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“Absolutely not,” Dream says as soon as he sees the package in Sapnap’s hands.
Sapnap, who’d been creeping up the stairs like a— a creeper, stops short and glares up at him. “You scared me,” he hisses, furtively glancing back downstairs before doing a ridiculous, almost comical tip-toe up the rest of the stairs to where Dream is looming on the landing. “Why are you skulking around by the stairs, weirdo?”
“George isn’t home, just by the way,” Dream says crossly, not deigning to answer Sapnap’s question. “So you snuck all the way over here for nothing.”
Sapnap gawks at him. “How did you know—”
“Also, get him another gift,” Dream says loudly.
Immediately, Sapnap’s entire expression darkens. “Eat shit,” he scowls, before the implications dawn on him. “Wait, no way.”
“Yes way,” Dream says.
“You got him the same thing?!”
“Three weeks ago, so get him something else,” Dream says, and motions sweepingly towards the front door. “Go. Get. Something. Else.”
“I hate you,” Sapnap snarls venomously as he stalks back down the stairs. “Three weeks ago! Simp!”
“You got him the same thing!” Dream calls down at his retreating back, sounding far more smug than he should.
It’s George’s first time spending his birthday in Florida and the first time they’re celebrating a birthday all together, so of course Dream starts stressing about it as soon as George arrives at the beginning of September. Everything has to be perfect— the cake, the decorations, the gifts.
That's the whole issue.
George hasn’t wanted for anything ever since he got his one-way ticket to Florida and a room in Dream’s house, just like they’d joked about so long ago. It’s nice that he’s provided for, that Dream gets to provide for him, but it also means that Dream can't think of a single thing to get him for his birthday. When Dream finally prods, discreetly, midway through September after having lost a few nights of sleep, George just shrugs noncommittally and very unhelpfully.
"I don't know," he says, more interested in his cereal (and Twitter). "I don't like, really need anything right now, I guess."
Dream nods cheerfully, ruffles his hair in a very platonic way, and then escapes upstairs to continue tearing his own hair out.
It takes Dream the better part of four weeks to scour old recordings and livestreams for an inkling of what to get George, combing through past videos. Then he finds it: a bit of cut footage in his recording folder from over a year ago. He and George are parkouring across the tops of trees, just the two of them, no real goal in sight. He remembers this, vaguely, from their player-controlled Ender Dragon video— Technoblade had just left the Discord call, and they were running around the Overworld, talking about nothing in particular. Dream can hear the smile in his own voice as they chase each other aimlessly.
It's a quick comment, nothing more. Dream doesn't even remember most of the conversation. George mentions, offhandedly, something he'd wanted for a long time before moving on, and Dream stops the footage, takes a deep breath, stands up, and pumps his fist victoriously.
Three days later, George's birthday gift is meticulously wrapped, bagged, and hidden deep in Dream's closet.
Cake, check. Ribbons and balloons and confetti, check. Two gift bags sitting on the table side-by-side, check.
"I hate you," Sapnap says as he adjusts his gift for the third time, moving it two inches to the left, and then right an inch. Then he moves it left again. "You're the worst."
George is out for dinner right now— Wilbur flew in last night and showed up at their doorstep this morning with a song that was partly joking and fully off-tune before spiriting George away on a half-day trip, giving Sapnap and Dream time to prepare the house for the evening. They’d put up obnoxious banners and stuck balloons to the walls, sprinkled the floor with confetti and— painstakingly— wrangled Patches into a little felt birthday cake-shaped hat.
(She sits at the base of the staircase, watching them puttering around with baleful eyes, and pettily nips at their ankles every time they walk by. Not even a treat pacifies her burning rage.)
“Size doesn’t matter,” Dream tells Sapnap condescendingly. The second gift Sapnap has procured is much smaller, the single folded piece of tissue paper he’d tucked into the top of the bag dwarfing it. “I’m sure George will like it anyways.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Sapnap announces, brandishing the cake knife. “That’ll be my new gift, I’m literally going to gut—”
Dream skirts the table, keeping himself opposite to Sapnap as he advances with the knife in hand. “Ooh, death threats? What will Twitter think—”
“Twitter won’t know,” Sapnap says ominously, faking one way before lunging the other. Dream laughs as he dodges again, keeping them in limbo. “I’ll serve your head on a platter to George—”
A car pulls into the driveway, the engine cutting off a moment later. Dream and Sapnap both freeze, before scrambling for the door.
Wilbur is making a mad dash for the passenger side, only barely managing to open the door before George can, offering him an arm that’s immediately swatted away. They’re both sporting what are clearly children’s party hats, which they hadn’t been wearing when they left. Wilbur leads George up the driveway, singing some sort of made-up nonsense song for “the birthday boy” all the way to the porch; Sapnap and Dream wait with bated breath as their footsteps approach up the wooden stairs, and swing the door open together.
“Happy birthday!” they both shout, swarming George. George shrieks as Sapnap tries to sprinkle confetti into his hair, ducking out of the way; Dream wraps his arms around him, lifting him clear off the ground.
“You guys!” George yells; his entire face is bright, a smile dimpling his cheeks. From the recesses of one of his pockets, Wilbur produces a tiny party blower.
The meek, sad honk it makes has them all spiralling into laughter.
“Mine first,” Sapnap demands as soon as George has scraped up the last bit of blue frosting from his plate, pushing his gift across the table. “Come on, come on!”
“No fair!” Dream argues, swatting at Sapnap’s head. Sapnap yelps and sticks his tongue out. “George—”
“Rock-paper-scissors,” George says evenly, eyes curved with the force of his smile. They both groan, but turn dutifully towards each other with determination, raising their fists.
“Best of three,” Dream bargains when he loses to Sapnap’s scissors, looking pleadingly at George.
“No!” George laughs, already pulling at the tissue paper. “I’m done waiting, I want to see!” A handful of glitter pours out of it, dusting the table; they’ll all be inhaling sparkles for the next few weeks. George ignores it, peering into the bag. “Oh— it’s me!”
It’s actually a small clay cat, clearly hand-painted with the skill of a five-year old: most of its body is a bright blue, and white rings its little beady eyes. A slightly smeared streak of red paint colours its chest. The coloured glaze has melted over itself in the kiln, resulting in a very bedraggled looking creature and some interestingly mixed colours, none of them belonging on a cat. George grins, holding it in the palm of his hand.
“I painted it myself,” Sapnap says proudly. George beams at him.
“I love it,” he says, setting it by his elbow and patting its head gently with a finger. Dream leans across the table, eyes bright, vying for George’s attention.
“Mine now,” he says petulantly, nudging his bag pointedly. George laughs, reaching over and tapping his nose, undoubtedly leaving a dusting of blue glitter on Dream’s skin. Dream just eagerly pushes his gift towards him.
“Stop flirting,” Sapnap calls, face screwed up in mock disgust. Dream flips him off. George scowls at him.
“Shut up,” he pouts, digging through the tissue paper. “You can’t make fun of me on my birthday, that’s illegal.” Sapnap says something else, but Dream ignores him, waiting eagerly as George pulls out his gift. He pauses for a second. A few different emotions flash through his face— polite surprise, confusion, hesitation, amusement. Dream was hoping for something along the lines of delight, maybe.
Patches jumps up onto the table. Sapnap shoos her off before she can get into the chocolate cake.
“Dream,” George says carefully after a long, heavy pause, turning to him with a barely-restrained laugh. “I already have one of these.”
Mortified, all Dream can do is bury his face, very gently, in the remnants of his cake, as Sapnap cackles at him.
(“—bought it myself like, in January,” George says. The chat sails by, almost too quick to read, but Dream can still clearly see that they are, each and every one of them, laughing at him. “I mean, he remembered it from a year ago, so—”
“I mean, I also got—” Sapnap starts, then reconsiders. “Nevermind.”)