Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s spring when they first meet. 

The final stages of winter are slowly melting away, and with it does the frostiness of George’s attitude, too accustomed to sleeping away the day and ignoring his friends’ letters. It’s not until late April, when the sun grows to stay up higher in the sky for longer, that he knows it’s time to drag himself out of bed and into life, no matter how unappealing the thought is. 

George spends half his morning responding to disregarded letters, apologizing profusely at the lack of his reply. He skips over those that visited him during the winter months– only a handful or so, where Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity insisted on visiting as often as they could while George remained a hermit in his home. Bad had also dropped by, coming in to make tea for the both of them while updating George on the rest of their friends.

Despite the persisting visits from his friends, however, winter had been a little lonely. A lot lonely, if he thinks about it too long. 

Luckily for him, he doesn’t think about it for any more than he has to, refusing to dampen his determined mood with such thoughts. Instead, he spends the other half of the morning slowly preparing to step out of his home. 

The chilly bite of early spring has dulled down, until a simple sweater is all he needs to walk out, a nice and welcomed change from the multiple layers he had to dress in. The sun is shining, the birds are awake, and George is ready to leave behind his slightly depressing lifestyle and spend a day outside socializing like a normal, functioning human being. Because that is what George is– a normal, functioning human being. 

The entirety of winter had been spent peering outside to watch snowfall, immediately convinced that it’d be too much work to leave the house. His complaints had turned about to be reasonable when his friends passed by with similar complaints, winter never being the kindest to its visitors. Now, though, in the spring, with green grass poking up from the ground and birds chirping cheerily, it’s near irrefutable.

It's about time George had left the house.

The sun is shining, and the weather is pleasantly warm and bleeding into his home from open windows as he plans to take a trip to town; it would serve him well, seeing as his cupboards were almost running dry with supplies, and his garden needing a few things to freshen up. 

It would also help to drop by and give a proper hello to the friends he had neglected to respond to during the winter, more sincere of an unspoken apology than a late reply by the mail. He wonders how Jack is doing, if Niki and he were still roommates, if Wilbur is near to tell him about the songs he had written about a few weeks ago. The idea of seeing his friends again sounds nice. 

Even so, he can’t help but notice the staggering lack of company as he gets ready to leave the house. There is an abrupt amount of solitude when George leans over and shoves on his shoes, complaining to no one else but himself. His windows are opened wide, and, underneath the chirping of birds and chittering of squirrels, the lack of anyone else so far out in the forest is unbearably apparent. Loneliness had swept past winter and seeped into spring. 

He finds himself absentmindedly wishing for some sort of company as he swings open the door, the smell of the forest hitting him by full force. George doesn’t know why it feels so dramatic, taking a trip to the nearby village for the first time in so long. Maybe it’s the change in weather. Nonetheless, the amount of time he’s spent at home was more than worrying, and he owes it to himself to get out for once. 

Of course, nothing ever goes as smoothly as planned. 

Not less than a step outside, the air in front of him seems to fold in half, and George yelps as he stumbles back, alarmed. The occurrence had gone as quickly as it came, and a light thud was all there was of the aftermath. 

He looks down to see a bundle of flowers at his feet. 

Cornflowers– blue ones, if he could trust his sight, and his favorites, coincidentally. Undoubtedly pretty. Undoubtedly a little odd as well, considering that they do not grow so far out in the forest, nowhere near his home. He raises an eyebrow as he picks them up, off-put.

The flowers are lively in his hands, like they’d been sprung alive by his touch, and they are the deepest blue he’s ever seen, as though they’d been designed customarily to be painted as blue as can be. In contrast, they’re tied together by a single thin, white thread that had been fancily put into a bow.

“What the hell,” George mutters, twirling the thread between his fingers as he looks around. Staying holed up in his home definitely had side effects, if this was anything to go by. Sapnap himself had said he was going to go insane for living all alone in the middle of the woods, and, for the first time ever, maybe he was right. Maybe George has finally lost it. 

The wind brushing against him whispers, Hello. 

Sapnap was right. George has gone insane. 

He freezes, debating whether or not he had imagined it. Some part of him wonders if this was an odd prank, but then again, none of his friends would go through the effort of traveling to his home just to pull his leg like this. Well, maybe Sapnap. Definitely Quackity. 

Still, his mother had taught him manners, so, even in the chance he was going insane, he greets back, “Hi.” 

George has no time to feel as stupid as he does when the result is instantaneous, a mini-hurricane swirling into existence beside him, and he jumps, alarmed, nearly dropping the flowers when the great gust of wind next to him disperses to reveal a– figure. 

A form of sorts, something not human, if the spinning orb for a head was anything to go by. Leashed wings fold to their back, disappearing under their dark green cloak, with two crossed, golden halos spinning rapidly above their head.

“Hello,” the thing says again, and George blinks once, twice, thrice. 

“What the fuck,” George expresses, and that’s where it begins. 

(It’s established that the thing is a god less than a minute after their initial meeting. 

“What,” George eloquently questions, watching as another cornflower lands in the god’s hand from seemingly nowhere, and they offer it to him, outstretched in their hand like a temptation. George tentatively accepts it. “How did you do that?” 

“Godliness,” they say, and George doesn’t question it.

They don’t exchange names until George gives up his own first, when he reluctantly tucks the flower alongside the others tied together. He’s got a full bouquet, now. They’d look nice on his dinner table, if this wasn’t some odd daydream. 

George is still mentally attempting, and failing, to get over the fact that there was a deity standing next to him, in his little home in the middle of the woods, when he slowly asks, “What’s your name?” 

“What’s yours?” The god returns with no answer, and George could almost imagine the god staring at him, despite the lack of eyes. There is a weight on him that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. 

“George,” he responds. He almost feels antsy next to their body, their entire being buzzing with energy, as though there was light threatening to burst from under their cloak, and maybe there was. Gods are probably strange like that. 

The god nods. “My name is Dream.” 

Dream. It’s an odd name, but he was a god, after all, so maybe it makes sense, and he keeps his mouth shut and takes it in stride. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Is it?” The god asks, genuine in its manner, and he tilts his head. Orb. Whatever it is. “Is it nice to meet me?” 

George shrugs, moving past the unexpected question in his sincerity. “Well, we’ve only just met and you’ve given me my favorite flowers, so I’d say yes. It is nice to meet you.” 

The god seems just as genuine when he says, “I’m glad.”)

Like any normal, average, sane person, George doesn’t expect to see the god again. 

Really, he had been ready to play it off as an odd dream, perhaps a strange symptom of a vitamin D deficiency, where the cornflowers had simply manifested into real life and placed themselves in his home, out of their own volition. He tries not to think about how ridiculous that sounds whenever he passes them on his dinner table. 

That being said, it is entirely expected of him to be a little surprised when the entire exchange turns out to not have been an incredibly strange fever dream, but instead very much a reality when the god shows up to provide him company while he gardens. 

It’s sunny, sunnier than usual on that Tuesday afternoon which finds George amongst tomato and cucumber plants, where he slowly makes way through with a watering can. The solidarity that comes with gardening alone offers time to think, plan for the rest of his day, and he settles on deciding to make soup for dinner. It’s nice. Quiet. Peaceful. 

It is suddenly not as nice, quiet, or peaceful when he turns to see a god standing next to him. 

He startles where he stands, nearly dropping his watering can. “Oh– my God, you scared me,” George breathes, a hand on his forehead as he calms down his heart. “I didn’t notice you. Hello.” 

“What are you doing?” Dream says instead, presumably watching as George moves to pour water to a different section of his tomato plants, cautiously stepping over the patches of leaves. 

The god follows him as he continues further along his garden, the grass growing near to touch him, and it’s odd, how the world around them seemingly aches to reach Dream. “I’m watering my plants.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, watching as George showers another patch of his garden with water. There is a beat of silence before the god offers, “I can make it rain for you, if you would like.” 

This has George freeze, pausing his watering to face Dream. “Really? You can do that?” 

“I’m a god.” The sky quickly darkens, the sun immediately blanketed by gray clouds that have appeared out of nowhere, and it is soon followed by the gentle pitter-patter of rain, warm and splendid when the raindrops slide down George’s cheeks. “Of course I can.” 

“I forget you can do whatever you want,” he replies, wiping away the rain that lands on his face, and he grins at the god. “Thanks.” 

George would like to think the god smiled back, in his own way. 

And, after that, George’s life becomes odd enough to expect visits from a god. 

He tries to not think about the absurdity of it. 

George would often wake up, trailing into his kitchen and out the door for whatever tasks he had for the day, only to be met with nearly bumping into the god on his front step, less startled and more expectant each time. 

It was almost odd, how quickly Dream appeared to offer acquaintance while George went through his duties for the day, content with following him wherever and simply watching while George planted his vegetables and attended his chores to upkeep his home. 

Of course, George had a few questions, but he has learned, being friends with people like Karl and Quackity, that it was often better to go along with things with less answers than desired. It would save him a headache, and surely there couldn't be too many complications with having a god visit him in his backyard from time to time. 

He certainly wasn’t complaining; it was nice to have someone keep him company in the isolated part of the woods, where his thoughts are what usually occupy the air while he goes through his day. It wasn’t like he wasn’t too lonely, before; he had more than a few handfuls of friends, and although they all lived closely together in the town over, he’d always preferred lonesome solitude to the constant company that his friends had. 

But even with the introvertedness of George, the quietness of the woods had its toll, and he appreciates whatever accompanying presence Dream offers while he follows George around, having that it did get a little isolating, being so alone. It was even better that Dream was willing to make slight changes to the weather to accommodate George, or conjure up a few supplies that George had forgotten to grab from a visit to the village, small favors that he was willing to use his godliness for. 

It surprises him every time, even though the concept of Dream’s godliness loomed over him whenever they hung out. So much so, it hits him like a bus when he thinks about Dream, a god, going through the effort of visiting him every day. 

“Why do you visit me so much?” George finally breaks to ask one afternoon, a lazy Saturday where he’s finished all his chores much earlier than usual. 

They sit together by a lake near George’s home, filled with swimming fish that grow close every time Dream leans over to get a look at them. The sun soaks both of them in light, and it almost hurts to look at Dream in this light, his form reflecting any sort of sunshine that comes his way. 

Dream stops in his investigation of the depths of the lake, taking a second to look at George– or, at least, turn to him. With the lack of eyes, or a face, it was kind of difficult to tell what Dream was doing. He figures Dream was looking at him; it was kind of hard not to jump to such conclusions, with the odd feeling that washes over George each time, his skin tingling. He doesn’t know if it’s from the thought of being seen by a god, or a side effect of a god’s gaze. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Dream sounds genuine, and it always takes George back, the manner in which the god seems like he’d disappear completely if George told him to. 

He shakes his head. “No, I’m just curious as to why. I don’t– I’m not a god like you. And I don’t really do anything very interesting.” 

Dream keeps staring. “You don’t have to do anything interesting. You are already interesting.” 

“Oh.” He can feel his cheeks growing warm, but he’d rather blame it on the warmth of the sun. “Thank you.” 

Another period of silence follows, and a few ducks swim over to where they sit. George absentmindedly wishes he had bread. He could ask Dream. He’d probably offer. 

When he opens his mouth to request some, however, all that comes out instead is, “You didn’t answer my question.” 

“Your question?” The god doesn’t look away from the ducks. 

George chews on his lower lip. “Why do you visit me so much?” 

Dream is slow when he answers. “You have a very,” he pauses, assumedly looking for the right words, “welcoming presence.” 

“‘A welcoming presence’,” George echoes, a little skeptical. He’s never been the most welcoming– that was more of Karl, who was better with people altogether, or Niki, who was warm even to those she didn’t know. Maybe even Quackity, with his ability to quickly form a lighthearted mood with new people and make friends much more easily than anyone else George knew. 

Despite George’s obvious doubt, Dream continues forth. “You invited me.” 

George furrows his eyebrows. “How did I invite you?” 

The god doesn’t answer, attention entirely devoted to the ducks while George keeps staring. He’d press further, somewhat determined to get to the bottom of this, but Dream doesn’t seem willing to continue this conversation.

George debates persisting, before ultimately deciding against it. If Dream didn’t want to answer, there was nothing he could do to pull it out of him. He was simply a human to a god, after all. 

He is resigned with this thought in mind when he sighs, deciding to lean back and fall into the grass, staring up at the blue sky. George would rather not have such a nice day ruined with Dream’s ambiguity, no matter how ominous it feels. 

The rest of the day is spent nicely, not much discussion between the two of them as they occupy the side of the lake, the air filled with the pleasant quacking of ducks and slight splashes of their swimming. George chews on the grapes he had brought along with him. Dream does not accept when George offers some his way.

They head home together when the sky begins to darken, where George packs up and returns to the path back to his home when it’s time. Dream silently follows, trailing behind him. Even with him being out of George’s peripheral vision, he can still sense Dream a few feet away, humming with life. 

No matter the reason for the sudden supply of company from the god, George is still thankful for Dream when the sky turns inky purple, a film of darkness as he navigates back home. The presence behind him leaves him feeling less worried than he would usually be about the unknown of what lies behind the darkness of the woods, even if George didn’t know why the god was so insistent on visiting him every day. 

Even with the ominous secrecy of Dream, his company is comforting as George finds his way back home. It offers safety when things keep going bump in the dark, and when it’s too dark to see behind shadows and tall trees. 

When George finally catches sight of his home, it is nearly too dark to properly see, the sky full of stars offering no proper light. He creeps closer, close to tripping over his own feet when the unlit torches on his front porch suddenly spark alive, light blazing in the dark forest. 

He jumps, caught off-guard, and he swerves around, seeing as no one else could be responsible for such a sort of magic trick other than his present company. 

“Did you–” 

When George turns behind him, however, there is nothing but unwavering darkness, the god long gone. 

Despite the many advantages of having a god as an acquaintance, sometimes George wonders if it would have been better to not have met at all. 

Maybe then he would have avoided his situation– accidentally freaking Niki out when Dream, a god, takes his jokes too far, words that make people imagine things cruel and horrifying. 

(Maybe it was George’s fault for forgetting what Dream is when he invites the god to join his visit to the village. Maybe he should have realized when Niki sends a questioning look his way, a little confused at the deity beside him, before Dream opened his metaphorical mouth and attempted a joke of sorts, jokes that were used to the company of other gods, instead of humans with much more sensitive morals of what is and is not appropriate to laugh at. 

A joke about torturing Niki’s parents wasn’t quite fitting to laugh at. Maybe other gods would have had a chuckle. Maybe Dream shouldn’t have forgotten that George was not a god, and nor was Niki.) 

And maybe then George would not have to retreat to an abandoned chapel, with a somewhat bruised friendship and a god that doesn’t understand when George tries to explain to him why joking about torture and murder wasn’t appropriate. Odd, when he’d always thought gods were meant to be the ones with a strong moral compass.

The moon offers nothing of light, barely tracing the outlines of the two as they sit on the marble ground in front of the dusty archway, abandoned and broken. There’s probably a hidden metaphor somewhere in this scenery, but George doesn’t ponder on it. He’s never been the best with words. 

The floors are dusty, the marble tiles somewhat cracked, with random smudges of dried mud in different corners. There are vines traveling up the walls. The windows are tall, stained from dried rain and dirt, and there is a growing cobweb in the top-left corner. 

He doesn’t know why he pays attention to so many little things. Maybe it’s out of simple desperation to look at– notice anything besides the deity beside him, his form humming with a holiness that no one else possessed. It begs for his attention, but George has never given in so easily. 

It’s strange, weird, odd how Dream, a god so involved with the creation of life and earth, forgets how such beings work. It’s frustrating when he is so lost to even the most obvious things– forgetting how humans need to eat to survive when he had questioned why George was eating dinner, forgetting humans’ imperative need for sleep when he’d suddenly visited George in the middle of the night, forgetting that humans have emotions when he makes such horrible jokes. 

“I don’t understand,” the god says, a simple statement, and, for the first time all day, George feels irritation prick at his sides. 

It might be expected for a god to be so out of touch with humanity, and yet frustration picks away at him. Perhaps it is because of how he, Dream, simply is– a warm voice, an odd sense of comfort in his presence, and a honey-like laugh when he makes those horrifying jokes. George can too easily imagine the sort of face that the god could have in replacement of the spinning orb for a head, looking all too similar to those in fairy tales, someone welcoming and kind.

“You– take things too far,” George tries to explain. “The things you said aren’t funny. They’re not meant to be joked about. That’s not what– it isn’t,” he struggles to find the words. “It isn’t okay.” 

Dream makes a considering noise. “‘Okay’?” 

“It isn’t appropriate.” He pauses. “In moral standards, at least.” 

“Morality,” the god muses. “I know nothing of morality.” 

George frowns. “I didn’t say I did, either. I just know how to be human.” If he was any wiser, anything like the philosophers before him, who challenged the limits of being human, being simply a man, he’d inquire further, tiptoeing the lines between what is good and what is bad. What is human and what is god. 

George is not any wiser. He keeps these thoughts away. 

He is beginning to notice that he keeps a lot of thoughts away. 

“Then teach me,” Dream says. It’s a request, but feels like an order all the same. Maybe it had meant to be a question, a humble asking of a favor, but there has never been a choice for George. 

George furrows his eyebrows, and, for the first time in the entire conversation, looks over at the other. “Teach you what?” 

The god sounds all too mortal when he says, “Teach me how to be human.” 

Blossoming spring bleeds into a bright and early summer, where it is beginning to grow more obvious with the abundance of blooming flowers and warmer sunshine. The chittering of squirrels and birds blanket the darkwood forest, the sounds simultaneously far yet neighboring as they make their way to George’s house. 

It’s already daybreak when they arrive, having spent so much time at the chapel. The sky is smeared with smoky clouds. It seems like it will rain.

“We’re here,” he introduces with no amount of gusto, swinging the door open. It creaks, and he makes a mental note to fix it later, when he has the time. When he has the energy. 

Dream hums, presumably looking around. He’s never been inside, sticking with accompanying him on walks to the village, disappearing when they began to leave the forest, reappearing when George returned, refusing to step inside until properly welcomed. 

It would have been difficult to tell what the god was thinking, with his lack of face, but his emotions were apparent every time he spoke, every time he moved. Someone crueler would call it naïve. 

“Who is this?” He asks, moving over to gesture to a few pictures on the wall, an attempt at making this place home. 

The frame holds a group picture of George and Quackity, when the latter had essentially forced the both of them to get a picture, complaining at the recent lack of hanging out. They wear matching beanies, Quackity pulling half of George’s down and across his face while they both have wide grins on their faces. It’d been only a few weeks ago, but he feels like he’s aged years since then, a consequence from babysitting a god. 

“Quackity,” George answers, pulling off his hoodie. “He’s a friend of mine.” 

“Oh.” There is a pause, until Dream turns to him. “Are we friends?” 

George stops, considering. “I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“I want to be friends,” Dream says, voice eager like an overexcited puppy. “How do I be your friend?” 

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “It doesn’t just– happen. It’s gradual. You can’t force it.” 

“Can I be your friend faster if I give you netherite?” The question is sincere, and the air in front of Dream’s uplifted palm twists to carve out a miniature netherite chest plate, floating aimlessly in the air. 

Despite the genuinity, George finds himself huffing a laugh like it’s a joke. “I want to say yes,” he offers a smile, “but no. That’s not how it works.” 

“Oh.” Clear disappointment is present in his voice, and George cracks a grin. “And who are the rest of these people? Are they also friends?” 

He nods. “Yeah. That one is Karl,” he points to another picture, “Wilbur, Bad, that’s Sapnap and me,” he cringes at the sight of his younger self, “Tommy, Niki– that’s who you scared earlier. You need to apologize about that, by the way.” 

The air beside him buzzes with life when Dream moves next to him, his cloak barely brushing against his arm. Some part of him wants to move away. “I didn’t mean to scare her.” 

George shrugs. “But you did.” 

“But I did,” the god echoes. “When do I apologize?” 

“You can apologize tomorrow,” he decides, leading them to the kitchen, where he gestures for Dream to take a seat. He does so, silently. “What we need to do,” George says on a Sunday morning, “is find out what to teach you. Establish what makes up a human.” 

“Flesh, blood, and bone.” Dream’s response is immediate, confident when he nods. 

George bites down a smile. “I meant figuratively.” He moves to grab a spare paper and pen, and makes some toast, because he is hungry and dealing with a god for so long tires him out.

“Oh,” the deity tilts his head. “I don’t know.”

“I figured,” George mutters around a bite of warm toast. “There’s a lot that a human can be, but our goal is just to make you a socially acceptable one. A good human being with good morals.” 

“Okay,” Dream replies as George scribbles down the words Qualities of a Good Human at the top of the blank page, beginning with a listed number one. They can use this as a guide. A grocery list of sorts. 

“Well,” he begins, “most people are kind.” He jots down the word kind first, followed by a number two. 

“‘Most people’?” Dream inquiries from across the table. 

“Most try to be,” George clarifies. “A lot aren’t. But some try to be.” 

Dream wallows in this information as George taps his pen against his chin, thinking. People were kind, but when thinking about other traits, he doesn’t quite know what else to–

“You’re kind.” The words are said as a fact, like Dream deeply believes them to be, and George blinks. 

“Oh,” he says, and his voice sounds softer than he’d intended. “Oh. Thanks.” 

“Why are you thanking me?” 

He sounds sincerely puzzled, and George tries to stop the tug of a smile at his lips. “That was nice of you to say.” He brightens. “See? You’ve already got a hang of it!” 

“You flatter me,” Dream replies, watching as George clicks his pen as he ponders the next one on the list. 

“Oh,” he scribbles down the next trait, “humans are caring, too.” 

“All of them?” The question sounds like he’d asked out of courtesy, as if he already knows the answer, and maybe he does, but George answers anyway. 

George pauses looks up from the paper. "I'd say most. Almost everyone starts out as caring, even if they,” he thinks of villains in history, in fairy tales and from past friends, “stop being so caring along the way.” 

“You’re–” 

“Next one,” George interrupts, pressing his lips together, and his cheeks feel warm. “Humans commonly strive to be dependable. Not that it means everyone is,” he specifies, thinking back, “but people try to be. Usually. You should try to be.” 

The two intersecting halos above the deity’s head spin in rapid speed, so quick that George imagines he would hurt himself if he tried to touch them. He wonders how they would feel on his fingers, if they would feel like how they look; melted gold, made out of pure sunshine. They make no noise as they spin. 

He looks away and peers down at his paper, chewing on his lower lip as he writes down the third trait, at a loss for a fourth. 

“Do you want to depend on me, George?” 

The voice is entirely teasing as Dream says so, low and almost humorous when George looks up in alarm, surprised. He raises a singular eyebrow in his direction. “Why, do you want me to depend on you?” 

His answer is straightforward. “Of course.”

Of course, he says, like it’s to be expected. For a god, maybe it was. 

Still, George says, “You’re strange.” And, with a light laugh, he moves on. 

(The list consists of five things: 

1. Kind 
2. Caring
3. Dependable
4. Self-aware
5. Honest

George thinks it’s a pretty good list. 

Dream does not know how to be any of these things. 

Figures.

They hang it up on the fridge.) 

They spend the next morning picking flowers from the forest– ones that George knows they do not have at Niki’s flower shop, ones that George knows she would not sell, but instead place on the windowsill of her apartment above her flower shop. Ones that read I am sorry when Dream hands them to her when they visit. 

“This was nice of you to do,” Niki says, genuine as she smiles at the god. 

Dream nods. “I apologize for what I said yesterday.” 

“You’re forgiven,” she replies easily, because she’s always been one to forgive but not forget. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re very pretty.” 

George watches the interaction with nervous eyes, chewing on her lower lip as they talk, cautious like a worried mother. Despite the fiasco of less than twenty-four hours ago, Dream already seems to be improving. 

Maybe it’s because Dream is easier to forgive when he looks so mortal, spinning orb swapped for a proper human body. George had suggested getting rid of the orb that morning, simply for appearance’s sake, and Dream had steadily agreed, taking George’s word as best fitting. 

Even so, he still looks like a fictional angel, with his halos still mindlessly floating above tufts of hair, and white wings folded on his back. George would almost think Dream had modeled his human form after the average Prince Charming in fairy tales, in his lean build and tall stature– something George, personally, deems unnecessary. He finds no need in Dream making himself taller than George.

Beyond these things, however, it was a little irritating, looking at someone who was a caricature of something so human, in the small, random freckles on his skin and slight unevenness of his sunlight hair, the small charms that come with imperfections. It was all human, too human at times. Ironic, when the god knows nothing of humanity. 

“And you’re teaching him how to be human?” Niki inquires when George explains, both of them watching as Dream trails to the rows of flowers outside the shop. 

Dream is entirely intrigued by the flowers, taking the time to run his human hands over a few pink petals and green stems. It’s near to what a child would act like, in the same innocence, but odd when considering Dream knows more of life than George and Niki combined. 

George runs a hand through his hair, brushing strands away from his eyes. It’s getting longer, already long from growing out all winter, curling at the ends. He wonders if he should cut it soon. “Yeah. I– I don’t know.” 

Niki hums, placing the flowers into a vase full of fresh water. They bob in the water, before settling, and she steps back, making an approving noise as she moves to place them aside. 

They both look towards the door when Dream comes back into the shop, bell jingling as he holds a dandelion in one hand. It’s still with yellow petals, not quite in the stage for blowing wishes, and it’s kind of a ridiculous sight, a god holding a single dandelion. 

“I think you can do it,” Niki says, and George tries to ignore the blooming satisfaction at the compliment. “You’ll be a good teacher with him.” 

George worries his lip once more, wincing at the slight taste of copper. “Yeah?” 

Niki nods beside him. “I think so.” 

They walk out of Niki’s shop together after bidding a goodbye and a promise to visit again soon, walking next to one another on the dirt pavement as they trail back to George’s home. 

Dream frowns at the weed in his hand.

“You should have gotten one that looks like this,” George tells him, crouching to quickly pick a dandelion with white puffs, holding it in front of the god. “You can blow the seeds away to make a wish.” 

Dream watches with skeptical eyes as George shows by example, the puffs of dandelion lightly floating away. 

“You don’t need to make a wish, George,” he informs him, “you can just ask me.” 

George shrugs, lips quirked upward at the offer. “Making a wish isn’t always just to ask for something. It’s just kind of nice to hope for something, you know?” 

Dream clearly does not know, because he frowns when George picks another dandelion, handing it over to his hands. Dream’s hands seem so human when they hold the weed by its dainty stem, pressed between his thumb, middle, and index. It feels strange, looking at hands that had created the atoms of everything, holding a flower like he was afraid of hurting it. 

He gestures to the weed. “Make a wish.” 

Dream’s frown deepens. “I’m a god. I don’t need to make a wish.” 

George resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m teaching you how to be human, am I not? Indulge me.” 

Dream’s eyes flick over from the dandelion in his hands to George’s expectant gaze. He relents as he leans forward, blowing away the puffs of the dandelion. They both watch as the seeds land nearby, disappearing into the grass and dirt of the village. It’s entirely anticlimactic. 

“What now?” Dream asks, turning to him. 

George resumes his walking. “That’s it.” 

The god stares. “What about the wish?” 

He offers a helpless shrug. “Let’s hope it comes true.” Dream doesn’t respond, a thin line between his eyebrows, yet follows George through the street. 

They walk home, dandelion stems in hand.