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Dream stared down at his phone, Sapnap’s text staring back at him.
I don’t think George is okay man.
They’d noticed, of course they’d noticed. They’d been friends for years and when you’ve been friends for years it becomes second nature to notice a pattern of your friend suddenly dropping weight and eating only apple slices whenever they get overly stressed or overwhelmed.
They noticed very frequently.
At first, Dream thought it may be an ADHD thing or something like that. Not that George had ever expressed or confided in them that he had such a diagnosis, Dream just saw a familiar pattern in, well, the patterns : only eating chicken McNuggets meals for one week straight, sandwiches the next, pasta the next.
Dream had struggled with similar things. The task of cooking and grocery shopping and feeding himself something different everyday sometimes became too annoying to deal with and he frequently found himself having the same stir fry day after day. It was easier to just InstaCart bulk chicken and vegetables than to try and plan out different meals.
The weight loss is what caused Dream to realise it wasn’t as similar to his own patterns as he thought. He can clearly remember a late night call between the three boys. They were all showing off their new merch designs and, of course, George wanted to do a try on haul. Dream had never been more thankful to not have his camera on because he’s sure his face dropped as George’s shirt caught as he lifted his jumper over his head.
George had always been smaller, they tried not to bring it up too much because, well, talking about bodies isn’t really that comfortable for anyone. Dream and Sapnap had dealt with their fair share of body image issues, especially with their quick rise to fame and the constant demand for face reveals and content featuring them .
It made Dream incredibly grateful that he’d remained faceless even under all the pressure. He’d been hesitant to post any sort of content that included any part of him for so long, only eventually doing it with the incredible support of his two best friends.
He’d spent countless nights with George or Sapnap or both calming them down about rude comments about their appearances. Sometimes the comments were so extreme they were laughable, sometimes they hit with so much precision that they swore the commenter was in their heads or something.
He’d seen it happen with other content creators: their image constantly changing, their clothes changing, their hair changing, their weight changing. The pressure of thousands of eyes on you in real time forcing people to over analyse and critique themselves to the point of no return.
It always made him sad.
He cared so much about people, too much sometimes. He hated to see people go through that, especially when they went through it so silently.
He couldn’t stand to see George go through that. Pretty privilege George, his George. Maybe the constant compliments became so overwhelming that they felt sarcastic. Maybe his friendly flirting felt forced, felt like pity. Maybe he did this.
Dream liked to think that he was good at expressing his emotions. He was sometimes, he’d worked hard to be able to. He knew, however, that he often turned to humor and banter when talking to people, especially his closest friends. It was comfortable and, usually, it was well received.
He spoke with sincerity occasionally. Clearly not enough, though.
George was struggling, clearly, and Dream had to do something for him. Had to do something that made George feel cared for, appreciated, loved.
Dream did what he always did when one of his friends was down: jumped into action. He looked through the contents of his kitchen, trying to see if he had any food that he thought George might like. He wasn’t an exceptional cook by any standards, but he was decent, and he hoped that this would be one of those it’s the thought that counts sort of moments.
Chicken. He had chicken. George liked chicken. He ate McDonalds nuggets all the time, so he must like chicken. He hadn’t had nuggets in a while though, not since moving to Florida.
Maybe they were different here. He remembered Ranboo saying something about how food was made with more sugar or something in America. That was probably it.
He felt lost. Oil was probably out of the question. Maybe he could boil it, but that sounded horrible. Suddenly he remembered that his mom had gifted him a weird stove top grilling sheet. He quickly grabbed it from where he’d stashed it then set to work chopping up whatever vegetables they had in the fridge.
Vegetables had to be safe, right?
Dream felt incredibly out of his depth, but he figured he was at least on the right track. Vegetables and chicken was something he made for himself a couple times a week, he knew it would at least taste good.
A while later, Dream pulled out the steamy vegetables from the oven. The edges of the red bell peppers were starting to char nicely, and the potatoes were soft when he pressed a fork into one.
Now came the hard part: figuring out how to get George down here to eat with him without it feeling like an ambush. It wasn't , Dream told himself. He was just doing something nice, that’s it.
He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. George ate with them all the time. Well, George sat with them at the table all the time. He usually just picked at his food while Sapnap and Dream ate. But he always came down to eat with them.
Sapnap was busy doing some sort of filming session for Mr. Beast Gaming so it was just him and George in the house. He quickly sent a text out that he hoped sounded like his usual self.
Dream: hey idiot you’ve been up there too long come eat w me i’m starving.
There. That sounded normal. It was how they normally spoke and most importantly, it didn’t really leave George room to argue.
Less than a minute later George responded.
George: If you edit my video I’ll come down
Dream paused, considering it for a second. Then he realised that giving in would definitely be out of character for him.
Dream : no chance get ur ass down here fuck face
Perfect.
Eventually, he heard a comically loud groan from the upstairs bedroom followed shortly by soft feet padding down the stairs. George shuffled into the kitchen and quickly took his usual place at their small table. He looked up at Dream, expectantly.
“What you’re not even gonna serve yourself?”
“Why would I serve myself when I have you to do it for me?” George drawled.
“Oh fuck off” Dream said, already loading a portion of the chicken and vegetables onto a plate for the older.
“Simp.”
Dream placed the plate in front of George and then sat down in front of his own plate.
“I hope you like it, I mean I know it’s nothing special, uhm.. I just… never mind”
“It looks good,” George said, placing his napkin into his lap. His motions looked controlled and practice, uncertainty filled his eyes.
“Okay,” Dream wasn’t sure why he said that. He never spoke about the food he made, he’s such an idiot, George is going to catch on, he’s going to-
“Dream,” George said, pulling the other out of his spiraling thoughts. “I can literally hear you thinking”
“Sorry”
“It’s fine,” George mumbled. His eyes were on the table, looking everywhere except the food on his plate. His arms were in his lap and Dream swore he could see his arms tense as if he was gripping his napkin.
“I, um, dry roasted the veggies and grilled the chicken, so like, like there’s no oil or anything but I- I mean, no pressure. And, and I wasn’t sure what veggies you liked, but you like chicken right? I’ve seen you eat- I mean I don’t watch you eat. Not- If you can’t, or if you, uh, sorry. If you don’t, uhm, if you don’t like it, or… whatever, that’s… okay… too,” Dream blurted out before he could stop himself.
George looked like he was holding back laughter when Dream finally looked up at him.
“I’m sure it will be fine, Dream.” Dream glanced away, nervously. “What? Had the chicken gone off or something? Are you feeding me rotten chicken?” George joked.
“Oh my god, noooo” Dream rolled his eyes, then sighed.
“What is up with you? You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“
I’m not being weird,
” George mocked. “Yes you are.”
Dream wasn’t sure what to say. Part of him just wanted to blurt it out. Express his concern for his friend and offer his help or support or whatever was needed. Another part of him desperately wishes he could forget about all of this.
“You’re not eating.” Dream stated. He couldn’t look at George, he was scared to look at George. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing, or if George was. It sounded too quiet. “You’re not eating and I don’t know what to do about it, but I’m…” he wasn’t sure if he should continue.
“I’m fucking scared for you.”
No going back. He was slightly relieved to have said it, but more of him was nervous for what was about to come. His brain was already filling in the rest of the conversation: yelling, plates being thrown, storm outs, flights being booked, friendships ending-
“Dream, I’m not… like, anorexic” George looked down at his lap, clearly uncomfortable.
Dream stopped, slightly taken aback. “I- I didn’t mean to imply-“
“Can we just..” George started. “I don’t-“ George huffed. He paused, gnawing on his lip. His hands came up to wrap themselves around his body, a common movement of nervousness and vulnerability that Dream had seen many times before.
“I’m not anorexic, I just… I have, like… I dunno, certain textures bother me, I guess. Or, well, a lot of textures,” George shrugged.
Dream listened silently, scared to move or react as if George was an injured animal that would run away at any second.
“And like… how food sounds sometimes- God this is so stupid” George moaned, frustratedly, throwing his head into his hands.
“It’s-“ Dream started, cautiously, “it’s not stupid, George.”
George glanced up.
“It’s a little silly that a 25 year old man can’t eat like a normal human without literally gagging,” George stated bluntly. “It’s embarrassing.”
Silence overwhelmed the two boys.
Dream could feel his heart beating in his chest. His body vibrated with an urge to do something, do anything. His legs started bouncing against the floor as he desperately tried to channel the nervous abundance of energy.
“Let’s just… let’s just eat. Okay?” George said, picking up his utensils.
He delicately cut into the chicken, grimacing a little at the bounce. He held his fork in his hand, poised to spear the chicken and bring it to his mouth. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, clenched his jaw, and took a deep breath through his nose.
“George-“ He was pulled out of his head. “George, you don’t have to eat it.”
“I-“ George started, but then saw the concerned, but kind, look in Dream's eyes. He set his fork down, “Thank you.”
They both paused, unsure of what to do next.
“Sorry, I thought you liked chicken-“
“It looks good, I just-“
They both started at the same time.
They laughed lightly.
“I do like chicken,” George confirmed. “I just… uhm. Grilled chicken is kind of like, well — don’t get me wrong it looks like it’s good and it smells nice — I just, it’s like, squeaky” he finished softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Okay, no more squeaky chicken.”