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Dream and Sapnap had painted the walls of the guest bedroom – George’s bedroom – a soft blue and hung cream curtains on the large window facing the back yard — “dude, I don’t know, I thought old people liked curtains”. They’d furnished the room very simply with a queen sized bed, two side tables, and a small desk.
Atop one of the bedside tables sat a (very poorly) photoshopped picture of the three boys. Sapnap‘s (the only one who was actually in the original picture) left arm was thrown around Punz, who’s face had been covered by a picture of 8 year old Dream. George stood (read: was photoshopped) in front of the younger two, wearing a massive smile hoodie, his headset, goggles, with his arms outstretched. Messy, glittery, handwriting adorned the lower right corner of the picture frame, “Dream Team <3“.
It was perfect.
George had been so shocked that the two had done this for him, “Of course we would, Gogs. We want this to feel like home to you.”
They had spent his first day in Florida browsing the online Ikea catalog, Dream telling George to “Just pick out whatever you want, man” and George fighting back until, eventually, Sapnap threw a pillow at him telling him to
“Shut up you fucking Nimrod just let Dream be a sugar daddy it gets him off”
“SAPNAP”
“Don’t lie to yourself, Dream, it’s simply not healthy.”
The online shopping cart quickly filled up with the essentials: desk parts, some shelves for storing miscellaneous computer parts as well as a Dream shrine (“I don’t have a Dream shrine, though” “Don’t like Georgie” “Shut up”), a spice rack (“How do you guys not have a spice rack?” “What the fuck is a spice rack” “I don’t know but it sounds kinda sus not gonna lie”). The order was sent off, along with 5 different PayPal transactions between George and Dream that eventually ended with Dream threatening to take Patches from her spot on George’s lap and Dream paying for the Ikea haul.
“Oh, fuck.” Dream said, looking down at his phone.
“Did you accidentally send porn to your mom”
“No, what?!”
“Never mind”
George was definitely not grinning to himself. This was everything he’d been missing — the little conversations between his best friends that happened when they’d all signed off discord.
“I just realised that I clicked ‘pick-up’ and not ‘delivery’.”
“Oh,” Sapnap’s brows drew together in contemplation. “Well, I guess I can just take George whenever it’s ready. That work for you, Gogs?”
When he received no response he looked over to his friend. George's eyes had closed and his chin was tucked into his chest which was moving softly with sleepy breaths. His hands had fallen loosely around the cat in his lap, who had joined the human in slumber.
“Good to know he falls asleep irl too, I guess”
____
It only took a day for their order to be ready to pick up. Dream had definitely not paid for expedited packaging. Especially if you asked George. George was excited to get his new furniture and finally make the – his – bedroom feel like his own space. Dream was more concerned about balls, more specifically, George’s lack of experience with balls.
“Are you kidding? You’ve never had Swedish meatballs?”
“They probably don’t have Ikea in the UK, idiot”
“Fuck off, they totally have Ikea. You guys have Ikea, right, George?”
“What?” George had tuned out the arguing boys in favour of petting Patches, who was currently rubbing her face into George’s chest.
“Is there Ikea in the UK?”
“Uhm, yeah,” George said, still giving Patches the attention she deserves, “pretty sure.”
“‘Pretty sure’?”
“You’re a billionaire, look it up” George drawled.
“WHAT” Dream wheezed “What does that even have to do with anything, what?!”
“You have a phone, do you not?”
“I-” Dream attempted to speak over the laughter rising in his throat. “I mean, yeah, oookay.”
“You guys are idiots,” Sapnap said, grabbing his keys and motioning towards the door. “You ready to go?” He looked over at George, who nodded and grabbed his coat.
As soon as they pulled out of the driveway, George pulled out his phone and opened his web browser, typing in “Ikea Meatballs”. He took a deep breath and clicked on the images section, clenching his jaw to try and hide any reaction. Looking at picture after picture of plates piled high with meatballs covered in a strange beige sauce made George instantly gag. He swallowed quickly and took another breath.
*
He could feel each bite already. He could hear how it squeaked like rubber between his teeth and felt like gummy sand going down his throat, getting stuck in his esophagus, falling into his stomach in a way that made his abdomen clench. He wanted to cry.
*
George had exactly one experience with meatballs and he had planned to keep it that way.
It was when he was eight or nine and his parents had taken the family to some Italian restaurant nearby. George had asked if he could have butter noodles, but his father had refused saying that it was entitled to go to a nice restaurant and ask for something that wasn’t on the menu and “it’s about time you stop eating like a child, you can’t do this forever, George”.
George remembered barely holding himself back from saying that he was a child and “wouldn’t it be more rude to not touch the food on my plate at all?”
His parents ordered him spaghetti and meatballs.
It was innocent enough. What child hated spaghetti and meatballs?
*
The plate arrived in front of him. The sauce was chunky. George hated chunky sauce. He didn’t like how the tomatoes burst in his mouth. How they were slippery but also chewy. He didn’t like the color. The red of the tomatoes made his stomach churn. He knew the parsley on top would taste like soap and feel like he was chewing hair or something equally inedible. And the meatballs. There were just three sitting right in the middle of the plate.
*
He didn’t like the shape.
He didn’t like round foods. Eggs, broccoli, falafel – he had tried that one time on a trip to London with his mum and she had to run him to a nearby shop so he could vomit – tomatoes, truffles, strawberries, apples were okay but only if they were sliced. One bite of the meatball was all it took for George to break down.
The night ended with George being sent to his room the moment they got home from the restaurant.
—
After loading the new furniture into the back of Sapnap’s car, George was dragged into the strange little cafe by the checkout area of Ikea.
“I’m gonna go order the ‘balls’, can you go grab us a table somewhere?”
“Sure” George looked around and spotted a table that was in between an exit and the bathroom. Perfect. Two escape routes.
George’s entire body shook visibly as he waited for Sapnap at the table. To an outside observer he probably just looked impatient. His legs bounced, his fingers moved rapidly across the table, his eyes going back and forth from the table to the counter where Sapnap was ordering. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could already feel the bile rising in his throat.
The back of his hand came up to cover his mouth as he frantically swallowed once, twice, and three times. He could do this. He just needed to get a bite or two in and wait for Sapnap to finish and then they could go home and George could brush his teeth and let himself have a panic attack in peace.
When Sapnap returned George felt like he was eight years old again, staring at his plate while his mum and dad looked at him expectantly.
*
He could smell the sauce. It looked like brown sauce a bit, but the colour was off. It had a greyish tint to it that definitely didn’t look correct. There were more than three meatballs. George wasn’t entirely sure why anyone would ever want a plate of literally just meatballs, but of course he kept that to himself.
Sapnap had already dug in. George swore he could hear the squeak. Sapnap was a fairly polite chewer, at least, which kind of surprised George. He kept his mouth closed, waited until he was fully done chewing and swallowing before speaking or taking another bite or taking a sip of his coke. George was thankful.
Neither boy said anything as Sapnap inhaled his meatballs. George slowly began cutting into one of them, grimacing at how his knife caught on the fat and bounced slightly against the gummy texture of the ground meat.
*
Slowly, he brought the fork up towards his mouth. He inspected the contents. He hated how he could see the shadows and contours of the ground meat, hated the grey sauce that clung to those contours, hated the strange orangey-brown color of the outsides. His throat tightened. He raised the fork to his mouth. He let the bit of meat fall onto his tongue and resisted the urge to spit it out or gag or vomit. He couldn’t bring himself to chew it.
He felt his face heat up and his chest tighten. His head felt strained and his jaw clenched, the meat still sitting on his tongue. He contemplated just swallowing it. It was a small bite, he could probably do it without choking. But his throat felt so small. He wasn’t sure if he could get it down. He looked at his water bottle. He quickly grabbed it and took a big gulp, downing the bite of the meatball like a pill. The water made the ground meat and sauce swirl in his mouth. It flowed around touching the sides and roof of his mouth, the backs of his teeth, the underside of his tongue. He swallowed.
Gingerly, he set his fork down on the table.
He could feel eyes on him
He knew that he hadn’t been exactly subtle. In the time that it took Sapnap to finish his entire plate, George had barely managed one bite. He couldn’t bring himself to look up.
Instead, he slowly removed his napkin from his lap and set it on top of his plate. He considered for a moment, then pushed out his chair.
Sapnap watched on as his friend’s face colored, refusing to look at him, before bolting towards the restroom. He didn’t know what to do. He pulled out his phone and quickly sent off a text to Dream.
Nick: I don’t think George is okay man