Archive of Our Own

It was a fairytale, if you looked at it sort of sideways. A fairytale with all of its characters knocked slightly askew. With an apathetic prince, and a besotted god, and a boy who chose power over love again and again.

But, that’s not how it started.

Once upon a time, there were three boys.

Once upon a time, there was a wide and yawning and untouched world.

Once upon a time, these three boys, young and wild and inseparable, stumbled upon this wide, wide world and decided to make something of it. To make it their own.

These three boys were all in love with each other, a fact each one of them knew inherently. The wild sort of love that comes with all friendships built through shared childhood. In love with each other, and in love with the world, and hungry for adventure, and so when they stumble upon the land, fresh-faced and untouched, and Dream declares it theirs, George and Sapnap don’t hesitate in their agreement.

They tell you to look before you leap, but with Dream, this is an impossibility. With Dream you leapt blindly and hoped for a soft landing, and this is something George loves about him.

The first night in their land tastes of love and freedom. They build a fire in the meadow as the sun begins to kiss the horizon, painting the sky in drowsy tones, the air thick with the scent of wildflowers. They lie piled together, gazing skyward as stars begin to wink down at them. They talk and laugh until evening melts into night, all of them dizzy with the possibility that lays at their feet like an unfurled carpet.

Sapnap drifts off to sleep first, the sound of the breeze ruffling through the grass lulling him to slumber with his head propped up on Dream’s stomach. George lies to Dream’s right, the mere inch between them feels as wide and yawning as a canyon, though neither cares to admit it.

“Is he asleep?” George asks softly, eyes still skyward, watching the stars as they peer down at him curiously in return. They had traveled a long way to get here, following the tugging of their heartstrings, and George felt his own eyes growing heavy with fatigue, and a soft and lovely sense of contentment.

“Yeah,” Dream answers softly, the hint of a laugh held at the edge of his voice.

George will never tell a soul, but he thinks perhaps he would burn cities down for that laugh. Soft and hiccupy and so wholly Dream that sometimes it makes George’s cheeks burn. He looks over at them then, piled together, the moonlight softening their faces, making them look younger than they are. That soft and strange and wild love that lives in his chest swells at the sight.

“I feel like we’re in a fairytale,” George breathes, “Prince Dream and his two faithful knights.”

Dream’s gaze drifts to George at that, his smile all teeth. “I’m not pretty enough to be the Prince, I think it should be Prince George and his two faithful knights.”

George wholly disagrees, but instead of arguing he rolls his eyes skyward and scoffs. “Are you calling me pretty?”

Dream studies his face, his smile growing. “As if you don’t already know.”

George laughs, and the breeze kisses softly over their faces, and the stars wheel overhead and the cheshire moon hangs heavy and sweet in the sky. It is a strange sort of dance they have done as long as either of them can remember. Teasing conversations that hover on the edge of seriousness. Passing glances that always seem to border on something more. Like they are both trying to say something neither of them can quite find the words for.

“Okay, Prince George and his two faithful knights.” George whispers to the sky. “How does our story go?’

Dream considers seriously for a moment, and George studies the little crease that appears between his brow, ignoring the urge to smooth it away with his thumb.

Dream hums quietly and then murmurs. “Once upon a time, a Prince and his two faithful knights stumbled upon a beautiful, untouched land and claimed it as their own. They had many great adventures and lived happily ever after.”

“That’s it?” George laughs, watching the moonlight reflect off of Dream’s teeth as he begins to smile again. “You suck at telling stories.”

“All a good story needs is a happy ending,” Dream laughs.

George hums in thought as he picks blades of grass and settles them haphazardly in Dream’s soft hair. “So you think our story will have a happy ending?” He asks quieter, a bit of seriousness staining his voice where he doesn’t mean to let it.

Dream studies his face once more, his expression melting into something soft, something George can’t quite put a name to. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I do.”

George holds up a pinkie between them. “Promise?”

Dream lifts his arm, careful not to disturb Sapnap’s sleeping form, and links his pinkie with George’s. It’s warm and soft and sure, and all the other wonderful words that he tends to associate with Dream.

“Promise.”

They fall asleep like that, piled and tangled and linked together in the sweet grass. The sky a yawning, wide thing above them, and their dreams painted sweet and bright with possibility.

Building a home is a tedious thing, they come to find out. It’s not quite as easy as constructing four walls and a roof. That is a house to be certain, but not quite a home. They build the community house together over the first handful of days, each of them always ending up sweaty and sunburnt and deliriously happy by the end of it.

They turn it into a home slowly, lovingly, and sometimes, almost accidentally. Dream plants flowers outside of the windows, and George hides a smile behind his hand when he realizes they are cornflowers. Silently delighted that Dream had remembered that long ago day when he had mentioned they were his favorite. Sapnap pushes their beds together until they are snug side by side in a neat little row. George hangs up pictures they had taken in the first couple of days, arms slung around each other, bunny ears peeking up behind Dream’s head courtesy of Sapnap. Noses sunburnt and smiles all teeth.

Their shoes begin to line up neatly by the door, Dream’s green cloak always flung over the same chair. There is a knick out of the floor where they had accidentally knocked it while moving a table. The door hangs slightly crooked after Sapnap had flung it open too hard one night, excitedly calling for them to come look at the meteor shower.

Some of the paint doesn’t match, and some of the boards hang a bit lopsided, and it is imperfect and loved and so very thiers.

George is sitting out on the dock they had just finished, letting his feet swing in the cool lake water and watching the sun sink down into the horizon, when Dream comes and settles down beside him. They are quiet for a while, letting the wind lick at their hair and watching the wildfire colored sky; softly kicking little ripples into the lake that slowly fade away.

“It’s starting to feel like home isn’t it?” Dream’s voice finally cuts through the silence.

George looks at him sideways, watches as he leans back on his hands, eyes on the horizon, the dying sun painting him in golden hues and tinting his hair in copper tones. He glances away and hums, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sapnap said the same thing to me earlier.”

It’s Dream’s turn to glance over, George’s cheeks heat as he feels his gaze trail softly over him. “Did he?”

It had been earlier in the day, while George had been exploring a nearby forest, with Sapnap trailing along behind him, complaining with each and every step. Pushed to the point of frustration George had finally stressed, “if you don’t want to be here Sapnap, then go home.”

Sapnap had fallen quiet, pondering for a moment before finally murmuring, “it does feel like home now, doesn’t it?”

George tumbles out of his thoughts and laughs quietly, a breathy, soft thing. “Well, I guess I was the one who said it first, he agreed with me.”

It snuck up on him really, the roots of the place curling tenderly around his heart while he wasn’t paying attention. No longer just a house, but now, suddenly and surely, a home.

George watches as the whisper of a smile tilts the corner of Dream’s lips, the last rays of sun settling upon them gently, as though a lover giving a kiss. Dream reaches a careful hand up, brushing a stray piece of hair away from George’s cheek. “This place looks good on you,” he says, fondness and amusement tangling together in his voice, “you’ve got some freckles now.”

George finds himself resisting the urge to follow the warmth of Dream’s palm as he pulls his arm away. He swallows. “Maybe someday I’ll even catch up with you,” he laughs, studying the dusting of sun kisses that brush across Dream’s nose and cheeks.

Dream smiles and looks away, splashing George’s leg softly with some of the brisk lake water. They watch quietly as the sun finishes it’s descent, and the world begins to melt slowly into night.

“What do you think about having more people live here?” Dream asks quietly, as a few crickets begin to take up song somewhere beside them.

George looks at him surprised. “What do you mean?”

Dream shrugs, “a few people wandered by while you and Sapnap were gone earlier, they were nice. They seem interested in sticking around for a while.” Dream looks up at him then, eyes wide and earnest, and George doesn’t think he could tell him no if he wanted to.

He smiles and leans back on his hands, mirroring Dream’s position, the very tip of his pinkie faintly pressed against Dream’s own. “Sure,” he shrugs cooly.

“Yeah?” Dream smiles, the whisper of a dimple appearing on his cheek.

“Yeah,” George agrees, “that way I’ll have more than just your dumb face to look at all day.”

Before he can blink George is sputtering out the handful of water that Dream flicks in his face.

Sapnap has begun to light the lanterns within the house, and the reflection of the lights sway gently on the water below. Dream’s hiccupy laughter floats skyward as he pulls his legs out of the water and rises to his feet, holding out a hand to George as though it’s a white flag waving between two battle lines. “Come on,” he says, voice as sweet and warm as a spring sun, “let’s go home.”

Before long, it is well and truly a proper settlement. People trickle in slowly, building houses into the hillsides and valleys. A rickety walkway is constructed, and someone plants flowers all along it on either side. Small gardens begin to pop up, lovingly tended by various dirt-stained hands. It is a lovely and jumbled mosaic of each person that begins to call the place home.

Dream is proud of it. George can see it in his eyes, bright and earnest, and in his voice when he talks so fast his sentences begin to stumble into one another. He can see how much he loves it, this little home they nurtured into blooming.

George loves it too, in his own way. He loves the way that Sapnap has slotted into the place like he was its missing puzzle piece. He loves how blue the sky looks here, and how soft the grass is beneath his feet. He loves the community house, sitting like a monument right in the middle of it all.

And he loves how happy it makes Dream. He thinks that might be the thing he loves most of all.

They see each other a bit less now. Dream has officially taken on the title of leader, which keeps him busy most days. George often finds himself off with Sapnap or Karl or Quackity, a fast friendship quickly growing between the four of them. It’s strange, suddenly traveling on a path that diverges from Dream’s for what is probably the first time in his life. He feels as though he is a red rose without his red. Undeniably still recognizable as himself, and yet, somehow still missing an essential part.

So it is with soft delight that one afternoon George stumbles upon Dream leaning up against the lemon tree that sits on a hilltop on the edge of the land; staring off into the distance as wispy clouds make their way across a bluebird sky, and a summer wind blows sweet and warm.

George observes him unnoticed for a moment, tossing a lemon from hand to hand, head tilted in contemplation. He looks softer when he thinks no one is watching, almost lost-looking. With his wind-blown hair and bottom lip tucked between his teeth, George thinks he looks as if he could be a wayward prince from some old, forgotten fairytale.

He drifts slowly up the hill, making sure to scuff his feet on the ground as he goes so Dream hears his approach.

Dream smiles as he catches sight of him, a faint, lovely thing that blooms its way across his lips, and George has to swallow down the flowers in his chest that seem to blossom at the sight.

“Hey,” Dream says warmly, his voice soft as rainfall.

“I’ve missed you,” George can feel the words climbing up his throat, “this world of ours is lovely, but it hasn’t been quite as sweet without you.”

“Hey,” he says instead as he leans up against the tree beside Dream, crossing his arms, “you’ve made a good ghost the past couple of days.”

Dream scoffs softly, but there’s no malice behind it. “I could say the same thing about you.”

He hums, studying Dream’s face. He has worry lines etched between his brow, bottom lip still stuck stubbornly between his teeth. Finally he sighs, uncrossing his arms and reaching up a gentle hand, he smooths the lines on Dream’s brow with his thumb. Dream watches him softly, eyes lingering on his face.

They have spent a lifetime smoothing away eachother’s worries, and yet this moment somehow feels different. More weighted, as if they are each standing on opposite ends of a balanced scale, the threat of one wrong move sending the other tumbling downwards.

“You’ve been working too much,” George says with a frown, pulling his hand away. “You should come with Sapnap and I later, we’re going swimming in a lake we found.”

Dream’s lips quirk softly upwards at that and he sighs, running a hand through his hair, tousling it even more than the wind had managed. “Maybe another time, there’s too much going on here lately.”

George watches as Dream begins to worry at his lip once more. He sighs and picks up a leaf off the ground, twirling it between his fingers. The warmth of Dream beside him seeps into his side.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He finally says, peering up at Dream softly.

Dream’s brows wrinkle once more, but George doesn’t reach up a second time.

“I feel so much responsibility for everyone living here now.” He says quietly. “It’s like we’re building a family from the ground up.” He pauses for a moment and George watches fascinated as some imperceptible part of his expression darkens. “Some of them have started to worry me though.”

“Like who?” George asks warily.

He watches as Dream’s frown deepens. “Tommy, for one.”

George scoffs, “Tommy?”

He had seen Tommy earlier, running barefoot through a field, wildflower tucked behind his ear, chasing after another boy wildly. It had tugged a smile out of George, nostalgia settling on his bones like sunlight. They reminded him of Dream and Sapnap and himself when they were younger, wild and raucous in a way only young boys can be.

Dream looks at him darkly. “He’s been stealing things from people, George.”

George looks out at the small valley below them, speckled with houses and gardens and people. He watches one woman pulling carrots from soft earth, but when he blinks she is suddenly gone. Not gone as though she got up and walked away, but gone as if she had never been there in the first place. He squints his eyes, putting a hand on his forehead to block the sun, and then there she is again, between one blink and the next, pulling fat, orange carrots from the soft dirt just as she had been before.

George frowns for a moment, chalking it up to the lighting before he turns back to Dream.

“What,” he says airily, “like we didn’t do our own fair share of stealing when we were his age?” Soft amusement dances at the edge of his words.

“It’s not just that,” Dream says, frustration seeping into his words. “There’s been whispers of revolution going around.” His voice is low, worry sneaking its way softly past his lips. “Why would they want independence? Who isn’t happy with the way things are?” His tone begins to dance on the border of frantic.

George worries at his own lip for a moment before reaching up a hand once more and cupping the side of Dream’s face gently. Dream tilts his head into it, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh that floats warmly across George’s skin. His face is warm and soft and George brushes his thumb across a freckle that strays lower than the rest. “I think everything is going to be fine.” George murmurs softly. “And if it’s not, we’ll still be right there with you, yeah?”

Dream opens his eyes and meets George’s gaze softly. Somewhere in the tree above them a bird sings a low and mournful song. The summer wind whispers promises across their skin, as the murmur of the people below them floats skyward.

“What would I do without you?” Dream whispers.

It’s later that George finds himself sitting with his leg pressed against Sapnap’s in the community house, both of them huddled around the hearth as it chases the chill of night away. His hair is still wet from swimming earlier, and Sapnap pushes himself closer as a shiver climbs up George’s spine.

He looks across the dim room to the figure in the bed nearest to them. Dream’s hair is messy with sleep, face half buried in his pillow, the other half soft in the milky moonlight. He averts his eyes as Dream softly stirs, and turns them back to the fire that crackles and hisses before him, as Sapnap leans a head softly on his shoulder.

“Have you talked to Dream recently?” He finally murmurs to the quiet room.

“Not since a few days ago.” Sapnap answers, stifling a yawn with his hand. “Why?”

George thinks of Dream’s distant stare that afternoon, and his lip worried raw. He thinks of the birdsong in the tree that sounded fit for a funeral rather than a bright, blue summer day. He thinks of how everything changes and stays the same all at once. Above them are the same stars that hung in the sky when they first arrived, and beside him are the same boys. Or, one of them at least.

“It’s probably nothing,” he sighs, fighting away the feeling that everything is beginning to change faster than he can keep up. “Dream just seemed worried earlier.”

Sapnap scoffs. “Dream? Worried? Noooooo.”

George laughs and Sapnap joins him, their soft snickers dancing together with the low hiss of the fire.

As their laughter fades out George gives Sapnap a light push to the arm. “You know I saw you blushing when Karl and Quackity were flirting with you earlier.”

Sapnap hides his face further into George’s shoulder, mumbling something incoherent as a blush begins to dust his cheeks.

And outside, for just a moment, though neither boy notices, the moon flickers and disappears.

War isn’t what he thought it would be. It comes suddenly, like a summer rainstorm, sweeping in warm and ominous. Heavy and dark and sweet with promises. The kind of sweet that is almost rotten; a cloying aroma that fills throats and settles itself at home in the lungs of anyone unfortunate enough to cross it.

Or, in other words, anyone who finds themselves unfortunate enough to try and stand in Dream’s way.

War isn’t what he thought it would be because it’s fun. At first.

George becomes personally acquainted with the early hours of the morning, as he spends most nights staying up with Dream, planning and preparing until the stars begin to wink out of the sky, and the sun begins to brush soft, yellow light against the horizon.

After a lifetime together, he is certain that there is nothing he doesn’t know about Dream, but violence is a patient teacher, and war enlightens him to things he’d never even thought to consider. He learns what thirty-six hours without sleep looks like when it settles gently on Dream’s face. He learns how alluring Dream looks when he’s victorious, smile sharp and eyes as bright as the sword that glints in his hand.

He learns that if they stay up late enough together, they will both eventually fall asleep in the same bed. He learns what it feels like to have his face tucked delicately into Dream’s neck, his warm breaths stirring the hair on George’s head. He learns that if he lays still, it is almost enough to convince himself that he is asleep. Almost enough to convince himself that he isn’t letting this happen. Almost enough to convince himself that he doesn’t, desperately, want this to happen.

He learns that Dream makes soft little noises in the back of his throat as he stirs awake at some strange hour of the night. He learns that if Dream tries to leave the bed, quiet and gentle, as though not to disturb, George will reach out a hand, grabbing onto a pale and slender wrist, and will breathe out softly. “Stay.”

And he learns that Dream will.

For now. For tonight.

Because eventually, he learns just how far Dream is willing to go. And in the same vein, just how far he is willing to leave them behind.

Dream makes a mask, purposefully crude. Purposefully unnerving.

George watches as he crafts it carefully, shaping white clay into a perfect circle. Attaching black cloth as a strap so it fits snugly around his head. And lastly, using charcoal from their fireplace to smear on two round eyes, and one perfectly disconcerting smile.

He says it’s to intimidate, to control. That they have the advantage if the other side doesn’t know the true face of their enemy. George doesn’t like it. He misses Dream’s smile, bright and soft as sunlight, though he isn’t sure Dream does much smiling anymore.

It’s the mask he wears when he kills Tommy for the first time.

The sky is brooding, misty rain spitting down on him as he watches Dream and Tommy line up back to back on the dock below. Wilbur’s voice rings out clearly, like a church bell on a cloudless morning, though there is no sun to be seen, and nothing holy to be had here.

His counting is almost melodic. A clock ticking to victory for one, a swan song for the other.

And then he hits ten. And Tommy misses his mark. But Dream never does.

And today is no different.

At first, he is watching a young, blond boy clutching an arrow in his stomach, as blood blooms on his shirt like a rose on a spring morning. But then something changes; a strange, imperceptible shift in the world, and suddenly Tommy is no longer the one standing on the dock below dying, but instead Wilbur. He watches as a winged man shoves a sword through Wilbur’s chest, as Wilbur wraps his arms around the man in some strange sort of hug, an almost tranquil smile ghosting his face. And then the world shifts again, and there is Tubbo, eyes wide and terrified as though he is looking at a ghost. There is some sort of strange light cast on his face as he suddenly gasps, throwing his arms up in front of his face, before he too disappears. And then once again it is just Tommy, dying quietly below him.

George stumbles back, desperately trying to grasp at reality as it seems to crumble around him. Sapnap catches his arm, righting him gently. “Are you okay?” He says quietly, concern painting his voice in soft tones.

He breathes out shakily, the warmth of Sapnap’s hand on his arm grounding him gently. He looks down and sees that Dream has turned towards them. There could be concern painted on his face, but George will never know, because it is just that white, unnerving mask that stares back.

He looks away and glances at Sapnap gratefully. “Yeah, sorry, I’m fine.”

Soon, it becomes rare to ever see Dream without his mask. It’s what he wears when he crowns George king.

The castle is cavernous and empty, void of anyone but the two of them. Sunlight streams through the high windows and dust motes dance in the soft sun beams, the only witnesses to the crowning of an unwanted king. Dream had dethroned Eret, and now George sits in his place.

“I don’t know about this Dream.” He says it quietly, but his voice still echoes softly against the walls.

Over the past couple of weeks Dream had grown distant, sometimes almost cold. There are times when George looks at him and sees a stranger rather than a friend. But then there are the nights when he is pressed warmly into Dream’s side, when Dream’s even, sleeping breath floats warmly across his skin. Those are the nights that conflict whispers within him most firmly.

Dream stands in front of him now, crown in hand, more stranger than friend. His white mask is pulled securely on, hiding any hint of his face. “This is what’s best for everyone, I promise George.”

He studies Dream for a moment and Dream’s white mask stares back, and suddenly a flare of anger bursts into his chest. “That’s the thing, I don’t think it is Dream.” He clenches his hand into a fist and takes a breath. “I think this is what’s best for you.”

Dream is silent for a moment before he begins, “That’s not--”

“It is though.” George says firmly, cutting him off as his voice raises slightly. “This isn’t what’s best for me.” He gestures around to the empty castle, wreckage littering the floor. “This certainly isn’t what’s best for Eret.”

“Eret betrayed his friends,” Dream spits back, “maybe he had this coming.”

George throws his hands into the air. “You’re not even listening to what I’m saying!” He sits back in the throne roughly, crossing his arms and turning his head away, looking at anything but the boy in front of him, lip caught between his teeth in frustration.

For a moment it is silent, and then there is a warm hand on his leg. “George, look at me.” Dream pleads quietly.

George resists for a moment before sighing and looking over hesitantly. Dream is kneeling in front of him, mask pushed up into his hair. For a moment something seems wrong with his face, his smile too wide, too full of teeth, before George blinks and it is just Dream, soft eyes and softer smile in front of him once more.

“I am listening,” he looks up at George with those pretty green eyes that are still distant in some indistinct way. “I promise I’m listening.” He grabs George’s hand gently, coaxing open his fisted fingers and then links their pinkies together softly. “A happy ending, remember?”

George thinks back to those halcyon days when they had first arrived, golden and saccharine and sweet with possibility. He thinks of laying under the stars, tangled together with Dream and Sapnap as though they were a knot that wasn’t meant to be untied. He thinks of the way Dream used to laugh, sometimes soft and breathy, sometimes a loud and unrestrained thing that sounded like letters chasing each other out through his lips. He thinks of how he hasn’t heard that laugh in a long, long time.

He pulls his pinkie away from Dream’s. “I don’t think this is what either of us meant when we said that.” He breathes out, scarcely more than a whisper.

Dream sighs, seemingly defeated, and stands up, sliding his mask smoothly back in place. “This will work out for us in the long run George, you’ll see.”

That day, George is crowned king of a broken land, in an empty castle, by the hands of someone who once meant everything and now seemed to care for nothing.

That night, against all the voices telling him not to, he reaches for Dream’s hand and asks him to stay. And that night, for the first time, Dream doesn’t.

The next morning when he wakes up, the community house is unusually quiet. He reaches a hand over to the empty space in the bed next to him, frowning, before he withdraws his hand quickly and looks away.

He drags himself slowly out of bed, running a hand through his wayward bedhead. He looks across the room and finds the fireplace that Sapnap usually lit in the morning cold and quiet, not even embers to signal signs of life.
Frowning, he wanders over to the door, still crooked even months later, and pushes it open. He braces himself for warm, spring air and the heady scent of blooming flowers, but instead, incredulously, is greeted with a frigid breeze and a sullen, grey sky. He wraps his arms around himself as a distant noise sounds from above. He looks up and finds a perfect V of birds, stark black against the grey sky, flying South. The trees around him are shades of gold and red and brown, shedding their leaves slowly in the biting wind.

“What?” He breathes out, the word floating out of his mouth in a puff of white that floats up and away.

He glances around slowly, and finds that the usually bustling community is stark and quiet, as though he is the last living soul at the edge of a graveyard.

He wracks his brain for any clues, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t seem to find the pieces that would put this strange puzzle together.

A voice breaks the silence quietly, floating down softly from above. “George.”

George snaps his gaze up. “Dream?”

There is no answer, but the voice had seemed to come from the roof, so George does the most logical thing he can think of in a nonsensical situation. He pushes his way back inside and begins to climb the stairs.

As he winds his way up the stairs and out onto the roof, he is suddenly greeted with a burst of warm, summer air, the sky above him painted with a kaleidoscope of stars. He sucks in a breath as the change once again takes him off guard, and blinks around at the sudden wrongness of the world.

Whatever rules used to apply to their strange, little world seem to be no longer in effect. Day can turn to night in the blink of an eye, and autumn can change to summer between breaths.

He looks around cautiously, and there is Dream. Sitting on the ledge of the roof, swinging his legs softly, a small smile gracing his lips as though nothing is amiss.

George hesitates for a moment before making his way over and taking a wary seat next to Dream. Their legs swing side by side in the warm nighttime breeze. Dream is humming something soft and sweet, though he somehow manages to make it sound a bit off-putting. Below them, within the pond that surrounds the community house, thousands of lights float on the surface of the water, giving the illusion of a sky both below and above them.

“What’s going on?” George finally whispers towards the stars.

Dream shifts next to him, and it is warm in all the places they are pressed together. “What do you mean?”

George looks over, at first confounded, before sucking in a soft breath. “You’re not wearing your mask.”

Dream glances over at him, face soft as starlight, eyes softer still. He laughs breathily and it sounds like wind chimes on a spring morning. “What mask?”

George swallows as Dream leans closer, his warm breath fanning against George’s nose and making its way across his cheeks. This close, he could map the freckles on Dream’s cheeks as though they were constellations. This close, he could tip forward just so and seal away a lifetime of longing between the press of two lips.

Dream leans closer still, and their lips brush together, soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing.

“Kiss me,” George breathes. And finally Dream does, pressing forward until their lips are firmly sealed together, soft and sweet. He tastes like summer mornings, and honeysuckle, and fresh rain, and suddenly the puzzle pieces begin to fall together within George’s mind.

He allows himself one second, just a single moment to revel in the sweetness of the kiss, before he pulls away, a single tear rolling down his cheek and clinging to his chin.

“This isn’t how it goes.” He breathes out shakily.

Dream tips his head to the side slightly, a small frown tipping the corners of his mouth as he hums. “You’re right,” he agrees softly, “you ask me to kiss you and-”

“And you don’t,” George finishes, “ you pull away and leave me up here on the roof, alone with the stars.”

Dream stays silent, and it is all the confirmation he needs.

He remembers the night clearly now. It had been the first time in a while he had seen Dream without his mask. He had seemed the warmest he had been in a long, long time. Smile alluring in a way George couldn’t quite stand. And yet when he leaned in, Dream had pulled away once more. Leaving George on the rooftop with only the stars to witness the moment his heart finally broke.

“So this is just some sort of sideways memory then?” He studies the lights in the pond that sway and bob calmly. Dream’s foot knocks against his softly and the contact is familiar and foreign all at once.

Dream contemplates beside him for a moment. “I think calling it a dream would be more accurate.”

George considers this and then looks at Dream, suddenly terrified. “Has it all been a dream then? Everything?” He runs a shaky hand through his hair with a soft breath. “I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore.”

“It’s all been real George, at one point or another.” Dream says soothingly. “Your mind is just singing itself songs that have already been sung.”

George runs a tongue over chapped lips. “I’m dreaming in memories then.” He looks over at Dream again, studying him closer. There is something sideways about him. A not-quite-rightness that he can’t quite put his finger on.

“This memory went a little more askew than most.” Dream says through George’s curious inspection. “The mind is a peculiar thing, it has a tendency to take our desires and mold them like an artist molding clay.”

George says nothing for a moment, and the breeze sings sweetly between them.

“You’re not Dream then,” he finally breathes, “just a memory of him.”

“I’m-” Dream tilts his head in that uncanny way. “I’m more real than most of this.” He watches as George’s brow furrows, and then stands up. “Let me tell you a story.”

Around them the scene begins to crumble, the star-smeared sky begins to tumble down, turning to ash in its descent. The ground below them disintegrates slowly, it too turning gradually to dust, until all around them is white. A solid, colorless white that stretches perpetually in all directions. In front of them a chess board has appeared, seemingly normal except for the fact that it only holds three, white pieces.

George opens his mouth to ask what the fuck just happened, but is hushed by a simple look from Dream.

“Once upon a time,” he begins, “there was a king and his two loyal pawns.” And sure enough, there are the pieces on the board. One king, standing proud and tall, bordered on each side by a small, white pawn.

“Except,” Dream continues, “this king did not yet know he was a king, and these pawns did not yet know they were pawns.” On the board, the right pawn melts into a king, while the other two pieces melt into knights. “So maybe it would be more accurate to begin this story by saying: once upon a time, there was a prince and his two faithful knights.”

George sucks in a breath, eyes flicking up to Dream, but his focus is solely on the board in front of them. For a moment George tastes love and freedom on his tongue, and the smell of prairie grass seems to settle in his hair, before Dream’s voice draws him back in.

“This prince and his knights were happy pretending to be something they weren’t. Until one of them wasn’t.” And on the board, one of the white knights melts into a black king. “Because this one had a taste of power, of control, and suddenly there was no amount of it on earth that would ever be able to quench his thirst.”

On the board, the other two pieces melt back to pawns, and all three pieces begin to move away from each other. “This caused a divide, a chasm of sorts between them, though one pawn seemed to cling on harder than the other.” At this, Dream’s green eyes meet George’s for the briefest of moments before he glances back down. “And this was a problem, because the king cared for this pawn, deeply. And love was a barrier in the way of power, which wouldn’t do at all. So he did something drastic.” A new piece flickers into existence on the board, a white queen, sitting snugly behind the black king.

“The king called upon an old god. And in exchange for a sacrifice, the god gave him a favor.” On the board, the little, white pawn nearest to the king tips over sideways. “The god put the king’s beloved pawn into a deep slumber, and promised to watch over his dreams.”

All of the pieces begin to melt away except for the black king, leaving it standing alone in the middle of the board. “With his one tether now lost to sleep, the king was powerful. He was in control. He was feared. And he was so, very, very alone.”

George waits for Dream to continue, but he has fallen silent.

“That’s it? That’s how the story ends?”

Dream looks at him carefully. “Maybe that’s not the end.”

George looks at him warily, and suddenly all the little quirks begin to make sense. “You’re the god, aren’t you?” And then quieter, his voice wavering where he doesn’t mean to let it, “Dream got rid of me.”

He remembers the distance that had grown between them. The stranger that had taken the place of a friend. The hand that pulled away when he reached. And it hurts.

“No.” the god says softly. “He made a deal with me, gave a part of himself away for me to keep. I may be an ancient thing, but I am a little bit of Dream also.” The god reaches out a hand and gently traces it down George’s face. George closes his eyes, a soft, little sigh escaping through his lips. “Putting you to sleep, asking me to watch over your dreams, I think it was his way of protecting you. The only way he knew how.”

George leans his face a little farther into the god’s hand before he blinks his eyes open and pulls away. “That doesn’t make it right,” he whispers.

“No,” the god agrees, eyes searching his face almost sadly, “it doesn’t.”

George studies the black king, sitting all alone in the middle of the chess board. The image causes a deep ache to crawl up his chest and into his throat. “What do I do now?” He murmurs, eyes never leaving that lonely chess piece.

“It’s your dream,” the god in front of him says gently, “I think it’s up to you.”

“Okay.” He breathes out, long and low before slowly shutting his eyes.

When he opens them again, he finds himself laying in a soft meadow. A midnight zephyr murmurs over him faintly, and the scent of wildflowers hangs heavily in the air. He turns his head, and there is Dream’s soft, moon-beam soaked face looking back at him, his fair hair peppered with the grass George had placed there in another time. Another life. Sapnap’s sleeping face rises and falls on Dream’s stomach with each soft breath.

“Why are we here again?” The god whispers to him.

“I wanted to remember how happy we were.” George murmurs. “One last time.”

The god looks at him with Dream’s face, and his green eyes are bright with unshed tears, and suddenly George can’t stand it anymore. He bridges the small gap between them, pressing his lips firmly against the lips of the moon drenched boy beside him. The kiss is dreamlike and hazy, blurring at the edges, but it is also warm and sweet and tastes of sunshine, so instead of searching for realness, he lets himself fall wholly.

The world fades away around them until it is just the taste of a boy’s smile on his tongue, just the gentle press of teeth against his lips.

The god takes a breath and it fans warmly against George’s mouth. “I think,” he murmurs against George’s lips, “it’s time for you to wake up.”

He wakes up on the ground with a gasp. The dirt beneath him is warm and soft, and he digs his fingers into it gently as he begins to gather his bearings. Forest green trees stretch up around him on every side, and between their branches, straight above him, is a bright cerulean sky.

He sits up and shakes moss and leaves off his sleeves, they flutter off and fall to the ground like falling snow. He doesn’t know how long he was asleep, but he can feel it in his bones, in the ache and the stiffness of them. The soft borders of his dream world are gone, and once again the world is made of hard edges, and white, hot sun that is already attempting to settle a sunburn on the back of his neck.

He gets shakily to his feet and realizes for the first time that he has no idea where he is. It is then that a voice drifts to him faintly, soft as a winter wind.

South.

The voice is warm and familiar, it sounds like sunshine and starlight and time-worn ancient things all at once.

“Ah,” he murmurs quietly to the trees as he points his feet South, “I guess dreams aren’t the only place you’ll watch over me.”

It takes him a while of trekking through thick forest and tangled underbrush, but eventually he emerges from the worst of it out into the outskirts of home. He stifles a quiet gasp at the sight.

Some houses at the very edges of the community still stand, albeit empty, but everything else; gardens that had been lovingly tended, buildings that had been carefully put together brick by brick, everything, has been swallowed whole by a gaping crater that stands like a yawning mouth in the middle of it all.

“What happened?” He breathes, voice shaking like a flower in a windstorm.

War. The god answers him simply. Dream.

He makes his way through the town, occasionally climbing over rubble and ruins. The place is eerily quiet, the only sound being the gentle howl of the wind through broken windows. George feels like a ghost, long dead, haunting his old and broken home aimlessly.

He pauses for a moment, standing on top of a crumbling wall that used to be part of a bakery, and gazes out over the crater. In his mind he can’t quite connect the destruction before him with Dream. Dream, who smelled of sunlight and wildflowers, and laughed like church bells. Dream who would tuck his face into George’s neck in sleep and stole all the blankets. Dream who he loved.

Dream who he maybe loves still.

Eventually he makes it to the community house. It looks a bit worse for wear and somewhat cobbled together, as though it had been damaged and various different hands had attempted to put it back together. The sun is just beginning to set and the sky is all carmine and peach and amber. A wildfire captured for just a moment on the horizon.

He gently pulls open the door, and something soft and bittersweet tugs at his heart when he realizes it no longer hangs sideways.

Inside it is quiet and nearly empty, save for the three beds, covered in dust and still sitting snugly side by side in the corner of the room.

He swallows as the feeling of being an intruder on a sacred place falls quietly over him.

“George?” A voice whispers in astonishment behind him, and he whips around.

And there is Sapnap standing in the doorway. His hair has grown out a bit, and a few unfamiliar scars litter his arms and his cheek, but he still looks like home, and George lets out a little hiccupy breath at the sight.

Sapnap’s eyes soften and he moves fully into the room, enfolding George in a hug. He smells of smoke and forest and fresh water, and George buries his face softly into Sapnap’s neck.

“George, where the fuck have you been?” Sapnap breathes out as he pulls back.

George catches a glint out of the corner of his eye, and he looks down to find a ring on Sapnap’s right hand. “Are you engaged?” He asks incredulously.

“I-” Sapnap looks down at the ring before slipping it off his finger and into his pocket. “It's complicated.” The pained look on his face stops George from pressing any further. His shining eyes meet George’s gently. “George, I thought you were dead.”

“I was-” George hesitates, “I was asleep. For a long time.”

“How?”

His expression hardens as he looks away and whispers, “Dream.”

Sapnap sucks in a breath, soft and angry. There is fire in his eyes when George looks back, but it melts to embers as a tear tracks its way slowly down his cheek. “He loved us, once.” His voice is hushed and full of sorrow. “What happened?”

“He loved being in control more than he ever loved us.” George spits, and the words taste like acid in his mouth. Softer, he says, “I want to talk to him, where is he?”

Sapnap’s eyes widen slightly. “George, he's locked up in prison. Nobody can talk to him anymore.” His voice is gentle, as though he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “He’s not what you remember, you wouldn’t like talking to him, I promise.”

George takes a moment to absorb this information. He thinks of Dream, chasing him wildly through meadows and smiling in sunbeams. He thinks of him locked away in a barren, dark room, sunshine smile stolen away, and it makes his heart ache. “I want to talk to him anyway,” he says quietly, firmly.

Sapnap sighs and peers out the window at the sinking sun. “Listen, I have to get back home. You can come with me, we can talk about it on the way.”

“Home?” George puzzles. “We’re already here.”

“No,” Sapnap whispers, “not anymore.”

Sapnap tucks his bottom lip between his teeth before holding out a hand to George. “Come on, Karl made a new place a little ways from here. You’ll like it.”

George looks at the outstretched hand before him and backs away slightly. “No,” he says as hurt and confusion dance in his voice, “I want to stay here.”

There is a fraying rope between them that is only getting thinner. One small tug from either side is about to snap it completely.
Sapnap holds his gaze, hurt mirrored in his own face. “You’re just gonna hurt yourself if you stay here George. I see him everywhere when I’m in here, I know you do too.”

And he’s right. There in the corner is Dream laying the first bricks of the community house, sun-soaked and blissfully carefree. In front of the fire is Dream popping popcorn, laughing as he arcs pieces into the air for George to catch in his mouth. There in the bed is Dream tucked into his side, warm and familiar, face soft and sweet with sleep. He is everywhere, but where it makes Sapnap want to run, it only makes George want to stay.

When he doesn’t say anything more, Sapnap breathes out quietly and turns for the door. He tugs slightly and the fraying rope snaps. “Okay George, I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then he is gone, swallowed by the inky evening light.

He watches Sapnap leave. Watches the door swing shut as he ignores the ache in his chest, and then looks around slowly. “I know you’re still here,” he says to the silent room, “can you take me to Dream?”

The god appears suddenly in front of him. He looks different on the outside of George’s dreams. A forest green cape drapes over him, giving him a somewhat formless appearance, while two gold halo’s sit crossed together above his head. He too dons a white mask, but in the place of eyes there is simply a roughly etched X.

The god tilts his head, looking at him sideways for a moment. I can, but are you sure it’s what you want? I am not certain you will like what you find.

“Yes,” he breathes, “I’m sure.”

The god reaches an arm out of his cloak and brushes a hand softly against George’s cheek. Alright handsome prince, he says, and George can hear the smile in his voice, I’ll take you to your faithful knight.

And between one breath and the next, George is suddenly standing in a dim prison cell.

It takes his eyes a moment to adjust, but then he sees him. Dream, in an orange jumpsuit, huddled in the corner. His hair is badly mussed, face littered with scars both old and new. Bandages line his arms, and his face is so pale it looks almost ghostly. And yet it is still Dream, and he still somehow looks like home.

George walks over quietly and kneels in front of him. Dream’s eyes track him, and he doesn’t seem surprised by George’s sudden intrusion.

George studies him for a moment, considering what to say.

“Hey.” He finally breathes simply.

“Hey.” Dream’s voice is raspy with disuse. Bitter in all the places it had been soft before. “You’ve made a good ghost the past couple of months.”

“Yeah,” George bites back, “and I wonder who I have to thank for that.”

Dream studies him soundlessly, his eyes softening for the briefest of moments before they harden once more. “I did it for you, you know.” He whispers. “You were so unhappy with the world, so I let you dream a new one.”

George sucks in a bitter breath. “I wasn’t unhappy with the world, I was unhappy with you.” He spits.

Dream says nothing to that, just stares at him with those spring green eyes. The heat melts slowly out of his chest.

“I loved you, you know.” George says quietly.

“I loved you too, once.” Dream smiles and it is a thin, acidic thing. “Guess we missed each other.”

George stares down at Dream’s scarred hands before reaching softly for one. He flinches slightly but George simply slips his pinkie into Dream’s own. “You promised me a happy ending, you know. Forever ago.”

For the first time, a soft flicker of regret settles on Dream’s features. “I know,” he murmurs. His eyes are soft when he meets George’s gaze again, smile lopsided and sad, and for a moment George thinks he catches a glimpse of the boy he used to know. “Maybe in another life.”

A tear drips onto George’s nose and he wipes it away with the back of his hand as he stands up. “Okay,” he says, voice wavering, “I want to go now.”

And between one blink and the next, he goes from a dim prison cell, to a soft, starlit meadow.

He collapses to his knees in the tall grass, tears falling freely down his face. The god sits silently beside him, head tilted to watch the moon hang in the sky above them. For a while, the only sounds in the air are the chirp of crickets and George’s soft, hiccupy sobs.

A happy ending is still possible. The god finally says beside him.

George thinks of the yawning crater that swallowed his home. Of the community house, cobbled together by hands that were not his own. Of the new home Sapnap had built in his absence. Of Dream huddled in the corner of the prison.

“How?”

You are not separate from every other thing. The god says. This is only one reality. One story, plucked from an infinite amount of them.

“So you’re saying that happy endings are possible for other versions of me then,” George scoffs quietly. “Very helpful.”

I’m saying that I have the power to send you to a different story. The god corrects him softly. If that’s what you really want.

George falls quiet for a moment as he considers everything he has loved, and everything he has lost.

“Yes,” he finally breathes. “There’s nothing left for me here.”

The god stands and pulls George up with him. George hears him exhale softly and then suddenly the soft, green meadow grass in front of them is replaced with inky black, speckled with stars. It looks as though the god had reached up into the night sky and plucked out a small square of it to lay at their feet.

George takes a tentative step back. “What is it?”

A doorway. The god answers. All you have to do is step in.

George looks over at the god, and there must be some sort of fear in his eyes, because the god takes George’s face softly in his hands and leans their heads together. Remember George, you are not alone. Everything you need is within you. You are the daylight. You are the night. This world loves you, because you are love.

And then the god gives him a gentle shove, and he tips backward into the little slice of night sky on the ground.

Wake up.

When George opens his eyes, he is greeted with a bright, bluebird sky. A warm wind kisses over him and brings the scent of wildflowers and sweet grass with it. The sunlight settles on him softly, resting gently upon his lips and tangling tenderly in his hair. In the distance he thinks he can hear Sapnap’s high, bright laughter.

A shadow falls over him, and suddenly there is Dream, standing over him, haloed in sunlight. His sunbeam smile is wide and toothy, and his hair is wind tossed and wild. There is a blush pink sunburn settling itself across his cheeks, and he begins to laugh, soft and hiccupy as his juniper glance catches George’s own.

“You’re finally awake,” he says warmly as he offers a hand to George. “You’ve been sleeping for so long.”