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In September, Dream thinks he knows everything there is to know about George.
By January, he sees that was wrong.
Dream and Sapnap learn new things about George every day that he’s in Florida, it seems.
On a Sunday evening in December, for example, Sapnap learns – when he finds George over the kitchen sink with tired eyes and soapy hands – that he’s never used a dishwasher.
They both feign superiority, Sapnap offering to teach George how to use the machine and George arguing that he doesn’t need to use it. They get into a lighthearted, hushed-voice argument about it, and by the end of it Sapnap is stood beside him, wiping a dish towel along the inside of glass cup, laughter bubbling from both their chests when George hands him hand-washed dishes at a rate faster than he can dry them without smudges.
They only chip one plate. A tiny – miniscule, really – break in the edge. To the back of the cupboard it goes, is Sapnap’s genius plan, and they never tell Dream.
George is also surprisingly tidy (Sapnap and Dream had placed valueless bets on this before the move was even anything more than a hopeful hypothetical. George promised them he was a clean person. Sapnap called him a liar). On occasion, Dream will catch him tossing a t-shirt he’s barely worn onto his bedroom floor, or kicking his shoes off at the doorway instead of sliding them into their designated space in his closet, but he picks up after himself in the common areas. It’s a shyness – a politless, despite everything – that doesn’t seem to be fading no matter how many times Dream assures him that he doesn’t have to be so anal about the pieces of himself he leaves around their home.
“Yeah," Sapnap had said. “I leave my shit everywhere.”
Neither Dream nor George paid the sentiment much mind at the time, only offering an eerily synchronized, “Yeah, we know,” to the Texan as he picked up a discarded baseball cap from the armrest of the living room couch and eyed it with a furrowed brow before sliding it casually over his hair.
“It’s our house too, George,” He’d paused to lean closer to George and cup a hand over his mouth in a stage whisper. “Except, not really, ‘cause Dream is our sugar daddy and pays for everything, but y'know, he loves us.”
"You’re both idiots,” Dream recalls the sound of his own soft laughter. “You’re lucky I do.”
It’s cute, still being able to learn new things about someone you’ve known so well for so long.
Dream and Sapnap had agreed easily on this, speaking in soft, exhilarated whispers over George’s sleeping form and an abandoned football game one Saturday, giggling and wondering if George was learning stuff about them too. The brunette had fallen asleep, legs outstretched, head drooped lazily into his own collarbone and jawline softened with relaxation. He’d started to sleep talk, something the Americans had heard but never seen him do, and both men found themselves completely enthralled by the way he’d nuzzle his face closer to the couch to press muffled, incoherent words into the fabric.
“What was that?” At some point in all Dream’s fondness, Sapnap had started recording, now inching his phone disgustingly close to the sleeping boy’s face. "'I love Sapnap?’ Aw, Georgie– huh? What? ‘SNF is real?’”
If there were any actual coherent thoughts slipping past George’s lips, they had been instantly lost to Dream’s turbulent wheezing.
And yet, somehow, not every day with George is bubbly domesticity.
Far from it, actually.
As quickly as Dream and Sapnap learn about George’s preferred cereal brands, they learn about his bad days.
Today is one, it seems. Yesterday was too.
Sometimes, a bad day means George is irritated, and will pull on every loose string he can find until Dream or Sapnap tell him off (which is annoying, but really, nothing new), and sometimes, it means they don’t see him at all. It means he won’t leave his room, won’t eat, won’t work, and certainly won’t say anything about what he’s feeling.
It’s been the latter for a few hours too long, Dream decides, and the next thing he knows, he’s laying a hesitant palm atop the corner of the lonesome boy’s mattress.
Another thing: George never locks his door.
"I'm just gonna let you in anyways," he'd said. "What's the point of having to go unlock it every time?"
“Can I…?”
George nods, hums, and pulls his legs to his chest. While Dream gets comfortable, he turns and fluffs the pillow at his back.
Dream straightens his posture, facing the nook in the room where George’s desk resides, legs folded over the edge of the bed. He blinks at the bare walls.
“Can I ask you something?”
George hums again.
“Are you–” For a split second, Dream considers not asking. If he doesn’t ask, he doesn’t have to hear the answer he so desperately fears, but Sapnap’s voice rings worried in his ears, and he knows he can’t force a perfect life for the three of them just by wanting it bad enough. “Do you not like it here?”
He doesn’t look at George, unaware of the way his lips part, eyes widening as he blinks fuzzily at Dream’s profile. He purposely avoids the chocolate trace George leaves over the bridge of his nose as his eyes study his silhouette. He does hear him clear his throat, though.
“Why would you ask me that?”
Dream busies his own eyes with the rug. All the reassurances Sapnap had given him about this conversation circle around with the dust the air conditioning blows around, invisible in the darkness George keeps, blackout curtains from London pulled tight over the tall window by his bed.
“I’ve just never seen you like this,” he says.
Easy, he reminds himself. Remember how it feels.
“You’re… sad, George.”
George doesn’t say anything, but Dream can feel the argument even without vocalization, so he continues.
“You have these days. You don’t– You don’t leave your room, or even–” He pauses to finally look at George, who’s listening closely despite how pained the topic makes him look. He has the sleeves of his own newest merch design tugged over his knuckles as he holds his own hand across his knees. Dream doesn’t think he’s taken off the black hoodie since it arrived in a box at their doorstep. “–your bed, do you?”
“I leave my bed,” George all but whimpers, a hushed protest into the fabric of his joggers.
“I get it,” Dream places his vulnerability in the space between their bodies, up to George to take or leave. “You know I do. Sap and I, we’re just– caught off guard, because you– you always seemed so…”
Atop the vulnerability, George piles what's left of his patience as Dream gathers his words.
“Untouchable,” is what he settles on. “To stuff like–”
“Like what?”
“I don’t want to–”
“Just say it,” George pushes, a little petulantly. He knows what Dream is thinking, and he knows that it’s wrong, though he can imagine why it’d come across that way.
“Like depression,” Dream sighs. “I know that’s a heavy word. I’m sorry. I just don’t know how else to say it, so I’m trying to figure it out, George, that’s all. I just wanna– I wanna– this is dumb, but I– I wanna fix it, y’know, if I can.”
Slowly, George turns his body so that he’s facing his setup as well, the sight of Dream starting to burn through his ever-present headache. The blonde only looks mildly hurt at the shift, and soon they’re both watching the time change on his sleeping monitor.
“I’m not depressed, Dream.”
He can tell Dream doesn’t believe him.
“Just homesick then?”
George sighs. The pressure behind his eyes is steadily building. The lingering effects of the nights before have been weighing him down all day, and now, as Dream's voice lowers the sun, he finds the feelings harder to resist. His brain sways in his head, nauseating and out of reach.
He doesn’t know if he can handle another night of this.
“Dream,” he pleads, though even he isn’t sure, at first, what he’s begging for. The second he’s finished saying the name, he can’t remember the way it sounded, but there must’ve been something telling in his voice because Dream’s eyes are locked on him now. The taller man leans over his own lap to try and peak through George’s falling hair, silently begging for eye contact. George doesn’t give it to him. “Please don’t p-push this.”
“We’re just worried, George,”
The brunette winces at yet another mention of Sapnap and Dream as a collective. There’s a sight flashing in his mind, the two of them speaking about George in hushed voices – Google searches, and theories, and–
“–but okay,” George forces himself to blink, alarmed at how easily Dream’s voice had faded out of focus. He tunes back in cautiously. “I won’t.”
“Thanks.”
With the panic building tight in his throat, George wonders how he ever thought he could pull this off. It’s not like this was something that happened often, back home. As a matter fact, the times it had had all been completely unintentional – the result of a late night, boredom, and a random Twitter thread he'd happened to stumble on. He’d never meant for it to happen to him; he just wanted to learn. He supposed that was all he was doing, those times it’d happened before. Learning. Trying to understand.
It scared him, though, disappearing into his own head. Waking up with tear stained cheeks from emotions he couldn’t remember. The buzzing, the blurriness, the pain that sometimes followed. George had decided that he couldn’t understand, then, how age regression could be a coping mechanism for anyone. All it ever did was make him feel more helpless and alone.
“Can I bring you some dinner?”
And yet, ever since the holidays came to a close – all smiles and gifts and fireworks and adrenaline – it seems to be all that his brain wants to do. Months pass with the settlement of permanence, and George’s mind longs for this.
He looks at his hands and tries to imagine them circled around cool silver, maneuvering silverware like someone who’s in their right mind. He tries to imagine them not shaking the second he releases them from each other, but finds that he can’t.
“‘M not hungry.”
“George.”
“Dream,” George has to meet his gaze now, if only in hopes that his glossy eyes will convey how badly he needs him to leave so that he can fall apart.
“I can only agree not to push you if you agree not to shut me out. I love you, and Sap and I are sorry that you feel… like this, but you–”
Nope, George thinks. No. He knows, deep down, that Dream is only saying caring things, but the tightness in his voice is bordering on scolding and George can’t do that right now.
“Stop.”
“George–”
“No,” George screws his eyes shut. This time, he hears his voice failing him. “I mean it, Dw– Dream. ” Fuck. “Dream,” he repeats with forced darkness. “Please leave. Please.”
The second he opens his eyes there will be tears. He can’t think. All he can do is desperately hope that the palpable emptiness in the room is strong enough to push Dream away before he sees anything more.
Instead, a warm hand palms his knee. George instantly shivers, only registering faint alarm as his thoughts melt away to abstract feelings.
“Look at me, George.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Jus’ no.”
“Geor–”
“Dream!” George is practically outside of his body, watching his own eyes fly open, wet with frustration and confusion and sudden anger . He watches his hands ball into fists around Dream’s shirt, tugging slightly before pushing back, flattening out against his body with strength that just isn’t there. “Y’never–” Dream hardly stumbles as George shoves him, but he does lean back. “–listen!” George thinks he looks scared. He feels sorry, even as he lifts a fist to hit Dream’s chest.
George can feel the instinct in Dream touch. He comes to defend himself with a primitive urgency that fades to something more gentle and apologetic the second their skin makes contact. His fingers brush the inside of George’s arm while he pulls him away.
George is helpless like this. Dream wraps one hand’s fingers around both of his wrists and George thinks he can sob at how small it makes him feel.
“Don’t hit me,” Dream’s voice is immovable. In fragments of thoughts, George wonders how such angry words and such a tender touch can belong to the same person in the same moment. “What the fuck, George?”
“Leave,” George hears himself squeak, shrunken. “‘M gonna…”
“What?” Dream shakes his wrists, gentle still. George kind of wishes he wouldn’t be. The touch is only sinking him further, but then again, so is the yelling. “You’re not…” His voice softens slightly, like he’s just now remembering he came in here because he thought George was depressed. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Just g-go,”
George’s eyes flicker to Dream’s lap. He can feel him staring. Dream breathes heavily, cheeks ablaze with frustration and a lack of understanding.
George’s hands go weightless as Dream drops them.
He doesn’t say anything, not even a definitive “Fine,” as the loss of his weight tilts the mattress and the door opens and slams shut.
George turns to face the opposite wall, lowering his head to the pillowcase as it slumps over, knees still flush against his chest. He curls tighter into himself, bringing a second pillow over his ears as he drowns the sheets in salt. He cries, and he waits for himself to slip.
It’s still night time when George wakes, which he’s grateful for, considering the gentle pounding on the inside of his skull. There is light, though, soft and yellow and widening into the room as the door creaks open.
George merely scrunches his nose, bringing fabric-clad fists to rub the dizziness from his eyes. He blinks up at the roof, having rolled onto his back at some point in his sleep.
He’s not little right now, but not quite big, either. He rolls over the rest of the way to find Sapnap lingering by the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his fabric shorts.
“Wh’re you doin’?”
The younger boy smiles at the sound of his voice, discomfort easing visibly from his posture.
“Just checking in,” He says, doing an okay job at sounding unconcerned. He smirks then, when George makes no move to get out of bed for him. “Wanna cuddle?”
George looks at Sapnap with a foggy, unreadable expression.
“George?” Sapnap knows that if George didn’t want to he would’ve said so, as he and Dream usually do, but after the talk he had with the frustrated, teary-eyed blonde a few hours prior, he decides he needs confirmation.
“Hu– What? Sorry.”
“Do you wanna cuddle?”
Sapnap almost accepts that the blank, dewy-eyed stare is all he’s gonna get, but after a moment of contemplation behind the darkness, George gives a tiny nod.
Sapnap’s in his bed before he can think better of it. He hops up on his knees, a warm, wide smile gracing his pink cheeks.
“George, baby,” he mumbles, too caught up in trying to tug warm fabric from beneath George’s arm to notice the way he tenses. “Your room is fucking freezing. Let me in here,”
In a trance from the pet name, George slowly lifts his arm, allowing Sapnap to unwind the stringent layers he’d wrapped himself in. He shivers, but it isn’t long before Sapnap slides inside, warmer than the lifeless fabric, and drapes the fluff over them both.
"What did you just call me?" lays thick on his tongue, but all that comes out when he tries to speak is a barely audible, “'Baby?'”
The question is lost to the shuffling of his bed sheets as Sapnap pushes himself higher on the bed so he can take George’s head to his chest. The fluffy-haired boy hums contentedly, and Sapnap drapes a leg across both of his, one hand coming up to rest lightly over his hip.
“You’ve waited for this,” George teases, fighting his headspace and the echoing baby, baby, baby, once more.
“Hell yeah I have,” Sapnap laughs into his hair.
George isn’t going to last like this. Sapnap is so warm, and holding him like he’s smaller than he is. He just shakes his head against the fabric of his shirt, hoping it says enough.
“George?” He doesn’t answer until Sapnap offers a lighter name, one that holds less responsibility, syllables cutely dragged and accented. “Georgie,”
“Hm,”
“You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”
And there it is. The reminder of how bad of a friend and roommate he’s being. He purses his lips, resisting the urge to whine into Sapnap’s chest.
“Just feel…” He tries. Talking is difficult, but he can’t take another fight, especially when Sapnap is being so casually considerate. “Stuck.”
Sapnap takes a moment. “Y’know, when I first moved here, I used to panic about so many, uh, little things. Like, don’t get me wrong, I was happy, but sometimes I would see or do something that’d remind me of, like, my mom, or my sister, and I’d feel stuck too. Just the realization that I’d never go back home…” He trails off, then, “Not that that’s really, uh, true for you. Obviously you can go back home whenever you wa–”
“‘S not like that,” George assures him. “Like it here. ‘S all I wanted.”
George can feel the way Sapnap's chest expands as he smiles.
“I think you should tell Dream that."
George frowns. “Dream…”
“Not right now, though,” Sapnap tightens his grip, fingers coming to scratch lightly at George's scalp. “Dream’s okay. He’s not mad, promise. Just worried about you.”
“Okay…” The guilt doesn't subside, but George is in no place to be thinking about so many things at once.
Sapnap listens to the white noise of George's ceiling fan for as long as he can take it, then pushes further cautiously. “What is it like then?”
“Um, my, uh,” George is lucky that the admission that slips into Sapnap’s warm embrace only makes sense to him. He can feel his heartbeat slowing with the petting and the gentle heat and the rumbling of his voice. Inhibitions are slipping into the space between them. “My head… ‘s not in the right place. Too small, ‘n not small enough…”
When it becomes clear he isn’t going to say anything more – or anything that makes any sense – Sapnap nods, pressing a chaste kiss to the crown of George’s head.
“You’re alright, George. You’re okay. We’ll talk tomorrow – get a little more sleep.”