Work Text:
Episode 2
"Mortal."
Typing noises and the solid pour of the rain outside of the living room window drowns out whatever noise came from Dream's mouth, making George, whose eyes are focused on the screen of his laptop, unable to hear him.
"I know you heard me."
The god had said in time with a particularly harsh wind, making the thick glass rattle in its frame. George remains focused on his assignment, typing two lines of code before backtracking.
"Mortal!"
"I told you," he sighs, giving in and directing a harsh glare to the person lounging on his couch, "to stop calling me that."
George knows he's gonna die at some point but he doesn't need two people reminding him that. His own voice at the back of his head every morning, when he’s too unmotivated to get up, is enough.
"What do you want?" George asks.
Dream, who for the past few hours had been staring emptily into the rain, turns to George who is seated by the dining table, knee up and hands stretched out towards the keyboard of his laptop. His glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose, a solid furrow line in the middle of his eyebrows left behind by his stress over his current coding assignment.
Dream takes his time speaking, much to George's chagrin. "There is something I have noticed."
"Where?" George asks.
"With your neighbors," Dream gestures towards who-knows-where. "I hear them when I peer out the window or through the walls sometimes. They talk different."
"What do you mean?" George's expression twists into confusion.
"The—" Dream's hands wave around the air vaguely. "You, and then, them."
"Oh wow," George turns back down to his console, typing and retyping a command. "You are so eloquent with words."
"Are you being sarcastic with me right now?" Dream scowls.
"No." George answers. A few beats pass, his pitiful halfway done code stares back at him, and then he's sighing for the nth time and turning back to Dream. "Yes, I was. Elaborate."
"The tone and intonation of your voice, mainly," Dream hums, placing a hand on his chin in contemplation, "and some of your vocabulary completely differs from how they communicate with each other."
"Oh, is it my accent?"
"What is an accent?"
"It's like," George pauses, trying to articulate his words in a way that can make the other understand. "When they say cheeseburger, do they say it as cheese burger and not cheese burger ?"
Surprisingly, Dream's eyes light up, clapping his hands together once as if in success. "Yes, that is what I mean."
"Yeah, it's my accent." George confirms.
"Alright?" Dream nods, eyes on George. "That does not explain anything. Does this mean that you are unique and one-of-a-kind?"
George shakes his head. "Unfortunately, no."
"Well, that's good."
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind it, deathbound." Dream waves a hand in the air. George's black oversized hoodie is just the right size for him, apparent in the seams hugging his broad shoulders snugly, the edge of the sleeves just short of covering his hands showing his solid wrist that's adorned with whatever bracelet he managed to dig in George's dresser. George would scold him for stealing his stuff again, but he'd rather see Dream in his clothes rather than the few clothes his ex-boyfriend left behind in their previously shared apartment. George shakes his head. No use thinking about the past. His ex is gone and now George is rooming with a god. Times change.
"You're an asshole." George manages weakly, the backhanded attack not lost in his head.
Dream, who seems to have picked up the habit from George, rolls his eyes. "And you are a conversation-prolonging idiot. If you answered my question the moment I asked, we would not be having this time-consuming, meandering-on-meaningless exchange of words."
"Aw, boo hoo," George sneers, unaffected, "are you mad now?"
"I can kill you at the snap of my fingers." Dream threatens, but he's overused the line so much in the span of the few days they've known each other that it has lost its meaning now.
"Sure you can, Thanos." George scoffs to himself.
"Thanos? Who's that?"
"Never mind it," George mimics. "Life bound. Death unbound . Undeathbound. Zombie-tied. Ugh." He groans, disappointed in himself at his lack of creativity.
Dream is looking at him weirdly. "You know you spew so much stupidity I sometimes wonder how the room hasn't dimmed yet along with your intellectual capacity?"
"I have no idea where this conversation is going anymore." George says instead, ignoring Dream's entire spiel.
Dream sighs. "I asked what accents are and how does it explain why you talk differently from your neighbors."
"Right." George hums. "Uhh, accents are like," he waves a vague hand around, as if he can snatch the proper words right out of the air and substitute them for an explanation, "the distinctive way of how people talk from around the world and it's different depending on the place. I'm not really from America so that's why—"
"Wait, come again?" Dream interrupts.
"What?"
"Say that again."
"Uhh, I'm not from here so that's why my accent is different?"
"No, no. Before that."
George stares at Dream emptily. "I already forgot."
Dream huffs in frustration. "You said something about the world."
George's head tilts to the side. "Did I? I thought we were talking about accents?"
"Do you have the memory of a snail?" Dream exasperates. "You said something along the lines of it circumferencing."
"What? 'Around the world'?" George asks.
Dream nods, and once again, they share looks of confusion but for different things.
"The world is not round." The god says with finality.
George rolls his eyes. "Ugh, now you want to get technical. I know it's an oblate spheroid, Dream, but round is easier to say."
Dream's expression twists further. "What?"
"What?" George asks back.
"The world is not round." Dream repeats.
They stare at each other for a few seconds, the downpour of the rain the only indication that they are not paused in the middle of a movie, or say, words held in the middle of a book. To get into specifics, computer-coded reinterpretation and rearrangement of the English alphabet in a free access website for fan-made transcriptive content. And that's not breaking the fourth wall. Not really. Anyway.
"Oh no," George says in realization. "You're a flat-earther."
Dream nods at this, like George is the one spouting crap. "The world is flat."
"Oh my god."
"I am, indeed, a god. I'm just not sure about being owned. Much less by the likes of you."
"That's not—" George rubs a frustrated hand over his forehead, swiping away his overgrown hair. "It's just an expression. Whatever, just come here."
Dream surprisingly follows, his bare feet padding against the cold floorboards as he comes to stand in front of George adjacent to the dining table.
"No, this is an expression." The god says, bringing a hand up and pushing his index finger in the middle of George's confused eyebrows, pertaining to his emotions showing through his facial features.
George swats his hand away, rubbing clean of the spot the god had touched. "Ugh, don't do that. I said come here."
"I am here." Dream answers, looking down at George. Like this, with George seated with his back hunched, as Dream towers over him in all his six feet glory, the light emanating from the window behind him giving his huge frame a scary silhouette, he seems more like a divine being than a roommate.
His shoulder-length dirty blond hair fans across his broad shoulders, and the permanent serious look on his face is enough to intimidate anyone that's probably within the ten-meter radius. Not George, though.
"No, idiot, sit down beside me. I'm gonna show you the world." The insult goes past the god's ears, perking up at the weird proposition.
"You can do that?" Dream says, rounding the table to take a seat in the chair beside George.
George nods, typing in the search bar and clicking the image results, before angling the laptop towards Dream.
"Ta-da!" Jazz hands. George looks at Dream expectantly.
Dream stares at the screen, and then at George, back to the screen, and then to George again.
"Am I supposed to be impressed?" He deadpans.
George brings his hands down, fingers clamping on the mouse to click on a random png.
"Yes. Ta. Da." George says with emphasis.
Dream returns the pointed look.
"It's a blue circle."
"That's the Earth!"
"The… Earth…" Dream trails off, swallowing the word and testing how it feels in his tongue.
"The world. It's the world. This world is called 'Earth'." George explains, staring at the swirly skies and the cerulean oceans, before turning back to Dream.
"You mean to tell me," Dream starts, as if he's horrified with what he's about to say, "that your world is not flat?"
"No, what? Are you some sort of millennial member of a specific facebook group?"
"Did you just insult me, you insolent fool?"
"...No," George lies, "Whatever. Listen, look at this." He turns back to the device, typing in a website's address. Google Maps loads on his screen, and when the images come in vivid quality, he shows it to Dream.
"We are here. This big plot of land is called the United States of America and in America, we’re in this city called New York." George then scrolls up, zooming in on the landmark. "This is Central Park, where we met. And then this is the pawnshop we went to. And then the grocery store. And here is where I go for college. My part-time job. And this, is where we live."
George pans across the map, cursor pointing towards the random places he knows Dream would recognize. When he turns towards the other, there is a look of astonishment in his expression. Dream is staring at the screen, eyes flitting around the surface in muted awe. The glow of the device paints a bluish hue on the god’s side profile and when lightning flashes in the far distance, George notices something else besides his long lashes that flutter on his freckled cheeks.
Scars. Four thin lines that are barely visible unless you’re really looking. Two on each side, both starting over his eyebrows, going over his eyelids, and trailing down to the top of his cheeks. On the left, two lines like a skinny tilted cross, and on the right, two curving like a vertically stretched undrawn bow.
Both scars seem old with age, more white than red, and it’s near-melted back onto his tan skin, almost unnoticeable if not for George’s apparent staring. He wonders how the god got it, wonders what the story behind it is, what the god’s story is, and then he shakes his head, tuning back to the rain pouring hard outside, letting it wash away his thoughts.
“You mean to tell me that this magical device can take me anywhere in the world?” George moves his eyes from the angle of the other’s jaw to his eyes, and then to where they are looking on the counter.
“That's not… a magical device. That’s a mouse.” George deadpans.
“Oh?” Dream seems fascinated by this fact. “An enchanted vermin? Why is it hairless and dead?”
“Dream!” George’s eyes widened at the horrid imagery. “It’s not a real mouse!”
Dream huffs and crosses his arms, giving George an eye roll— again, which he probably got from George, regrettably.
“You humans have this stupid habit of imitating nature just to make up for your shortcomings.”
George makes a face and instead pushes the mouse towards Dream. “Sure, anyway, here. Try it.”
“You want me to hold the deceased rodent?”
“I—” George’s mouth drops open. “You said it yourself that it’s an imitation! Stop being a brat and, here, let me—” George places Dream’s hand on top of the device, moving Dream’s fingers towards the right places, before placing the small flat of his own palm on top of Dream’s hand. The cursor moves at the same time the mouse does, and George clicks down on Dream’s index finger and the images move on to the next street.
“See? You can do it yourself.” In his haste to teach the other, he didn’t notice that he’d stretched over to reach for Dream’s hand, his upper torso hovering on top of Dream’s lap, and so when George turns towards him, their faces are centimeters apart.
Dream isn’t looking at the screen. His eyes are down on their overlapping hands.
George backs away instantly. He clears his throat. “Anyway, you can explore the world this way, but I typically like to play a game with it.”
“A game?” Dream asks, eyes now on George’s.
George tries hard not to shift. “Yeah, it’s something called GeoGuessr and the twist is you try to identify which part of the world you’re in depending on what you can currently see in your surroundings.”
Dream nods. He looks around the flat, to the pouring rain, to the dim living room due to the heavy clouds outside, and then back at George. “We’re in New York.”
George bites back a smile. “No, I mean— wait, let me just show you.”
Taking the mouse back, he opens a new tab and logs in to his GeoGuessr account. He clicks the standard mode, figuring to start there, and begins to teach Dream about the world.
He tells Dream random trivia about countries, tips as to how he can determine which part of the world they could be, what to look for, which part of the road to consider, what types of trees and houses he should take note of. George tells him all about their current location’s culture, or well, the limited knowledge that he has about them, and when they move on to the next place, he tells Dream all about it, too.
The rest of their afternoon goes by like this, and George doesn't even notice the sky had turned dark as the day recedes into night, not until Dream speaks up.
“Mortal.” Dream had called. “I’m hungry.”
George raises his eyes, which were previously focused on the screen trying to find out where they are.
"Oh, it's dark now." He muses to himself, taking note that the rain had finally calmed down after the long day, the light drizzle leaving dew drops on their windows. The tiny bubble that seems to have only contained Dream, George and the tiny space his laptop's light can reach dissipates in the early summer night when he twists in his seat and flicks the switch on the wall behind him.
"You're hungry?" George turns back to his roommate. Dream nods.
"I thought you're a god?" George teases.
Dream scowls. "Can't gods get hungry?"
"If gods get hungry, it means gods can die." George mumbles, already wracking his brain for what he can cook tonight. He's not really in the mood for anything.
"Did you just threaten me?"
"No, I said you're ugly." George answers.
"Ha!" Dream exclaims, startling Georg÷. "I am literally the hottest, most attractive god you will ever have the fortune of meeting." He says confidently, giving George a million-watt smile, but it seems forced and fake, like he doesn't know how to use his face.
Honestly, he looks like an idiot.
"Oh wow Dream," George's tone is flat, "you are so hot. Yeah. Woo."
Dream holds a hand up at this. "Sorry," he starts, giving George a once-over, before turning his nose up. "I really do not fancy you right now."
George grins at this. "Right now?"
"Yes. Not ever." Dream corrects, and if George allows himself to entertain the thought, he thinks there might be a blush somewhat coloring Dream's cheeks. "Now that you've been thoroughly ridiculed, can you go ahead and do your job now? Feed me. I am beyond famished."
"You literally ate all my cereal today. How are you hungry?" George asks, remembering how the first understandable thing Dream did today was go through George's fridge and snatch his entire supply. George had told him off but the god had only waved a hand around in dismissal.
"Is that what they're called?" Dream asks back, before standing up from his seat, heading to the couch. "I didn't eat the horrid things."
Before George can rebuke and defend Kellogg's name even if he doesn't really need to— coughs, unless he gets paid to do so, of course, winks at the hidden camera— Dream is carrying the box he fetched from the furniture, and places it down the glass table. It lands with a hard thud.
"What's inside is yours." Dream says.
George scoffs, body stretching as he reaches over to grab the box and open the lid out of easy going curiosity. "Of course it's mine, I literally bought— are these silver and gold ?"
At the bottom of the box, sits shining grey and yellow, tiny little rings, and George has to blink multiple times and rub his eyes in order to convince himself he's not hallucinating. They're still there.
Dream gives him a pointed stare. "What do you think?"
"No way." George whispers, ignoring Dream's bored look in favor of digging his hand down. His fingers settle on light, but solid weights.
When he brings his hands up, the handful that rests on his palm glimmer under the light of the room. "No way you actually turned my froot loops into actual gold ."
"I did. Pay whatever fees you need to pay with that."
"I— How'd you know I needed money?"
Dream frowns at him. "You ask too many questions. Feed me, mortal, feed me!"
"Ugh, you are so demanding." George says out of habit he had already developed even in the short amount of time. He tries to show his gratitude though, because he really does feel thankful that the god is sensitive enough to be aware of what George needs. "Literally the worst, most unattractive god I have ever met."
Well. So much for trying.
Dream glares at him, pushing him off his chair lightly as if to send him on his merry way, before he's grabbing the edge of George's laptop and pulling it in front of him. With a final scathing glare to George, Dream then grabs the mouse and turns to the screen continuing the game George had been playing since earlier.
"I'd watch my words, mortal." He threatens, panning around the map hesitantly, "When I get better at this, I'll conquer this world, too. And then you'd eat your insulting words."
George stands up from the awkward stance he had from Dream's shove and puts his hands on his hips, giving Dream a challenging look. "You can't even make the coffee machine work." He points out.
"That thing scares me." Dream admits, eyes on the screen.
George's mouth gapes open. "It's literally a coffee machine."
"It makes horrible noises."
"It makes coffee !"
"It pisses horrid smelling stuff."
"You are such an idiot. That's Canada."
"What?" Dream turns to him with irritated confusion. George points at the laptop.
"That place on the screen right now."
"Hah, I knew that." Dream clicks Canada between the two options and the congratulatory message that he got it right pops on the screen.
"Sure you did."
"Don't you ever shut your mouth, mortal?"
The automatic response that he usually answers such jabs with gets bit at the back of his tongue, George preventing himself from actually saying ' I can do a lot of things with my mouth' because of course, he wouldn't say it.
"Hmm, not really," he settles for saying. And then he adds as an afterthought, "Freak."
But his attempt for petty revenge gets ignored because the god isn't even paying attention to him anymore, and instead mutters to himself, "I'll conquer this world and this dumb fool will realize he should bow down to me. Hmm, trees. What was it? Stop signs. I see nothing, this is just foolishness. Oh, wait, here's another tree."
George just holds back a laugh and heads to the kitchen to figure out what they'll have for dinner.
There's no way Dream would actually figure GeoGuessr out.
Not even three minutes pass and George stands corrected as the god makes a dramatic sound of frustration before barefeet pad the cold floor and the god stands pitifully in front of George's kitchen door frame.
"Finally gave up?" George looks up, knife paused in the air as his half-diced scallions lay forgotten in the chopping board in favor of turning to Dream to give him a teasing grin.
"No," Dream blatantly lies, "I was distracted. What is that noise?"
It takes Dream five easy strides towards the device when he figures out that it's the thing he heard from all the way to the next room.
He stares at it in awe, hands hovering around the device, having the common sense of not touching it.
"Is this the weapon most dangerous to men?" George hears Dream whisper.
"...That's a microwave, Dream."
Dream stares at him for a few beats, before he turns back to the microwave, sighing as if in wonder. "Microwave." He whispers in reverie. "True power."
"Oh my god." George says, wanting the ground to swallow him whole.
"True power!" Dream shouts, unaware of the embarrassment he's causing. Yep. Bury George to the pits of hell, please. Maybe the devil has a place for cute CS guys.
A brief summary of thermodynamics and electromagnetic waves, two heated ramen bowls, and one well-fed and well-explained-to god later and George finally has a temporarily-pacified Dream sitting on his couch.
The rain stopped a few minutes earlier and George had paused eating his noodles when he noticed, in favor of opening the window and letting the breeze in.
Now, the air smells of summer wind and ramen seasoning, and George has half a mind to take note of the way that Dream had finished everything in his bowl except the scallions. The TV plays mutedly in the background, showing some episode of a shitty dinner time show, but Dream is watching it with rapt attention, opposite of George on the couch.
"How's Earth?" George says after a while, silent contentment from being full makes him kind enough to start a conversation.
“Earth.” Dream says, eyes on the television.
“This planet.” George clarifies again. Dream moves his gaze to George at that.
“This round world named Earth is called a planet, is that right?”
“Duh.” George quips. He receives narrowed eyes as a reply.
“It’s good.” Dream supplies. “I must admit it is very interesting, unlike the repetitive villages and temples in my world. This world is astonishing and I cannot wait to conquer it.”
“Excuse me?” George splutters.
Dream nods. “You aren’t to be excused yet, I’m still speaking.” Dream waves a hand in the air before it falls on the space between them. George opens his mouth to say something but Dream is quick to follow his words. “What was I saying? Ah, right, because of you, this planet of yours is going to meet its demise soon.”
“Aw,” George coos instead, “You think I’m that special? You flatter me, Dream.”
Dream flushes, in embarrassment or in rage, George isn’t sure but he allows himself the privilege of basking in the former. “Where did I imply that?”
George laughs, throws his head back, chest feeling light and full from the food and admittedly, the company. “You should have seen your face.”
“The moment I get my powers back, I swear to the Nether, you will not see the light of day.” Dream threatens. George shrugs. It’s a new threat, George will give him that.
The ceramic bowls clank against each other when George stands up and stacks them, groaning when his back cracks in protest.
He huffs, before carrying the dishes to the kitchen. Just as he turns the corner, he says to Dream, “Well, until then, you’re stuck with me. Also, can you bring me the glasses we used? I couldn’t carry all of them.”
Dream mutters in a language George doesn’t understand, but he assumes it’s a curse word judging from how often the god says it around him. Three seconds later, George can hear another whispered threat from the living room, but the sound of cutlery clinking together and the god popping up in the kitchen entrance with a scowl on his face and two glassware in his hands makes George hold back his laughter.
Dream stomps towards the sink, placing them beside the bowls George had placed there earlier.
“Thanks, Dream.” he teases.
“Shut up, mortal.” Dream hissed as he walked out and back to his shitty tv show.
“Not ever,” George answers, a slight smile on his face as he cleans up. It’s when all the dishes are done and kept that he realizes he means it.
Reel:
Dream wakes up that day to a whispered exclaim.
It’s been a few days since he has taken temporary dwellings in a certain mortal’s hearth, and he won’t lie and say it is as bad as he expected it to be. It’s fine, the water is warm, he is given blankets, and he is fed well. He has a few demands but his ‘roommate’ always turns him down, much to Dream’s annoyance.
“Ah, no, I dropped my blower.” Dream turns to the door opposite of his makeshift bed ( the couch, George had called it, in which Dream complains daily that it hurts his neck) which shows the mortal with his back turned to the god. He is speaking to his small metal electronic device again (his phone, the mortal had pertained to it once when he was looking for it everywhere only to find it in his hand all along, proving Dream’s theory that he is, indeed, living with the most foolish person in this plane), heading to the balcony before closing the door.
Dream, out of curiosity, makes his bed (two pillows and a blanket) and keeps it away on where the mortal had said to keep it (in the cabinet by the foyer) before heading over to the balcony. He doesn’t follow after George with going outside, his back to the wall, eyes on the blower the mortal had dropped earlier to which his exclamation probably woke Dream up, ears tuning in to George.
“I’m not sure,” Dream hears him say, “I’ll try to pull extra hours at the store next week.”
Dream assumes that someone else from the small device talks back because the mortal is quiet for a few seconds.
“It’s due in a few days, Nick. I can try to talk to the registrar but I doubt they’ll let me pass again.” George had replied.
“No, I am not calling my parents.” He says not a second later. “No, it’s fine. You know how it is.”
And then George laughs. “No, you’re an idiot.” Something about that makes something twist in Dream’s stomach, but he pays it no mind and listens well. “You don’t have to do that. I just wanted to talk to someone about it in case you see me one day banging a baseball bat on the school gates asking for half my degree. That will get me somewhere, right? Like, half a job.”
The mortal laughs again, giving Dream an indication that George must enjoy talking to whoever he is talking to right now.
“Ugh, now you’re teasing me.” George groans after a few seconds of silence.
“Ah, I don’t think we should go. I think it’s gonna rain soon and I don’t want to plunge into the rain when we finish at the library.”
George hums, before chuckling to himself. “I mean, are we really doing it together if you’re just going to copy my assignment?”
The person on the opposite line must have shouted because Dream hears a fuzzy, indiscernible voice come from the device. George throws his head back in response, holding back a laugh.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re so annoying.” George says, “Fine, I’ll send it to you later. Whatever, bye.”
It’s five seconds too late when Dream realizes he’s been eavesdropping the whole time— and that he shouldn’t be— so his natural response succumbs to fight or flight. He does neither, upon realizing that he indeed lost the majority of his divinity and that he can neither fight without his missing arms nor fly without his powers, so instead he runs to the next room.
George finds him thirty seconds later.
“What—” George starts, looking at Dream in disbelief. “What are you doing?”
Dream clears his throat. “You shouldn’t question my godly deeds, mortal.”
“You are literally sticking your foot in my dryer.” George deadpans.
“Oh.” Dream supplies unhelpfully at the realization before he’s huffing and unsticking his limb from where it apparently should not be stuck into. Then he remembers who he’s talking to. He turns away, and if he had his cape, he would have spanned it dramatically. “You talk too much.”
He walks out of the laundry room, walking past the mortal, and heads to the fridge to fetch the box he always sees the boy stare at every morning as if it holds all the universe’s secrets and then sits on the couch, ignoring the confused stare George is giving him.
Stare all the mortal wants because Dream has something far more important to do. He digs his fingers through the box, fetching one small piece, before enclosing it in his palm and letting his hand do the work. The iron ring falls to the bottom of the box after a while, letting Dream pick up another.