his agreement.
Tommy's quiet after that. Maybe he understands that conversation is hard for George today, or perhaps he's just tired too, and either way, George is grateful to not have to speak.
They meet Tubbo just outside the base of Snowchester, who then leads the way to the well hidden underground room in Snowchester's main base. Snowchester is undoubtedly pretty, George thinks, as he follows him. It's blossomed into a self sustaining base, away from the chaos of the rest of the sever. Tubbo has done himself well after relocating after the war.
There's an uncomfortable silence, in which they walk sharp and don’t look at each other, but thankfully it doesn’t last too long.
Tubbo cracks open the bricks that hide the entrance to the room from prying eyes, and George raises an arm to shield his eyes from the blinding white that spills from the inside.
The vault is well designed. It has intricately carved stone walls George doesn’t care for. There’s one and only one thing he has eyes for in the room, and it now stands before him.
“Take it,” Tubbo tells him, throwing him a glance back when he walks forward to stand behind the armor stand. “Take it, George, and do your duty.”
George ignores the last bit of the dialogue. He rests a palm on the front of the chestplate. The metal clangs slightly, pieces moving on each other.
It’s cool to the touch. The purple of it glints in the lighting of the room. The color hasn’t dulled much, Tubbo’s probably have had to come here a couple times to keep maintenance.
Okay, you can open your eyes now. Tada! Do I look good, Georgie?
Crossed arms. No, you looked stacked.
But that’s good, isn’t it? I have lots of treaties to set today. The leaders of the new nation are too rowdy for my liking, I’ll need all the protection I can get.
George always felt safe enough to complain around Dream. I know, I know. L'Manberg needs to learn to sit still. It just makes it harder to kiss you when you’re in all that crap.
Dream’s laugh is loud, it echoes. You wouldn’t want to kiss a dead man, George.
George’s laugh is fond, almost hollow. God, fuck off, you’re so romantic.
“Is this really it?” George blinks away his daydream. “Is this the one? The actual one I’m looking at?” He needs to focus, needs to look professional, and the best way to do the same is by asking questions. Of course it’s his. There’s no one who knows that better than him.
It’s fine, it’s just a scratch. Stop fussing, George, you know you really don’t have to. It doesn’t matter.
Wiping off forehead sweat with the crook of his arm. Furnaces are too hot for his liking. Glancing back at the shell of a man behind him, turning away too quickly because the broken sight of him shatters his heart.
Of course it matters, Dream. You matter. The armor you wear matters, it needs to be in the best condition for you to win.
No, I’m serious, George. Stop it. Seriously. I want that scratch there.
Wait, why? The fuck? It’s too hot in here, maybe Dream’s temper is a result of the temperature. Please Dream, let me. I want to see you in polished armor again.
The chestplate is wrenched away from him with an unnecessary amount of force. Gritted teeth. I said, do not touch it! How many times do I have to say it, George? Don’t touch the armor!
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Tommy tells him, and he doesn’t sound too excited about it. George’s index finger brushes the scratch in the front before he turns away to face him.
“Very well then. I shall take this off and wear it,” George tells them. He pauses, feeling slightly irritated. “Can I have some privacy for that, please.”
“George,” says Tommy, swallowing, and George is reminded of how young they are. Tommy raises a defiant chin to look him straight in the eyes. “Before that, could you go over the plan one last time.”
It’s too polite a request to ignore, which is what makes it harder for him to say the words. “Of course,” he gulps. Be professional, he chides himself. He straightens his posture, clasping his hands in front of him. “The plan is simple. I’m here to kill Dream.”
“And the armor—” Tubbo begins.
“And the armor will help me do the same. We know the armor makes Dream stronger.”
Wrong. It’s the other way around. The wearer brings the armor strength.
George. You’re so cute for this.
Shut up, you’re an idiot.
It wasn’t my fault! I knew the duel would be harsh, but c’mon now, at least I won, didn’t I?
Bandages and first aid supplies. They would run out soon at the rate at which Dream keeps getting into scuffles, and George is not sure who he trusts enough to ask for a restock. You could’ve died. Sit still.
Dream sits on the bed, his legs dangling off the side. But I didn’t! And look, no scratches this time. My armor’s holding on.
George leans over the cut, wrapping a gauge around Dream’s right bicep. Why won’t you let me mend it?
Hesitancy. It’s a pride thing, I suppose. I don’t want people to think I'm only strong because of my armor.
Exasperation. George bends to sit on his knees, and buries his face in Dream’s lap. God... just— just don’t die.
Dream cards his fingers through George’s hair. They stop at the first tangles. George has never been good at taking care of himself during stressful times. I won’t, yeah? And I’m a good man, George. I’m not a monster out for catch, they won’t get me this quick.
“That is true,” says Tubbo. “Be careful, I think the armor is awfully cursed. When I wore it, it made me want to kill people.” He laughs. “Well but then I suppose, it’s very much like Dream, isn't it?
George bites back a jab. “I suppose so, yes.”
“C’mon Tubbo," Tommy says, already walking out. “Let Gogy have a moment with the armor by himself.” He spares George a look when he’s at the front of the vault, and they lock eyes. There isn’t much to say, but Tommy tries anyway. “Be safe, George. People can change. And that’s— that’s how monsters are born.”
George gulps, and gives the two of them a feeble nod.
The vault shuts behind them, leaving George alone in a room too bright. The armor stand rattles next to him.
He gets to work.
George strips, unstrapping his own chestplate, taking off his boots and the iron leggings. He’s never liked armor a lot, if he’s being honest, it restricts movement too much for his liking. But it's an important day, and George needs to be ready for whatever may come.
Can I try yours? Just this once? It’s a special day.
No, George, just wear your own.
Oh c’mon. I just wanted to see what yours is like.
But it’s my armor. Wear yours, George. Be quick now, you’re needed on the podium an hour before the election results.
Would you come with me?
No. I’m not running for a spot anyway.
George rolls his eyes. Fine. He does a twirl and then stops to smirk. Hey Dream, do I look as stacked as you?
Dream laughs. It’s good to hear him laugh again. I’d still kiss you, don’t worry.
George feels brave today. He pulls Dream in. Then do.
Tubbo had said the armor was cursed. Was that why Dream never let him wear it? George slips on the chestplate over his head, and then straps it around his body. The size is customizable and it fits snuggly, and George… George likes it better than his own worn out iron chestplate.
He drops down to the floor to put on the boots. They’re slightly bigger than the size he needs. That’s okay, he can always stuff the toes of his boots with spare wool later.
The leggings go next. It feels weird to be wearing an armor this personal, even if it’s a necessity. George isn’t sure if it really is, considering how Dream’s always been sure of himself whether or not he wore it but Tommy advised him to not take any chances.
The leggings fit well enough, they’re snug even if they pool slightly near the boots given the height difference but George doesn’t mind too much.
Shut up, I’m the king!
Giggling. No, I am! You crowned me yourself today, didn’t you?
Dream cups George’s chin. They’re in bed, it’s too late to be awake but neither of them care. They’ve reached that point in the night where everything is funny. Oh, really? Where’s your crown then, king?
George dares. He jumps out of bed to unhook Dream’s helmet that’s plugged up against a hook in the wall and puts it on his head. Here it is. Now bow before me, peasant.
Shock melts slowly into humor. Dream gets out of bed and bends down on one knee before George and holds out a hand. His voice is mocking, but fond. He drops his gaze, not meeting eyes as a sign of respect. Your highness. What may I do for you?
The hand is tugged, pulling Dream up. Shut up, you idiot. God, you’re so annoying.
Dream smiles, pinning George against the wall. Oh George. You’ll always be my king.
George leaves the helmet for last. He looks at it for too long, debating if he really needs it, if it’s even right to put it on now that he’s meant to go through with his duty or whatever.
He sets his hands on the sides of the helmet and hesitates. He really doesn't want to wear it. But then, if he’s really setting out to do this, he should do it well, right? He should wear the full thing, and it’s not that big of a deal anyway, he’s really being somewhat of a pussy.
His hands tremble on the sides of the helmet. You’ll always be my king. The thought makes George laugh. George had never been the king. Kings have purpose, they're ambitious. Kings are often the main characters of their own and everyone else's stories. George lost all his purpose when he lost Dream. He supposes killing Dream should be his purpose now, but he hasn’t thought too much about it.
The helmet can’t be burnt into ashes. It can’t be harmed in any way, Dream’s made sure of it and George knows that. But why does the sight of it make his skin crawl? He needs to be professional, he needs the full armor to defeat Dream, that’s what Tubbo told him.
George swipes a finger against the metal of the helmet. He wishes he could leave it here, and wear his own, trivial helmet for a day this important. Crowning himself with Dream’s helmet feels too much like home, feels too similar to the life he’s left behind an eon back.
And you’ll be mine.
That's good to hear. I was scared, you’d— you’d— An exhale. He sounds tired. I’m becoming somewhat of a monster, aren’t I?
George narrows his eyes. What do you mean?
Our server hates me now. Isn’t that obvious? They think I’m the bad guy. I’m not the bad guy! I’ve never been the bad guy. I just wanted harmony, for people to get along with each other but Wilbur, and— and Tommy, god, that kid is a menace— and Tubbo, and everyone— Everyone! Everyone thinks I’m the bad guy.
George doesn’t know what to say. Words shatter him too much now, he thinks he’s become weaker.
Voice crack. Do you think I’m the bad guy too, George? That I’m— that I’m some kind of a repulsive monster, maybe?
Moonlight. George cups Dream’s chin with both hands and brushes a finger across each cheek. Monsters are born, Dream. You’re human.
Dream rests his forehead on George’s shoulder. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But thank you.
George blinks the lights of the vault away. He picks up the helmet off the stand, and places it on his head. He’s ready.
He does a small, slow twirl. There’s no one watching him this time, no one to ask for validation from. He corrects his stance, shoulders tight and upright.
When George walks out of the empty vault, his steps echo hollowly on the stone floor.
The moonlight shatters on them both. Dreams wraps his arms tightly around George's waist, his face still buried in George's shoulder.
George runs his hands through Dream’s hair. I’m sorry too. I’m sorry too.