Work Text:
George envies the trees.
He envies them in the way they stand, silent and tall and growing at the edges of his lawn, of his home, in the parks and around the shopping center where he and Sapnap had gotten into that massive water balloon fight that left Dream wheezing on the ground so hard that they had to pop one and get him to drink it in order to stop his boyfriend’s dry cough.
He hates the way they are allowed to just exist, with their branches spread and intertwined with their neighbors, leaves turned towards the sun in a grand display of life, rough bark protecting soft smooth wood and rings that tell the story of season after season that they survived. He envies how they weather each storm that passes them by, that threatens their delicate leaves and flips them, exposing the lighter green underneath and the fragile stomata opening and closing like millions of tiny pores. They stand tall and unbothered, branches creaking and wind whispering, tracing the cracking bark and knobs where the woodpeckers liked to roost and the small nest the sparrows make in the spring when they hatch their clutches and push them out of their home, learning to fly on brand new feathers that barely know the sun.
How the roots are so deep and strong, winding through earth and stone and dirt, forcing and growing and spreading outwards and on so far and far and far. Trees are strong, amazingly so, and George envies them most of all for how they grow.
As seeds. As nothing but themselves, sprouted from their own place, their own small patch of upturned Earth and stretching towards the Sun, demanding life and taking up the space that they deem fit.
He mostly envies them for their ability to grow without knowing where they came from.
The trees knock at the windows, crowding around the edges of the glass and blocking out the sky as if their leaves could listen to the gossip inside the Davidson household and pass it along to the outside world.
His hand is clutched in Dream’s, refusing to let go as the storm of his mother’s words threatens to sweep him away into the unknown. He feels his eyes burn with sorrow, the hurt traveling under his cheeks and through his nose until his whole face is lit aflame with anger and guilt and the stupid child-like longing to be wrapped saftley in his mother’s arms.
But not when she’s spitting fire and brimstone at Dream like he’s the devil from down below. Not when she paints his angel with curved horns and leathery wings, sinful teeth waiting to rip and shred her precious pious son, the son who grew up on her Bible and hymns, whose hands were always wrapped in prayer and holiness, devote to God until the last.
His father looks down at the dinner he probably prepared, the spaghetti limp and the garlic bread burnt to a blackened crisp, probably cooked from the pits of hell that his mother so righteously claims Dream comes from. She most likely refused to make the meal after learning what the special visit from her son entailed. It's heartwarming in a sick and twisted way that his father went to such lengths to prepare a nice dinner for them all, even more heartbreaking as he stays silent as his mother’s shrill voice continues to lecture about the eyes of God and the sin he brought to their very doorstep. The corners of his mouth are turned down and the harsh kitchen lighting turns his wrinkles into that of marble, a statue to witness his wife lecture at the son she claimed she loved.
Burning shame and guilt and anger continued to race through his body, settling in his limbs like licking flames and angry heat, tongue growing fat in his mouth as he lost the words he so desperately wanted to toss in his mother’s face. Dream’s hand, blessedly cool from the incoming storm, tightened around his and offered a buoy of blam and relief during the acid his mother spewed.
He chanced a look at her face and wished he hadn’t. Her gray hair was bobbed shorter since the last time he had seen her, like some wrongful illusion of an angel’s halo. Her eyes were darkened to smoldering coals as her mouth spewed hateful word after word, sounding angrier and more shrill with every passing minute. He imagined the devil horns on her, forged in hate and fury and with the way she pointed at him, at them , her fingers were sure to turn into claws.
She went to take a breath, presumably to throw some more verses at the two when he felt Dream tense, coiled and ready to spring. He blindly followed his angel’s hand as he was tucked behind, as if Dream could absorb all the hate and shield him from the woman that gave birth to him. He felt the safety of his broad back and shoulders a beat too late, the knives already cutting at his bleeding heart. He felt coals burning in his throat, the embers choking off his breath as he struggled to keep calm.
He actually flinched when his boyfriend started talking, not used to the way his words sounded picked and jagged, harsh and spiky around his vowels when it was normally soft with kindness cushioning every sound. Anger was palpable in every word, syllables bitten and chewed before being spat out upon the hardwood floor his mother demanded over tile because it would look nicer when people came over, more to impress the other members of the church rather than her own personal preference. He pressed up against Dream’s back as his boyfriend continued to yell, to throw his mother upon the very words she said not moments before, cramming the letters down her throat and forcing her to eat every consonant until there were none left but his own and he made her listen to that too. His voice filled the kitchen, certainly vibrating against George as he sought shelter from a far too traumatic event for this stormy Saturday evening.
His last word echoed around the house, the trees clinging to the sound as his presence demanded, filling out to his tall and slightly muscled form until he looked every bit the devil his mother claimed before he dashed her upon the rocks and let the vultures take their pick. The guilt and the shame were sinking in when Dream, his beautiful angel painted with claws and teeth, gently took his hand and guided him to the foyer, the kitchen in stoney silence behind both of them.
He led George to the bench, carefully setting him down and helping him into his shoes, tying the laces quickly with a kiss to each knee before pulling on his own. George realized why he did when he looked at his hands and realized he was trembling hard enough to make his vision fuzz at the edges. To his credit, Dream didn’t slam the door when they exited George’s childhood house, though the sound of the knob sticking in the door frame with a soft click somehow sounded more damning than anything else of the night.
The trees watched as the angel led the boy to the passenger side of the car, carefully strapping him in and pressing a soft kiss to his pale cheek. The trees watched and waved goodbye as the car backed out of the driveway and sped away on the street, leaves swirling in the wake of the tires making haste for home.
They watched when Dream parked the car in the driveway of a much different house, much more of a home then where they just came from. A small one story ranch house tucked into the back of Texan suburbia, it was a space they carved out for themselves (with a little help). He opened the passenger side door and Dream carried George past the basketball hoop mounted above the garage doors, up the stone pathway with flowers overspilling on either side (Sapnap didn’t realize that the seeds were supposed to be planted three feet apart, not three inches), and over their wipe your damn feet doormat that Dream’s sister had given them as a housewarming present three years ago.
Dream unlocked the door with ease and gently set George down in the foyer, pulling his shoes off and chucking them in the general direction of their messy shoe rack before kneeling in front of George and taking the laces in delicate hands. He slowly pulled each shoe off as if George might break, and honestly he wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t. The brand of his mother’s words stuck to his skin and when he looked up from his trembling hands to see Dream looking at him so openly, love written across his face meddled with concern and laced with the remnants of anger from that stupid fight he had with George’s mother, he realized what just happened.
He fought George’s mother.
They were supposed to have a nice, quiet dinner as George politely introduced Dream as his boyfriend and it was of course supposed to be awkward and not great, but it wasn’t supposed to start as soon as they walked in, hands intertwined because they always needed to be touching each other, couldn’t get enough of skin and skin if they were both being honest, before his mother screeched and started her lecture as if they were fucking in her pews during a sunday service.
Dream, his angel, fought his mother with that scathing tone, the tone he had not once heard since knowing Dream for these 11 long years, not even when Dream got frustrated or beyond angry, he had not once ever heard him speak with such hatred in his voice.
He fought George’s mother because he was protecting him.
The dam broke as he let out a sob, everything in his body going tight at the edges, vision blurring with tears as they fell after so long of being held back. Too long, really.
His angel is quick to hold him, to guide his hands to wrap around his neck and hold on because Dream knew he needed something to cling to and let him cling, let him fist his hands in the nice dress shirt he insisted on wearing because he wanted to make a good first impression and now he was ruining the shoulder with snot and salty tears.
He’s half aware of Sapnap skidding onto the scene, headset askew as if he was in the middle of a game and hadn’t heard them come in. George doesn’t blame him, he was suggested that they would be gone at least an hour before calling it quits and as he sobbed out his soul on to Dream’s shoulder, he thinks that was far too generous of an estimate.
Dream quietly explains what happened as he continues to rub George’s back and whispers the occasional sweet nothing in his ear, entirely too understanding that his beloved needs to cry it out before he can really begin to process anything. Sapnap’s eyes widen in shock before hardening in fury as he carefully presses against George’s back and gives him a hug, murmuring something about putting the kettle on for tea before pulling away, dropping a kiss to George’s head and walking into the kitchen.
George lets out a dry laugh, at odds with the wetness on his cheeks and Dream’s shirt. Sapnap hates, more than anything, putting the kettle on. He whines and complains about how much easier it is to heat the water up in the microwave and George will shriek at him in blasphemy about how his precious tea deserves better than microwaved water. He presses his balled fists into his eyes and keeps the pressure there for a good couple seconds, letting it war with the oncoming headache he feels after sobbing his eyes out. He knows there’s more to come, especially after he gets some hydration in him, but he’s cried out for now, more numb than not.
The aching crater that is his chest softens when he looks at Dream again. The blonde has a few stray tears rolling down his cheeks, but his eyes are full of only concern and love for the boy he holds in his arms. George wipes his angel’s tears with a gentle thumb and asks quietly to be moved to the couch. Dream complies and doesn’t let George’s feet touch the ground as he tucks him into the cushions, Sapnap joining him shortly after, sinking into the cushions next to him with his favorite mug filled with piping hot tea. Dream kisses him softly, telling him he’s going to change before slowly pulling away and walking down the hall to their shared bedroom.
Sapnap fills the space he left, bringing the tea with the smell of the herbal leaves making him realize how thirsty he actually was. His friend wrapped an arm around his shoulder and kept one hand on the mug, George’s hands still trembling a bit too hard to hold it without risking spilling it. The blankets pool around their waists as the tea begins to cool, the storm strikes without mercy outside, the wind unforgiving as it tears at the branches of the nearby trees and threatens to break them.
He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and goes to pull it out before Sapnap grabs it and chucks it across the couch. He fixes him with a cross look and the man just shrugs, almost upsetting the full mug before realizing it and the both scramble to stabilize the sloshing liquid.
Dream comes back in, dressed in a hoodie and sweats, to find his boyfriend and best friend carefully sharing the tea between them, words unsaid as they let George calm down and Sapnap warm up. He always gets cold during these brutal Texas rain showers no matter how long he’s lived in them or how hot the house is.
He settles onto George’s other side, pushing his phone even further down the couch and leaning into his boyfriend’s space, demanding his presence be noticed and acknowledged without really being rude. He loves that about his angel, how he’s so in tune with Dream that he knows exactly what he’s thinking, how this pressure against his side wasn’t because Dream wanted attention after watching George’s mother break his heart, he needed reassurance that he did the right thing, that he didn’t cause more problems after what just happened. He just wanted to make sure that in speaking with his lion’s heart, that he didn’t upset George even further.
George let Sapnap have the half empty mug and pulled Dream into a tight hug, conveying all the words he didn’t have the energy to say. His phone buzzed a few more times and he let Dream away from the hug to look at it, fighting Sapnap to get his mug back.
Dream looked at his screen and George watched as his eyes hardened and his posture became stiff, mouth pressing into a thin line. He handed George the phone and pressed right back against his boyfriend, head on his shoulder as he watched George scroll through text after text from his mother, all the same lecturing and bible bashing that they had witnessed not an hour before. It ended with his mother saying that she expected him in church the next morning and to be moved back into their house the day after that, so that she could keep an eye on her son as he relearned the ways of God he so clearly forgot.
He typed out a simple message, three words doing the trick, before sending it and tossing his phone away. A bone weary sigh left his lungs before he pulled Dream and Sapnap closer, sipping from the almost empty mug and pressing his face into his angel’s neck as the skies opened up above them.
go to hell.