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There’s a steady flow of water behind them, and there’s bright, illuminating lights reflecting off alabaster skin. Punz stares at the side of cracked white goggles, slight freckles peeking from underneath the hard plastic.
He looks divine, pale pink lips pursed into a thin line, a faint blush over tear stained cheeks. On his neck, a fresh scar, red and angry, the mark of a demon trying to make an angel fall.
And that’s what George was, really. That’s what he had always been.
Inside church prime, hidden in the pews, they sat in silence. No sounds except the running water, clear, clean, pure. The virgin blood of the church, of the primes, untouched and untainted.
George used to be that way too. His skin, like porcelain, was fragile, kind. There’s always been freckles, moles, divots and bumps; but always perfect. Always pure.
Punz hates that that changed.
He remembers the day that George knighted him, outside of the same church they sat now.
“You’re the king now, dude,” He had said, smiling despite the troubling circumstances surrounding the appointment, proud of one of his longest, truest friends, “How does it feel?”
George giggled, tapping his fingers against the crown on his head, readjusting it over and over, tufts of brown hair spilling over his face. Punz had barely fought the urge to brush the strands out of the way.
The new king eventually stilled, meeting his eyes, a bright smile still on rosy lips, and never had Punz wished he could see his friends' eyes more. He wanted to see the crow’s feet when he smiled, and the sparkes when he laughed.
But he would never push George, he would wait until he trusted him enough to show him himself.
“It’s fucking weird.” George finally replied, swirling slightly, letting the velvet cape hooked onto his shoulders flow around him, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”
“Feel proud,” He returns, watching his friend with endearment, “I know I am.”
George snorts, and Punz just knows that he rolled his eyes. But the flush of his cheeks tells him that it’s appreciated, even if he can’t say it aloud.
“I- I actually have something I want to ask you,” George continued after a moment, fingers picking at the golden clasps of the cape as it stills. Punz wonders how mad he would be if he reached out to touch it, to see if the velvet is as soft as it looks. “Are you listening to me?”
Punz’s eyes widened, smiling sheepishly, then motioning for him to continue.
“I want you to be my knight.” George told him, “I mean- one of them, my uh, my main one… My right-hand man.”
“Aren’t you left-handed?”
“Shut up.”
They share a smile, the history and trust between them lacing their gaze. The crown looks like a halo, Punz decides, and he already knows his answer.
“I don’t know what to say, George.” He replied, dragging it out, hoping that just maybe he could hear him beg, hear him admit how much he means to him.
George doesn’t cave, not completely, just shaking his head before saying, “Just say yes.”
He pretends to think, humming, keeping the new king on his toes. And then finally,
“Yes.”
He had made that promise to George, that he would keep him safe. And he intended to keep it.
Pride flows through him whenever he was near George’s side. In the castle, next to the throne, escorting him down the prime path; it didn’t matter. For once in his life, he felt useful. He felt accomplished. He felt important .
He used to believe that money was the most important thing. That gold, diamonds, or netherite was more important than having someone to share your life with.
But the thing about living on the Dream SMP, was that nothing was permanent. His house was robbed regularly, his bees killed, and it became a time when your relationships with people became leveraged instead of revered.
That was never the case with George though. No, his king, although snarky, was kind. He gave him food and armor when he was griefed, he listened to him complain about Tommy. He was his friend .
George, Sapnap and Dream were his first friends when he moved to the Dream SMP. They showed him the mines, way back when they weren’t completely milked dry. They let him stay in the community house until he built his own. They even helped him collect flowers for his bees.
Over time though, things changed.
As more and more people moved onto the Dream SMP, there was bound to be some conflict. He just never thought that meant fully-fledged wars.
He fought by his friends' sides, there was never any inkling of doubt in his mind about doing so. But he didn’t like fighting by any means. And with how George seemed to try to avoid it, he could tell he wasn’t the only one.
That’s when the Dream Team began to crack.
Dream seemed to love the battles. He loved the drama and the war. Every small instance was something that started a fight. And god how he grew tired of the fighting.
“Why did you ask me to be your knight?” Punz had asked, escorting George into the castle for the first time.
George plopped onto the golden throne with no hesitation, his smile lighting up the dreary room. He looked at Punz, who felt naked under his gaze, and said, “I trust you.”
The simplicity of the sentence weighs on Punz’s consciousness, how easy he said it. This was the same man that slept through elections, who ran away from conflict.
“I asked you because I know you’ll never let anything happen to me.”
At that time, he thought that was true. He pledged to be the loyal knight that George deserved, to keep him safe. How he wished that’s how it went.
That night, George sat on his throne, cracking jokes without a care in the world. People were coming and going, wishing him well, which, thinking back on it, was their first mistake.
The doors had slammed open, and before Punz could even move, Technoblade’s sword was against his king's neck, blood spilling onto the throne with a cry. And as soon as he came, he was gone, chased out the back doors by Antfrost and Puffy.
Punz didn’t follow, not able to move until his knees buckled at George’s fading body, holding him to his chest with a sob.
“I’m so sorry, George,” He wept, “I’m so, so sorry.”
The king lays motionless, eyes fading rapidly, searing hot blood staining Punz’s hands.
He holds George until his body starts to dissolve, evaporating into the air around them. Punz knew it was too late to save him when the second Technoblade’s sword touched his skin.
But that didn’t make it any easier.
GeorgeNotFound was slain by Technoblade.
He shudders at the alert.
He should have been paying better attention, he berates. He made a promise to protect him, to keep his friend, his king, safe. And he failed.
Waking up after a life was lost was hard, Punz knew. He had seen it before, heard stories of how after one life, it took anywhere from hours to days, and after the second, it was days to weeks, the third not at all.
It was something that was different for everyone. Some were traumatized by their deaths, unable to move past the pain of dying a gruesome death, some pretended it never even happened.
Punz had never experienced a death before, so he didn’t know exactly.
All he did know was that he had to be there for George when he woke up, to make up for his mistakes.
That was assuming George would even want him around. He had failed. He might as well take the responsibility for his first death.
He sits by George’s bedside for 35 hours, 12 minutes, and 41 seconds. That’s when his king opens his eyes, coughing, hands slowly reaching towards his throat.
Punz shifts his eyes, granting him time to come to terms with his scar on his own.
He wants to apologize, to beg for forgiveness. But his guilt has its hands wrapped around his throat, silencing him, suffocating him.
Neither man talked that day.
Or the day after. Or for the next week.
And that leads to now, congregated in the church pews at an empty sermon, tension thick between them. Because even though they haven’t talked, Punz reminds himself that George has yet to tell him to fuck off. And that’s something. A glimmer of hope.
Still, the silence scares him. He’s never been one to fill pauses in conversation with meaningless topics. But this was too much.
He missed George’s voice.
He clears his throat, trying not to dwell on how George flinches at the action, and whispers, “I’m really sorry, George.”
His king stays still, motionless, quiet.
“I- I wish I could go back, I wish I could change things.” He continues, voice breaking. His eyes flick to the ground in front of him. “I know that doesn’t fix what happened, I know that- I just, I don’t know…”
George’s hand lays on Punz’s thigh, and slowly, he turns to him.
“It’s okay, Punz,” George whispers, hoarse, “I’m okay.”
Punz sighs, head falling, faintly, he can tell that George is rubbing circles on his thigh, but he can’t focus on that right now. “It’s not okay, George,” He persists, feeling the hot burn of tears in his eyes, “I failed you… You trusted me, and I failed you.”
George exhales, taking his hand from Punz’s leg. He misses the warmth. That is, until George reaches to his goggles, slowly peeling them from his face. It was everything he had hoped for, but suddenly melancholic.
His king's eyes bore deep into him, mismatching irises shining with unshed tears. The goggles fall onto the seat next to them, and the hand returns to Punz’s thigh.
“If anyone had to suffer from the hands of the blade,” George whispers, as if he’s afraid of speaking too loud, “I’m glad it was me.”
He shook his head, swallowing down the tears from his voice, “No- no, George.” His king’s hand tensed on his leg. “I failed, I didn’t even notice what was happening until-“
They’re silent again. Punz’s tears finally fell, running down his face until it dripped off his chin.
“Until I died.”
Punz took George’s hands in his, intertwining their fingers. His king’s hands were small in his own, frail. He hadn’t been eating much since it happened, his appetite struggling to return. Save for a couple measly scraps of bread and fresh honey, George hadn’t actually eaten at all.
Not that Punz could blame him, dying a traumatic death and coming back to tell the tale was not an easy feat.
George’s eyes meet his again, and he sucks in a breath. This time, he takes the time to map out the rest of his face he’d just been allowed to see.
His eyes were nice, Punz decided. They’re different colors, but he thought that it fit George. His eyelashes are long, dark, enhancing the light reflecting off the dewy surface.
He had found George’s freckles pretty before, but now he knew he didn’t have a clue. The specks of brown and gold adorning his cheeks, accentuating his eyes. He wasn’t an angel, nor a king, no, he was a god.
“George?”
George’s eyebrow flicks up, waiting for him to continue. He can faintly feel the gentle ministrations of his thumb on the back of his hand.
“How did it feel to die?” George freezes, Punz winces. “Sorry, I don’t know why I…”
“Not everything feels like something else.” Punz sighs, leaning into George, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. George is still, a sad look of apathy in his eyes. “I hope it’s something you’ll never have to experience yourself. Not for a long time.”
Punz caves to his desires, running his fingers through George’s tangled hair. It hasn’t been brushed in days, but it’s still soft.
“Thank you for staying with me.” George leans into his touch, the stream of water flows behind them, a constant flowing reassurance. A reminder that despite everything, they were still righteous.
“I won’t go anywhere, George.”
And he means it.