Chapter Text
When George wakes up, he instantly feels cold. An inhumane type of cold, shivering from the top of his chest all the way to his toes. Except so cold that he was numb—numb in his limbs, numb in his face, even his eyes.
His eyes strain to open, as numb as they are, tight and weak to open. The only sign of warmth in his body is the soft beating of his heart, still true and centered right where his chest would be if he didn’t feel so fucking cold.
Where the hell is his blanket?
Where the hell is the sun? Didn’t George fall asleep in his bed last night? In his bed, in his room, with the curtains stapled high behind him, where the sun always beamed through and woke him up with its bright orange glow?
Blinking a little bit harder, willing himself to see, his eyes finally open. Slow and deliberate, vision slowly clearing to find— But it’s not his room. It’s not even— his house—
Where—
He must still be sleeping. Because when he opens his eyes, he’s filled with a mirth of white. Pure white, blank and bright, surrounding every corner of the vast open that fills his vision. It’s almost frightening how empty it is.
His pupils blink downwards, and he’s standing. He nearly falls backwards with surprise, a strong gasp leaving his mouth with the unbalanced fear. He’s not even laying down— what the hell is happening?
There’s nothing, not a sign of life besides George. Just an openness so big and nothing, with this porcelain desert keeping him painfully surrounded. A dream, a beautiful, simple dream. Or a nightmare, something, it must be. And his blanket must be on the floor and he must’ve gotten naked or something in his sleep because in no way is he ever this cold—
But now that he can see, he can move. George raises a hand, hesitance peeling through his bones, examining it slowly, and recognizing nothing but his own skin, his own bones and veins pulsing and alive.
Yet he can’t help but ask— Am I dead?
“George?” A voice interrupts, dead silence being cut into like the slash of a knife. “No, you’re not dead,” it continues, loud, honey tones so smooth George hadn’t heard anything like it. “Or, yet, I suppose.”
George's eyes automatically follow the voice, confused and utterly worried about what is happening to him. Did he say that out loud? He couldn’t have. Right?
Upon glance, the figure he meets with widened eyelids makes all of his emotions flip. His chest tightens and his eyebrows curl with a toxic bend, heart stopping at the figure that disrupts the white air with something dark and real.
Standing tall, about a couple inches taller, there’s a cloaked figure, menacing, dressed with an aura charcoal and sad. He peers over George, and then George realizes that he has a face. A human one, normal, green eyed and pale. Completely opposite to the ashy darkness echoing off of his soul that forms George’s first impression.
There’s a hood covering his hair, if he has any really, and George doesn’t know why he’s observing him when he should be worried about a demon being in his dream. Or whatever this is. He stands, cold, and worried.
“Who the fuck are you?” He spits, stepping back a few steps, but the distance feels like nothing compared to this endless void. He thinks if he looks hard enough, his reflection comes into view, small and scared. Almost shivering.
The stranger lets out a chuckle, head tilting back and features growing more prevalent. His cheekbones are shadowed by his dark aura, nose sharp and eyebrows pointed in a deep arch. And they’re blond.
George doesn’t know why he’s surprised by that.
But the stranger laughs, amused. “Looks like I got the right one then,” he says, digging into one of the many pockets of his long cloak and pulling out a notebook. “How have you been, George?”
He wears a kind smile, yet smug and cocky. Growing more teasing the more his smile widens.
But George scoffs, trying to appear less awkward, but instead appearing more so. “Obviously not good,” he stares blankly confused at the tall creature, who flips through the pages of his black notebook. “Where am I? Am I dreaming? Are you the grim reaper?”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, the stranger’s head snaps upward, eyes pinpointing the brunet into his spot. Or wherever he is. The hood on the other’s head stays still on his head with the movement of his glance.
“Holy shit,” he deadpans, grin easing on his face again, but this time wider and more confident than ever, “nobody in my years of doing this, have I ever met somebody to ask that,” and soon enough, the stranger is laughing loudly, almost like a wheeze, book closing on impact and body scrunching in on itself. “I would have at least thought you would of called me Hades, or fucking Thanatos. A lot of Greek addicts are like that. Crystal overdoses, you know.”
George’s jaw hurts from how long it’s staying open. Questions rush in his head like a bucket of water, heavy in his brain and mauling over his muscles like a brainwashing tide. Crystal Overdoses? Crystal meth?
He must be going insane.
“Then who are you? Doing this? Doing what? ” George’s hands fly in the air, reaching up to grasp at his hair and pull them through the tangled strands, an erratic look on his face as he steps backward, cheeks slowly becoming pink. A headache doesn’t take long to build and pound, and his brain is definitely too small to understand all of this.
It feels too much like a dream. A nightmare.
The creature stands there and chuckles, a gloved fist rising to cover his parted mouth. They leave his mouth lighthearted and airy, bubbles instead of rocks. “It’s too bad you're cute.”
George’s cheeks are flushed ruby now, hesitation and embarrassment rising onto his skin and crawling at it. He huffs and crosses his arms, trying to make as much distance with the stranger as he can. But the more he backs up, the more he feels the void consuming him. It’s the realest feeling he has felt so far.
Apparently, the thing must have felt some sort of sympathy, because George hears a heavy thump of steps moving towards him. The stranger moves, slick and smooth, just like his voice. He’s wearing boots, and his face peeks through the hood a little bit more than before. It takes George a lot to look up.
“Do you want to know who I am, George?” He asks, tone growing deep. “It’s not like it matters. I don't tell people this all the time.”
The brunet stubbornly frowns, staring at the white floor underneath his feet. Maybe if he didn’t look, he would go away.
But the stranger only steps closer. “But before I do, I need you to do me a favor. Or, do yourself a favor, I guess.”
George looks up so their eyes connect. Green irises, on the brisk of viridian, peer darkly at him. Serious.
He’s still confused, but the stare eases every emotion to sit in his stomach quietly. George nods, an agreement he’s not sure if he should even make. But it feels like he has no choice.
“Okay,” the honeyed voice says again, sighing softly before he continues. “Think of your room. Think of your room, where you live now, the very apartment you just rented after your move to Florida.”
George’s eyes flicker with surprise, opening his mouth to cut in, but Dream puts a hand in the air. It’s so powerful he can’t help but pause, breath aching in his throat.
“Just— just think of it. Trust me. It helps if you close your eyes.”
The brunet takes a deep breath, questionably glaring at the stranger, before looking down and closing his eyes. His mind fills with memories, with last night, coming home after going to the movies with his best friend. He just moved to be with him, after years of long distance in England, he had finally made a home where it felt right. It was a new beginning, a new apartment, nearly a new life.
He remembers waking up the next morning, today, and getting in the car to get breakfast. And—
He can’t remember anything after that. It all feels so distant, so lost. Like a greyed part of his memory, muffled like he was drunk. He can’t begin to explain why— it makes his head hurt.
He’s filled with worry at the thought of forgetting, until the stranger cuts in again. “Go back— to your apartment, I mean,” he reiterates, voice getting deeper. “Don’t lose focus."
It feels more real, his honeyed voice, now that George is crawling through his own mind and not his lips, begging what’s happened to him and what he’s doing here— or whatever here is.
Biting the inside of his cheek, George goes back again. He thinks of his littered room, filled with open boxes and scattered clothes. His computer against the wall and his family letters sprawled across his desk, scribbled with praises and condolences. He thinks about the clean counters and his high school report card sitting square where he left it on the chair after he took it out that morning. And then he hears—
“Open your eyes.”
George holds his breath as his eyes flutter open again, this time easier than before. But they don’t open to white, to nothing, to a void of brightness that feels like being left in the dark.
He sees his computer desk, his bed, all surrounded by his light blue walls and floored with his soft, brown carpet. The pictures on his wall from his high school days, with his friends, wearing grad outfits and holding each other like a lifeline. But George doesn’t feel as alive, right now.
Gasping, he twirls around and finds the stranger standing a couple feet away from him, just like earlier. “How—how did you—”
The stranger laughs again, crossing his arms and stepping around, eyes looking around the new environment with a taunting glint in his eyes. “What a lovely room! Looks very simple and cute, considering this horribly long list of crimes.” The tiny notebook is back in the man’s hand, being flipped with widened eyes as he looks every now and then to compare it to the feel of George’s desk when he drags his gloved fingers across the surface.
Crimes?
“What— what is going on here?” George’s cuts in, lips gaping as the room surrounding them fills his vision. It’s surprisingly real, more colorful, more George. It’s what George wants it to be, memory filled, but also empty, so empty because that means he has endless room for the future. But his room isn’t like this. It’s more new, more different. Not situated, because moving was hard and George is still unsure about it.
The cloaked man, still unknown to him, sighs dutifully. “Fine. Sit on the bed.”
Hesitantly, George backs up to the edge of his bed, sitting down and keeping an eye on the stranger the whole time. He’s strangely confident, like he has some sort of power over George. It has to be more than a dream.
He stands over George, head ducked down into his notebook, eyes piercing into the paper like it’ll poof right before his eyes. Maybe anything can happen, now.
“Basically, this might be hard for you to hear,” he says, a part of him apologetic, “but you’re in a coma. And I’m here to kill you. Officially. The doctors aren’t too good at this kind of stuff, apparently.”
It takes a second to process. But does it ever, really, process?
George breathes carefully, slowly cocking his head. His stomach doesn’t drop, his heart doesn’t stop, but his breath is careful. It’s difficult to understand.
“H-how?” He stutters, eyes squinting upward. “I- I don’t understand.”
The stranger sighs again, more arrogantly now, eyes rolling and body shifting to the side as he leans on his foot. “This is why I don’t tell people this, because it’s always a shit-show. It’s usually easier because I kill the most deserving, so I don’t feel a single drop of guilt. But you—
“Dude,” George cuts him off, hand slicing into the air as he closes his eyes to ease the frustration. He just needs concentration. “Can you stop talking nonsense and just explain? ”
The other is shocked, to say the least. But George couldn’t care less now, not when he was talking to a stranger and he’s just been told he’s in a coma— he’s starting to believe this is more of a nightmare, a real, real nightmare devouring his mind and nearly freezing him to death. Or he’s already dead. Who knows?
The man closes his mouth leisurely, contemplating his next words with a heavy tongue and pinched eyebrows. He’s almost careful, not careless, like he was before.
Then, he lifts a hand, and tugs down his hood.
A floof of blond hair is revealed, dirty blond, glistening in the light of George’s room. His eyes are more dark than George recalls, but they still beam bright, producing a glow so golden that he’s never seen before. His skin is light, he’s freckled, he looks human.
Pretty.
Why is George dreaming about this pretty, cloaked man? Previously disguised as a haunting stranger, now openly haunting, but lighter, more human. It’s so conflicting.
“George,” why does he know his name? And why does he keep saying- “my name is Moros. I am the God of Death, and I have been sent to end your life on behalf of the mortals.”
The brunet can’t respond when the taller unfolds his notebook, dragging a finger down the open page. He tilts it down, and leans forward to expose the rough notes of paper.
“George Davidson - Criminal, 99+ crimes. 24 years old.”
“Wha…”
Moros chuckles, closing the book and shaking his head as he looks upward. “You don’t seem like the type, to be honest.”
“You’re a god?” George questions, breathless, almost. The oddity of the question doesn’t matter as he gapes openly, head circling around the new information. He hadn’t even realized his knee was bouncing up and down rapidly, heel making unintentional, repetitive contact with the carpet.
Moros nods, hair falling in front of his face softly. He can’t be. Without his hood— he's a boy. A boy, too real, too bright—
George’s head falls down, a little less confused, but his breath feels a little bit more lost every counting second. Eyes squinting, he exhales slow.
“I’ve never committed a crime in my life.”
Moros hums, unconvinced. “If this is your ploy to keep me from killing you, it’s not going to work.”
After his next statement settles in, George shakes his head shamefully, holding back the urge to roll his eyes. “Really, I haven’t,” he looks up again, trying not to shy away from the god’s sharp, treacherous stare, cracking at the seams. “If you know my name, then you should surely know who I am, right?”
Moros chuckles, amused for some reason that genuinely makes no sense.
“You’re funny, and smart. A criminal at its finest.”
George scoffs, suddenly standing up. “So you don’t fucking know me! Yeah I’m smart, academically, you ass. I’ve gotten straight A’s all my life, I’ve never gotten a scrape, and I don’t think I’ve ever told a fucking lie—”
A hand touches his shoulder, a shock going through the fabric of his shirt. “Then who are you?”
Moros looks concerned. Tall, eyebrows furrowed, looking down on him like an ally instead of a mortal. It fades a little more clear.
Then he thinks, he was in a coma?
"How did I get hurt?” George asks, eyes blinking, feeling the sadness engulf him quickly. He hadn’t felt a thing until now— until his anger, or surprise. It’s like he can’t tell his emotions apart. He doesn’t even feel real.
The hand on his shoulder squeezes, guiding him back to the bed. They sit down together. Why is this stranger comforting him? This god? Almost like he felt despair in speaking about pain, about death. Almost like the title he wears is a size too big. George’s head aches with how many questions he has.
Moros’ voice is softer when he speaks next. “A couple mornings ago, you got into an accident. A car accident,” he ducks down and rests his long arms in his lap. “I’ll spare you the details, but it was pretty bad. You’ve been in a coma for a couple days.”
There’s silence, for a bit. Before a short chuckle slips from the brunet boy’s lips. Moros sits straighter, taken aback.
George shakes his head dismissively, beginning to smile, extensively and expressively. “Well you’re going to have to explain this God situation to me, because holy shit!” He flops onto the bed, back hitting it and pushing the sheets down as his head slams against he mattress, arms flinging upward around his head. Moros stands up quickly, eyes widening.
But he doesn’t say anything.
George sighs largely, drawing his legs upward so they’re bent on the bed, covering his eyes with a stray, tired elbow. He laughs, defeated. “A fucking coma— I knew I was a shit driver, how did I even get my license?”
Moros sits there disheveled for once, eyes glazing over George’s dramatic movements, mouth curling into a grin that he’s never seen a mortal wear during these recurring conversations. Something about it draws him in.
“Are— are you happy about this?” He can’t help but ask, sitting higher on the bed and squeezing his eyes to glare at him easier. George feels it, despite the cold, and ignores it, smiling harder.
“I mean— of course not. I think I’ve lost my senses, I don’t know,” George’s chest bobs with heavy breaths, staring up at the ceiling that he’s not even sure matches the one he’s familiar with back at his new home. Maybe he doesn’t know it well enough, or maybe it’s the one he wants and doesn’t have. It’s difficult to discern what exists now that he’s talking to a god.
It’s still not proven to be a coma, though. This could all still be a dream. A lucid dream, giving him all the control and imagination—
Moros groans in the midst of quiet, startling the smaller to move his elbow and crack open an eye to see.
“You’re not dreaming George,” he grasps the nape of his neck and smiles earnest. Tired, but hazily pleased, and George doesn’t have the brain capacity to dissolve what it means. “It’s not a nightmare either. It feels like one, a lot of them say. But it’s not. I wish I could prove it to you, however, I’m afraid there is no time for that.”
"I didn't say that out loud."
Moros tuts, "Well I'm a god, so it would be weird if I didn't read minds."
"Don’t read my mind, creep!" George laughs loudly in retaliation, leaning away with a distasteful grin. It’s meant to be a joke, but the god cowers, slightly embarrassed.
"I don't.. not all the time, at least," the stranger mutters scratching behind his head, the heights of his cheeks shining a dusty pink. Weird, how his features are ten times more apparent with his godly gift, jaw sharper, eyes cleaner, everything more beautiful and pure.
The brunet scoots back again, back hitting the headboard. “So, you’re going to kill me, then?” Almost like he wouldn’t mind.
A flash of hesitance washes over the god’s face for a second. Too real for George not to notice.
Sorrow, Moros barely nods. “There’s only a matter of time before your coma pulls you back into sleep. And this is an order I must complete.”
George’s chest falls again, sinking into itself. “There must be something wrong with your book, or something. Because I have too much to die. This can’t be the way I go out.”
Throughout the foggy, blue air around them, Moros finds himself chuckling warmly. “The book is never wrong.”
The brunet hums, mouth wrinkling in an attempt to protest. “Then you must have the wrong George. I am not a criminal.”
“Okay,” the god hums in thought, actually giving it a considerate rest. “Let’s say the book is wrong. I am crowned Moros, the spirit of impending doom. Crowned under my mother, Nyx, alongside my siblings, Hypnos, Thanatos, Keres, all who bring death and darkness to those desired by fate."
George watches him, the words spilling out easily. Like he had done this a million times. George nearly laughs to himself, because he probably has, and now it must feel like a chore. Yet the god speaks like a conversation is foreign to him, lonely with the bits of energy perfecting his tone.
“But I, the ‘hateful’ spirit, delivers death to those most deserving,” he continues, “Therefore, ‘impending doom’ and ‘deadly fate’. The book was conspired under those laws, and now I am here. Reading it off, following the list, and proceeding to whom I was given. The gods do not lie, the laws do not falter. If the book was wrong, you’d be given death by fate anyway. I would not be here right now.”
Stubbornness follows the same path as fate, when George crosses his arms tighter and sighs. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Moros nods in a surprising agreement. “It doesn’t,” he pauses afterward. Breath stopping short as if he had said something wrong, something dire, heard by a thousand ears. But he continues seconds later, human-like features taking a break and softening. “But it's my job. My fate.”
They share stumped looks in the quiet, George’s mind working like cogs over and over, not knowing if he should feel upset or nothing at all. He can understand how all of this is true, since he had felt off the moment he woke up. But he can’t just die. Refusing to would be like giving up. He decides the silence is far too eerie after a minute, crossing his arms and blinking up at the blond.
“The book is wrong,” George repeats, breaking the silence, bold, and Moros can’t say he didn’t expect it.
“No, George—”
“It’s wrong.” He speaks with intention, words cut sharp, playful at the seams. “You have to at least consider me first, before you kill me. If the book is wrong—which it is,” George smiles curtly, sinister with the way it slowly curves. “Then I at least deserve this.”
Moros wants to protest. It feels wrong to have even an inch of empathy, of care or heed. But it also feels wrong to fight, and part of him just wants George to agree, although he knows that he won’t.
“I have to do my job. This is how I serve the universe—”
George scoffs, laying down fully on the bed and curling onto his side. The god looks cute like this, defensive, the brunet observes. Gives him all the more reason to taunt. "Well I don’t want to die. What am I to do, give up?”
“What would you even say?” Moros laughs dramatically, neck tilting up, eyes sparkling a fierce jade that reeks of holy vigor. “How would you plead? That you’re all too good for death? That you’ve seen your future and you’ll one day lead the world? Be president?”
George deadpans him, the wrinkling of his eyelids starting to feel sore with all the staring and white. It’s all too much in such little time. Or maybe a lot of time has passed, who knows how much time goes by in a dimension so crucial, so wide and different and new.
So he sighs, melting into the bed as he lets the comfy sheets engulf him. He wonders if these are as soft as the hospital bed sheets. “I’m a good person. I have a family, you know.”
“We all do. Even I,” Moros laughs mockingly.
George hums. “Do you love them? Do they love you?”
He didn’t mean to really ask, but the curiosity is still there, stemming from his interest in sci-fi and philosophy. But Moros’ unknown expression tells him that it might be a sensitive topic.
“Of course I do. They do… too.” He sounds uncertain, sitting higher up so he can lean on his hands and stare behind at the brunet. Changing the subject, he urges in a mumble, “but fate is fate, George.”
“Fate is fate, yeah yeah,” George rolls his eyes and sprawls out on his back, hands finding their place on his stomach, laced together. “There’s still so much I want to do.” A crack sneaks along after the last bit, face becoming soft with emotion and realization. It’s obvious now, what’s hitting him. Everything inside grows muggy and slow, untrained, indifferent. The world’s protecting him, probably. Anything is possible now.
The god notices.
“The longer I let you talk, the longer I grow sympathy.”
A sad hum falls from the brunet’s lips. “And what’s the problem with that?”
Moros thinks. He already has an answer forming, all derived from his godly purpose, who he is, what he’s destined to do. He never felt like a bringer of death, but instead hope. He never felt dark like his aura decides him to be.
But it is all he ever was. Tonight he’s supposed to kill George.
Then why is everything fighting against him like this?
Moros crawls up a bit more, tugging his knees into his chest and resting his cheek on the side so he can stare at the other whose growing numb on the bed. It’s soon that sleep will call for him, it might already be too late.
After a while, “The problem, is that you somehow make me like you. Against fate.”
It tugs a smile onto George’s lips, really slowly. “How do you know if that’s fate or not? You’re not the love god. The future god.”
He grows flustered at the comment, heart stuttering and skin pinkening. Moros can’t answer, not to something he can’t promise to backlash. That would be far more embarrassing. George chuckles quietly when the god mutters, “There is no future god.”
That might as well be a lie, considering the family tree is beyond his knowledge. But if George smiles, it’s worth it.
And Moros can hear the brunet’s heartbeat growing slower, and slower, and quieter. Hushed and light, so much that his super hearing might as well not exist.
“I’m sorry I have to kill you,” Moros decides, looking back to George after the snide comments have passed under his skin.
The shrug of George’s shoulders carry no effort. It’s more like a slump. “You won’t.”
His breath is lost once again. Moros smirks. “How can you be so sure?”
George blinks slow, and Moros finds himself feeling the sink of his breath, his chest and his lungs, all moving at the speed of sand. “Cus’,” his murmur is low and soft like cotton. “This is all just a dream, right?”
God, is he smart. It’s almost stupid. He’s never had a client like George, perhaps maybe this was a mistake after all and the book is wrong and there’s something good coming from this.
No-one had ever held on like this before. Sure they had begged, offered, cried. But not like this. Not with humor edged tones and a laugh sparkling blue, stars and speckles glinting in his eyes with every tease and scoff. Not falling asleep as a tactic.
Maybe he was trying to get in Moro's head. But the god can’t find it in him to care. He can deal with Nyx and her reprimand tomorrow, but right now, there's nothing more interesting than this, someone who fights, and someone who looks cute doing it.
Still, he protests, “George, it isn’t—”
“Can I call you Dream?” The brunet slurs, eyes fluttering every couple of seconds, a glimpse of dark, muddled brown appearing, full of fatigue and sleepiness. Yet still he can sense the god’s hesitance. “I'll feel better, pl’se.”
It’s silly. When has Moros ever felt like anything but a nightmare?
He still watches George grasp sleep in his palms, because now it’s the only thing George has that feels like reality. He doesn’t know why he lets him take it, and fall, slowly. He could lose his job over this. His title.
Maybe he doesn’t really want it, anyway.
Moros sighs, hands fiddling in his lap, calm. Hating to admit he’s almost smiling.
“Whatever you need, George. I’m Dream.”