Archive of Our Own

❤︎

George did not understand grief.

He did not understand, how to grieve. He thought it would come naturally, the overbearing, the overwhelming feeling that wanted to break him.

It never came.

Not even when Karl opened the door for Sapnap, and Sapnap broke down, his tears the Winter’s birth, they grazed daybreak and fell over his red blossomed cheeks like — he still didn’t get it. And he had never, ever felt so bad for not getting something.

❤︎

“You’ll come right?!” George could hear the grin in his voice, and when a laugh followed through silence, he let smiles spread.

“I said I would,” fingers tapped against that same hardwood desk that met George's eyes every day, this night was no different. Though gloom, and shadowed where the light of the lamp refused to hit against. In the light though, are several objects of Georges favoured liking:  a miniature elephant, sculpted from rose quartz, figurines of masked men in green, a dewy yellow to his eye.

It hit the warm light in a way that made George's chest open up, made hands grab his heart and hold it steady, only to shake it and bloom new feelings. 

“Say it.” He said, voice tangy, and it sat in George's mouth like last Summer, where it was the rhythm to which he breathed. His voice hit the warm light in a way that made George's chest bloom. “Say you’ll be here.”

Was he ever one to follow Dream’s word? To let him lead him blindly into new sentences and at least it is no ‘I love you’. “I’ll be there, Dream.

I’ll be with you.”

He’ll be with him.

It could be days, months or years, but he would be with him. He would take his hands in his own, hold his fingertips to his palms where the heart of fires existed and played a dangerous game.

He wondered about Dream's smile, he wondered if he had dimples on his cheeks, or chin.

He laughed, Dream, with those lips that George had only ever seen once through Snapchat. If he thought hard enough, in the pale moonlight with the dewy lamp light now faded, when it was dark and the blinds moved with the wind of the windows new breath; then George could imagine Dream.

Here.

With George, in sheets that crumple against skin and smoothen out over a palm. His laugh against the nape of Georges neck where lips meet soft skin and goose-bumped arms entwine; warm, they would be, they would be so warm. 

George breathed.

❤︎

“George?”

Sapnap held his hand. It was calloused. And the way he had rubbed Georges knuckles with the pad of his thumb brought a comfort that no other could bring.

Except for blond waves that came in sets over green horizons, and strawberry-pinks lips that had once so beautifully smiled.

George hadn’t even seen that smile.

Did the corners of his eyes crinkle? Could you see the white of his teeth through thin lips? 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, voice lost in the back of George's head where Sapnap rested on the brunet’s shoulder. “I am so, so sorry.”

George hummed, and his touch was tighter, grasping, desperate. They were desperate. They were realities desperation, of the reality that succumbed to them only, with a world of pity and regret at their feet.

“It—“ But his voice broke. George didn’t blame it for doing so, for breaking. Where the butterflies once so alive and jittery, were now pinned up against the flesh of his stomach, pinpricks like kittens claws. They held his throat, fingers, fingertips clutched to the bone. He didn’t blame his voice for breaking.

“Do you… uh. Do you want anything to eat? Or drink. We have drinks, there’s water. I— I actually haven’t been grocery shopping in a bit, I think there’s only water.” He rambled, and the way tears formed in his eyes made George want to sob himself.

“Waters good.” Was the only two words the other said for the rest of the night, and Sapnap nodded, he smiled weakly, and he brushed over Georges knuckles one last time before grief-stricken legs took him to the kitchen.

❤︎

“George.” He whispered.

It was hard not to laugh, and yet the noise that fell through parted lips below Georges eyes is close to a fucking giggle. “Yeah?” He whispered back.

Dream laughed, it warmed his ears and nose, and what was left of Summer dusted the brunet's cheeks. “You suck!” He still whispered, yet his tone was now a little higher as he tried to contain himself. “You suck at 8Ball.”

“Suck my ass. You’re just good. I played Quackity and I won.”

“Suck my dick.” Dream doesn’t think, he never does. And the brunet sighed, looking over to the chat that was now high on DNF*.

*DNF is a drug that many need for the will to survive.

“Dream! Stop.” George choked, and a laugh met his ears, it surrounded his room, Dream surrounded him. George didn’t mind, it was a relaxing sort of thing that allowed him to breathe deeper and exhale slower, his laugh.

“Scared its gonna get clipped?”

“You can’t clip on Discord.” 

Dream groaned, and George wondered what it’d be like to hear that in his ear—

No, bad George, no. No, no, no. 

Oh but fucking yes. And he’d live out every fantasy the moment he was with him, in Florida, with them in the same room and Sapnap opposite.

It’d be nice, George thinks. To have his hand, calloused, over his. Where his digits would intertwine with his own, and the pad of his thumb would relax the bones of his own knuckles.

“George?” He asked, and his voice brought life, “You still there? Or are you having a granny nap?” He said between short breaths of laughter, and chat all went along the same:

LMAOOO

DRAG HIS ASS DREAM

I LOVE DREAM

“It wasn’t that funny.” George groaned, fatigue running through his body, and Dream laughed quietly.

“They’re all simps for me, George, they’re going to laugh at anything I say.”

George wanted to laugh at everything he said.

❤︎

George wondered if his hands felt like the marble of the kitchen countertop. 

It was cold; too cold, the air and the counter top; his hands. The smoothness of the marble reminded him of skin and in every way possible did he hate that he was referencing cold marble to his best friend.

Yet he was sure there was no other kinder reference.

George had always wanted to hold Dream's hand, hold his palm to his cheek where the fire ignited, and maybe if Dream would let him, — though he’s sure he would —, let George kiss his hand and wrap it through his own fingers.

Yet he didn’t want to think about lingering over cold hands, pale. He didn’t want to think about how they’d been sun-kissed, once, with the Sunshine States loving embrace. Florida's sweet enveloping sun that caved around the delicate crevices of skin. Soaking into the saccharine blues of the morning.

Soaking into the saccharine greens that George wished he’d known before they fell closed, forever.

There was something that pained George, six words formed into a sentence that he couldn’t bear to say.

“Did you know?” George whispered, and he continued to stay by the marble. If he closed his eyes, and listened to the automatic coffee machine behind him whirring, then maybe he could pretend that this was one of their late night calls, one where the last time they’d talked to each other was a couple of weeks best. 

Dream didn’t respond straight away today, and George knew he’d just fallen asleep! That was why.

“Did you know I—“ His voice broke.

He did not want to think about the fact that this room was empty of Dream’s laugh, that this house was desolate with his touch.

There is no answer on the other side of the call, not even a trace of his usual soft, slight snores that George's headphones would occasionally pick up on.

“Did you know I loved you?” George sobbed. And he clasped a hand over his mouth, tears threatened to fall at the dams of his eyes. 

And finally George realised that he had just admitted his love to the man who had died before he even had the chance to meet him.

But there was a chance, this, here, right now, him in Florida. He was here not to attend a fucking funeral but, to hold his hand, to visit that one park Dream said he used to go to when he was a kid, to meet Dream’s mom, and his sister. To kiss his cheek, to record real life manhunts, to hold his body and savour his warmth.

To meet him.

To love a man that is dead was the most heartbreaking thing George thought he’d ever experienced. He loved a man who was thousands of miles away from him, and he thought about it now, every small thing.

He thought about how he missed his first flight, he thought about how in that time, Dream was in his last few hours of life.

George thought about how if he wasn’t so careless, he may have been able to hold Dream. 

He thought about the texts.

❤︎

George | 12:34 p.m.

fuck

i just missed my flight

Dream | 12:34 p.m.

ur an idiot

George | 12:36 p.m.

go home, you waiting in an airport for eight hours is so stupid.

Dream | 12:36 p.m.

nine hours*

and actually there's a denny’s down the road from the airport

traffics not too bad either 

George | 12:36 p.m.

 whatever, you’re a bad driver. be careful

Dream | 12:36 p.m.

I'm always careful, george.

love u

see you soon

god that's so weird

and soon is actually soon this time

soon is like, soon.

george im actually meeting you

you’re going to be here

there's something i need to ask you when you get here

don't overthink it, it's a yes or no question

okay 

are you getting your ticket?

im at my car now

call me when you have the chance

okay im driving now, cant text and drive

last thing i want is to be in a crash 

or dead in a ditch

okay not a funny joke

no death

| 12:38 p.m.

okay love you george! i'll actually see you soon

George | 1:10 p.m.

just got the ticket

there was a bad queue

you’re such an idiot

love you too

see you soon

* missed call from George *

| 1:15 p.m.

pick up

* missed call from George *

| 1:17 p.m.

you always pick up

is everything okay?

did denny’s give you food poisoning again lol

George | 10:36 p.m.

why is sapnap picking me up

dream?

is everything alright?

| 10:40 p.m.

he’s crying

why is he crying 

it's not happy crying 

| 10:41 p.m.

please be okay

did dennys actually poison you

“What’s up with Dream?” George scoffed, phone falling to his lap and he looked over to Sapnap. They’d met before, only a couple of months ago. And yet he never cried then, so why was he crying now?

Sapnap sniffled, and he pulled over, head falling into his hands and George was confused, and worried, when his best friend started sobbing violently.

“Sapnap?”

George remembered when his aunt died. She’d died from a brain tumour. 

George was only seven at the time, but he was closest to his mom's side of the family, and even more so, Aunt April. So when she passed, his whole world flipped and he found himself struck by grief for weeks, his mom the same.

So now, why was he not as upset? George didn’t understand why he didn’t start crying. He only felt numb, oh so numb.

Sapnap had turned to him, tear stained cheeks, red blossomed, dark eyes laced with sadness,

“George, Dream is dead.” Is what he said, three words broke him, one word addressed him. 

Dream is dead. He is gone. He is not here. He won’t meet him, he won’t be here soon. He is dead.

Dream is dead .

Dream is dead.

He just sat there, in the passenger seat of Sapnap’s car. Legs pressed together and hands idle in his lap, his lips parted and the world seemed to slow down. The cars that passed by seemed to pass with long frames, and his world blurred, as the tears silently fell.

George clasped a hand over his mouth, he wouldn’t dare to be so loud.

He didn’t ask what happened, he didn’t say anything, he only bowed his head and crumbled to pieces.

Sapnap sucked in a sharp breath, though it wobbled. “There was an accident.”

okay im driving now, cant text and drive

last thing i want is to be in a crash 

“The police came round, said that witnesses stated that he got t-boned at the intersection.” His voice was so low, and he had to pause every so often to regain his composure.

“It wasn’t his fault.” He said finally, more so to himself. And George opened his phone, the last few texts in blue, from himself. But in grey,

okay love you george! i'll actually see you soon

He scrolled up. Now reading the rambling texts that he hadn’t bothered to read before.

love u

see you soon

god that's so weird

and soon is actually soon this time

soon is like, soon.

george im actually meeting you

you’re going to be here

there's something i need to ask you when you get here

“What did he… want to ask me?” Tears in his mouth tasted salty. And yet he held them, he cradled his cheeks and he cradled his last reminder of Dream.

Sapnap beside him broke down again.

❤︎

It had been three days since then, it had been two days since Sapnap held his hand on the couch, and now he stood in the living room.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking at, just flowers that wilted brilliant reds and maroons, chrysanthemums, white. There were roses in the vase, and perhaps that was what he was staring at. 

“Uh George?” The brunet turned, voicing a hum before finding Karl behind him, the chestnut brunet stood with a smile, clutching his phone and holding himself surprisingly well. Karl stood before George, his eyes casted down and hair tangled and strangled. “I was just, I— hi.” He sucked in a breath, exhaling sharply.

George replied with a weak smile, and Karl didn’t seem to mind, only now he watched George's fingertips brushing over the marble surface of the kitchen counter. In one way, it was painful for George to find resemblance of his best friend with a cold surface instead of that same sunshine, saccharine- sweet. With a voice he knew would warm the tips of his ears, and he was so sure his touch would too.

If only he’d been there to hold him, to savour him, to warm his skin.

“It’s been confirmed.” Karl whispered, and he choked back tears, hands at a box of tissues where he dabbed his eyebags. He sat hastily on the couch, where George found himself seated now too. “Thursday, ten. Ten a.m.” He paused. “Next Thursday though.”

It was soon, too soon. George wasn’t sure if he’d even wanted to go—

Of course he had to go, he wanted to, needed to.

He just wished he wouldn’t have to meet his best friend and his family at his own funeral. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Thursday, okay.”

Dream would want him there.

“Okay.” Karl repeated, shoulders sagged with relief and with brown eyes, he told George that he was sorry.

A question plagued George, held him at the throat and kept him awake far longer into the night than the actual thought of his best friend's death did.

“Karl, what was he like?” 

Karl sat there, and his breath was taken too quickly. “I dont— I don’t think I'm the right person to ask.”

George hated Dream for some things, like how he wouldn’t, — for the longest time — agree to meet other friends until he’d met George first.

It was after Karl and Sapnap got back from the United Kingdom that George finally got the stubborn faceless man to cave in and meet a few people. That included Karl, Quackity, Punz and only a few others that George couldn’t think off the top of his head.

“I mean, he liked waking up late, he liked Patches sitting on his lap while editing, though he’d prefer you on his lap. ” He mumbled the last bit under his breath, sore smiles on his lips and incoherent to George's ears, the very man beside him looking at Karl confused.

“Ask Sap, y’know they lived with each other.” He stopped, drawing in a breath once more before taking George’s hand in his own, his shoulder on his and sadness in his eyes.

So George did ask Sapnap. And he stared at George, and broke into tears. Not the gut-wrenching sobs that they’d been dealing with for the past couple of days, but the sort of crying that comes after a fight. Where the silent gasps for air end up choked at the back of throats, lodged, or the stain of hot tears that riddled cheeks for hours on end.

“He,” Sapnap started, ten minutes later when they’re sitting on his bed, the pale moonlight slipped through open shutters like Manuka honey. Soft and sweet. Faces cast bright, yet dull and so subtle, and oh— so kind.

“He was so in love.” Sapnap breathed,

“With not only you, but the whole world.

And I don’t think there was a day that went by where he wasn’t smiling, unless there was some sort of twitter drama.” He laughed, fingers tapped against his thigh. “And then there was the day you called, and said you got your visa.”

“He was so happy, George. To see you, to want you there… here. And every day there was a, ‘ I wonder what it’s going to be like when George gets here, ‘ or a, ‘ do you think he’d— ‘ “ Sapnap cut himself off quickly, and he poked George’s arm.

“He was so in love with you. And you were so in love with him.” He stared at George, who sat quietly with his legs flat and arms in his lap. “We all knew you were. So, when you said you booked the tickets a week from when you got your visa, he started panicking.”

Sapnap held his breath for a while, he stayed silent for longer, and George didn’t mind, he let the quiet of the moon’s night envelope them with grief.

He laughed, Sapnap. He genuinely laughed and it took George aback for only a split second, “He was never one to panic, he kept calm in most situations, dealt with things maturely, yet from the day you booked to the day he died— he had this plan.  

It involved him asking you to go on a date with him, a really shitty movie at the theatre down the road, an observatory and his bed.”

“ His bed? “ George scoffed, rolling his eyes and he couldn’t even begin to feel mad at the blond, only the loss of love and the overwhelming grief that struck him all too quickly.

George thought he did not understand grief.

That he did not understand, how to grieve. He thought it would never come, the overbearing, the overwhelming feeling that wanted to break him.

Yet it came.

And it crushed his soul.

Sapnap told George much that night. He told him about how Dream would have his routine every morning, two mugs of coffee made and a blue one left out for George. Dream had bought it with the green and red one a while back, so Sapnap had said.

George now knew that his smile reached his eyes and ears, and every laugh broke the room free of tension. That you could see his front row of teeth through his grin, and that his Adam’s Apple bobbed when he laughed too hard.

His fingers were always fidgeting, and the pads of those same fingers would brush along each of his belongings sitting on his desk.

He liked to touch things, to feel them with his eyes and hear with his fingertips. Aware of everything and yet how did he die? How was he not aware of that split second before the crash and fateful crack?

It wasn’t his fault. It wouldn’t be, George wouldn’t let it be his fault. He had the green light, he had the world, he had angel wings.

Sapnap poured Dream’s tea — a habit George didn’t have the heart to tell him he didn’t have to do anymore — in the morning, where the honeyed light in blue skies filtered through the window as Karl opened the blinds.

“Guys?” Karl said slowly, blinking, and his head turned to the two in the kitchen. “You might wanna have a look at this.”

So they looked, mugs in hand, and Sapnap handed his boyfriend a purple mug, slightly larger, not the same.

No one saw it at first, until Sapnap cursed and put his mug on the windowsill. And then it found George’s eyes, a singular red rose sitting on the slanted roof of the letterbox — a dear thing with the number sixteen in gold metal and in the colour eggshell blue.

“Look.” Karl pointed out, and there, a girl dressed a white dress, no older than twelve, was trailing a red box on wheels. ( hi authors note, i can’t remember the name of the thingy thing idk) 

But what caught their eyes were the littered red roses in the back that she was placing on each of the letterboxes.

“Roses.” George sighed, and Sapnap shook his head with disbelief. 

“His favourite.”

❤︎

“Are you okay?” His voice came so suddenly, and it took George by surprise that the other wasn’t asleep.

“Yeah.” He answered, dopey smiles on his lips and high on serotonin with his best friend's voice in his ears.

He surrounded him with warmth, “George, I’m being serious!” He laughed, and George’s whole body he warmed. “You’ve been..”

“Distant.” The brunet sighed.

There's another sigh, yet on the other side of the call this time. “At least Sapnap was able to be there for a while, and Quackity, and Karl, Tina—“

“But you weren’t there.” It slipped out, George didn’t regret the words as much when Dream laughed.

“You love me.” He said, voice slipping into a yawn. Warm.

“Don’t.” George retorted, I do.

Dream hummed, “Hey can I call you on my phone? I wanna get into bed, I'm so tired.”

So they have their phones to their ears not even a minute later, separated by miles, yet under sheets with the same tangible laughs slipping through parted lips.

“I love you.” He said, voice so soft, and George wondered if he’d even heard right. “Sorry it’s just—“

So George said it back, “I love you too.” He drew in a breath. 

There's no microphone, no headset or monitor. No chat flying past, all high on DNF crumbs. It’s just them, and their sheets that dropped off hot bodies and skin, phones pressed to their ears.

It was only them savouring this moment.

George could hear him smile, it warmed his heart that sent signals to his brain to say something, he didn’t, Dream does, “I know.”

“Were you recording?’ George scoffed, turning over onto his left, he held his phone impossibly closer, Dream’s laugh sent shivers down his spine, though it quietened.

“No, but I wish I was.” He paused, “and I'll remember it for the rest of my life.”

❤︎

George just wished the rest of his life meant eight years and beyond, dying peacefully in his sleep at old age.

He didn’t know the rest of his life would only be a measly year longer.

George held his breath, looking down at his phone, the same haunting contact with endless messages had been sent to still break his heart.

He’d written a few things to the number, telling Dream he missed him, or saying that he was glad Sapnap was eating well again, even if that meant he was actually having dinner or breakfast.

Though the last few texts that sent through were more for Dream than himself, where he told him he loved him, and the only word, yes, written above a single sentence.

George | 2:03 a.m.

yes

ill go on your stupid cliche date with you, idiot.

Feeling that same stomach drop that he’s been having since Dream's death, George clicked off the contact, and he opened a new message this time, one from Dream’s own mother.

My mom lol | 12:15 p.m.

Hello dear, below is an attachment for the funeral.

I know clay would want you there. and it would be lovely 

to meet you some time before so we’re not meeting on the day.

He didn’t know what to say, or how to respond. Even her addressing him made him upset. Dear. He wondered if she called Dream that. 

The couch kept him safe from his worries, and he sunk further into the grey cushion, where black throw pillows cushioned his back from the blow, much like how Dreams black leather didn’t soften his blow.

Wrapped in a blanket that he shared with Patches, he sighed, wanting to break his phone into two like the Titanic ship.

The cat beside him, curled into a ball and dead silent, looked at him. 

“It’s tough, isn’t it?” He whispered, petting the cat’s head with two fingers, she sunk lower into the couch, now pressed against his thigh.

Patches had cried every night since Dream's death. 

The first night, Karl opened the door from his and Sapnap’s room, letting her into Dream’s, where she looked about and ended up falling asleep on his desk chair.

The first day without him, she stayed by the front door, not once leaving the doors side, and if she did, she would be on Dream’s bed or chair, waiting for him to come home.

She hadn’t eaten that day, nor the day after, which was spent the same way as the day before. And so after a trip to the vet, Sapnap brought back the cat and a syringe to hand feed her.

That was when he burst into tears, Karl comforting him, George not understanding why he wouldn’t cry, and instead felt numb with grief.

It was now that she was feeling only slightly better, her cries at night came less frequently, she’d even slept with George, by his feet and he stayed away most of the night taking extra precaution not to move and scare her. He definitely wasn’t still awake because of anything else — no.

Patches made everything harder and easier. Harder, because her grief for her best friend and owner made the three men want to cry harder.

Easier, because she was comforting. 

With a soft coat, and gentle, quiet purrs, George felt lighter. He held his hand over her head, fingertips soft, gingerly did he pet her and tenderly did he love her. 

Because she was a piece of Dream, something so far gone that he was never going to get back.

There was a knock at the door, and there was no point in going to get it when the door was being opened already. He knew who was inviting themselves in, so with a deep breath in, George braced himself for laughs and shouts.

Quackity smiled at him. His beanie shoved down over his head yet long raven hair fell out like a bird's nest. 

The smile was sad, he was distraught. With paler skin than normal and dark bags under his eyes. He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket before pulling out chocolates.

“Brought these, he loved them when I introduced them to him last time.” His voice was gravelly, and he choked back tears, George couldn’t believe who was standing in front of him. Because it was not Quackity, it was not his upbeat best friend who took it upon himself to be the joker of the group, always laughing and shouting, cussing out his friends and grinning.

So he found the willpower to move and short, quick steps brought him to the Mexican, arms opened wide and he enveloped Quackity into his grasp. 

When he felt arms wrap around his own torso, George crumbled.

❤︎

“Dream?” George asked softly, he tapped his fingers against the rose quartz elephant. “Is everything alright? How are you?”

There was a hum on the other side, and George pressed back a groan.

“It’ll blow over, it always does.”

“They want me dead.” Dream snapped, voice breaking and he scoffed. There was typing, and before long, it stopped.

A series of screenshots flooded onto George's monitor, and he opened Dream’s messages on Discord.

“It’s messed up, George! Who the living fuck even sends this sort of shit?! It’s not even one person, it’s a whole bunch.” He rambled, voice strong and he scoffed again. George only looked through a few images, most being tweets, others consisted of reddit and whatnot.

His heart broke.

George scrolled, the next worse than the last, and he truly did not understand why people would want his best friend dead. Dream had said things, though everyone had, they were human. These people were human too, yet why were people on their side? He didn’t know. They wanted him gone, for good.

“Don’t listen to them.” He stated finally, drawing out a breath and looking away from his monitor, now more than ever did he want to be there, in Florida, with him. Forever.

“I’m not listening, because I'm still kicking and well and truly alive.” George could feel his grin in his words.

“Okay, well don’t think about it.” George quipped, though no real anger nor hurt sat behind his words.

“What am I supposed to think about then?” Dream groaned, there were a few more taps on his computer before he cried out, “George theres fucking more of them!”

“Dream, I'm going to be there.”

There was silence.

“What?” It came through quietly, yet audible, laughs followed. “You- You’re, there. Here? Florida? With me. Oh my god! George what? Are you being serious? If you’re fucking with me I swear to fucking Go- Is it April Fools? Okay no. George a—“

“Slow down! Slow down!” George laughed, and Dream soon laughed too, awkwardly yet it was beautiful and heaven and George loved listening to it and he wanted to hear it in real life, with Dream next to him. “I booked tickets before, after seeing everything going on on Twitter. I know you’re not going to die, or whatever, you know, fuck these guys, they’ll do anything to scare a guy. But it really just reminded me that sometimes things happen, and I'd rather meet you sooner than later.”

George sighed, Dream was quiet.

Did he offend him? Did he do something wrong? Where had he—

Dream laughed, quiet against his ears and the soft muted noise of a mumble.

“You’re going to be here?” He laughed. “We’ll actually meet, and I can hug you, and slap you and -“

“Stop being an idiot.” George scoffed, brunet hair falling over his face as he slumped in his chair, a dopey grin on his lips, jaw loose and inside cheek being bitten carelessly. 

“When's your flight for?”

“A week, Thursday.” 

“So soon? Jesus I thought you’d prolong that too.” Dream chuckled, and if he were next to George, he’d have slapped him.

If he were here, he’d hold him, he’d trace his fingertips over his skin. Dream’s skin is warm and sun-kissed with Florida's saccharine sunshine. George’s cold and porcelain with London’s bitter breeze.

Their fingertips would entwine, intertwine, their smiles would grasp one another and browns would meet greens finally.

Finally,

Finally , George thought. He would meet his best friend, and this nauseating nightmare would pass. He’d finally be within his best friend's arms, he’d finally be in Florida, he’ll finally meet Patches, he’ll finally meet his second mom — who he had to tell now that he thought about it. — he wondered two things.

He wondered what the hell he was going to do with his feelings. Those that he shoved in the attic of his mind and the basement of his heart. Maybe he’d forget they existed, maybe he’d kiss his best friend—

George frowned. He would not kiss his best friend, no matter what.

He looked back up to the death threats his best friend was getting.

He sighed.

“You went all quiet on me.” George was startled back to life, where reality held a grip on him so tight that he wondered what desperate things would come next.

“Sorry.” The brunet mumbled, raking a hand through hair and he tilted his head, rolling his shoulders, clicking his neck.

“It’ll be easy. We’ll meet, you’ll move in. Boom.”

The second thing he wondered about was if his feelings were returned. Was this a ploy? He hated thinking too much about it and so he shoved everything back into the attic of his mind and the basement of his heart.

“Yeah, easy.” George laughed, deciding not to think anything of it. 

❤︎

Dinner for the past week had consisted of either nothing or just takeaways. 

So when the house started smelling of chicken and vegetables, it took little to no time for everyone to find themselves in the kitchen, being greeted by a brunette, her hair long, brown waves falling light. She hummed, retying her hair back into a loose bun before she looked at the boys.

“Karl let me in.” She smiled sadly, and George sighed, walking to his friend and engulfing her into a hug.

He’s found that he’s been giving a lot of hugs lately. To Karl, to Sapnap, Quackity and now Tina.

“What’s for dinner?” Sapnap asked, seating himself at the kitchen island, tracing over cold marble. He frowned.

“Chicken soup!” Tina greeted the melancholy with a smile. “It’ll last a few days and at least then you all won’t look so…” She doesn’t finish, only shaking her head and looking at George who had pulled away when Sapnap spoke.

“Thanks, appreciated.” Karl took in a shaky breath, and Quackity hummed.

A couple of hours later they’re all seated at the dining table, a seat open next to George and opposite Sapnap. George wondered what it’d be like to actually have Dream here.

They’d be laughing, they wouldn’t sit in silence or make that stupid small talk that Tina and Karl are invested in right now.

He bet Dream would reach for his hand first, intertwine their fingers together and blame his smile and flushed cheeks on Tina’s hot cooking. He’s sure he’d pull away at first, scold Dream quietly when the others were all too loud with trying to talk over one another.

He’d say something stupid, like, “ Dream stop that! “ Yet he’d actually secretly love it.

“ You sure you want me to stop? You’re enjoying it. “ The blond was sure to grin, George thought he would anyway.

“George?”

He rose from his thoughts, head perked up and he hummed, spoon swirling around his untouched food.

“Is everything alright?” Karl asked him.

George’s lips twisted shut, his eyebrows furrowed together — eyes narrowed, brown, dark, fires lurked and he bit down, he snapped. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” He quipped, and everyone sat silently, startled, nearly taken aback by the true venomous return of a question. “My best friend just died Karl, i’m not fucking okay ? I never even met him.”

Karl scoffed, he shook his head and dropped his spoon. “Don’t be selfish.” He retorted.

Selfish? 

Selfish? 

He was far from selfish. Everyone at this table had seen his smile, had smelt that cologne on his sweaters. They’d held his wrist or hand, they’d felt warm skin, they’d—

“Fuck you.”

“George!” Sapnap scolded, and that made him snap.

“No! Fuck you too!” He rose from his seat, Karl shocked, Sapnap looked angry, and Quackity and Tina knew better than to interfere.

“Selfish? You wanna go there? Jesus Christ Karl, have you thought once about how i’m feeling?—“

“Of course I have.” Karl seethed, and he was nearly just as angry. With flushed red cheeks, vermillion and he spat each word out with venom. Brows furiously knitted together and eyes just as dark with the shadows of hatred for each word that came out of George fucking Davidson’s mouth. “You’re being inconsiderate. Think about all of us! We’re able to hide it away for a night. And just forget about all of this shit!” 

“Forget about it? What the hell are you on about right now? You want me to just, forget ? about the fact my best friend got killed in a fucking accident!” George fumed, infuriated. Karl stared dumbfounded.

“Okay, I— that wasn’t right.”

“To hell it was!”

“But can we calm down? Let’s just have dinner, we’re all friends here. None of this is going to bring Dream back, it’s only going to push each other away in a time where we need everyone closest.” Karl reasoned, and he looked up at the brunet, who’s eyebrows softened and jaw loosened. George nodded, and he’s about to apologise when Sapnap beside him spoke up.

“You are being selfish, George. He was my best friend, I knew him for longer, fuck this shit, I lived with him.”

George had always known that anger was one of the five stages of grief, but when he was researching the five stages, he laughed at the absurdity of the one in bold, black letters.

Anger

It had stared back at him, he had blinked, scoffed, and told himself he most likely was to skip that stage. For he wasn’t an angry person, and he doubted he’d ever take his non-existent anger out on anyone, that including his best friends.

His fingers curled, his fist balled, and he did not punch his best friend in the face. Instead he slapped him.

It was cold-hearted and in disbelief did he pull away, in disbelief that he’d ever find himself slapping Sapnap. His cheek was red, matching his palm, and Sapnap couldn’t even muster to be angry, only disappointed.

Everyone sat, they watched. Karl scoffed.

“And I fucking loved him.” George spat, and he turned on his heel and made an attempt not to burst into tears before reaching his door.

It’s not his room that he ended up storming into with blurred eyes and hazed thoughts, instead he found dark walls, a subtle grey that mirrored his mood. Dark green duvets thrown hastily over white sheets, pillow cases black.

He’d never been in here before.

His heart stopped.

Dream’s room was everything he thought it would be, moody and dark despite his clear and friendly heart.

The carpets were that same dark carpet that the rest of the house adorned. The furniture consisted of two shelves, a cabinet, drawers, his bed, and, his desk.

His shelves held moments of his life, trophies and framed photos, stacked papers and figurines. Cabinets held his shit that he would always used to complain to George about, and he laughed as he remembered. 

He was cold.

It was unusually cold, and so without another thought he mind blanked and opened the draws. Hoodies of sorts were found, yet at the top was George’s own merch. George smiled, wondering if Dream would wear it on a daily basis.

He heard his name in the halls, without thinking, he scoffed and pulled out a sweatshirt at random.

It was green, forest green, with sleeves that looked slightly puffy and stitched lettering in the front, he pulled it on, the hoodie ended just below his hips, and he was hit with an overwhelming scent.

He sobbed.

❤︎

“I bought more shit today.” Dream said uselessly, and George furrowed his brows, smiling though.

“Cool, thanks for the information, we’ll all do well knowing you spend your money on random stuff.” George laughed, and he watched the chat go slow. They’d decided to stream during the slow hours, George’s alt stream having less followers made them pick that platform.

“No I just mean like—“ he paused, thoughtful for a moment where his fingertips met daybreak. “Nevermind.”

George laughed, Dream did too, voices soft and playful, teasing and kind. They loved each other and while the world knew, they did not. There were things that the world didn’t know, such as the fact that in two days, George was going to be in Florida. He was going to be in Dream’s arms, in his grip, in his hold, in his embrace.

“What are you wearing?” It was a whisper, quiet and solemn, chat flew fucking fast on adrenaline now, as did Georges heart. His character on his screen stopped, and he waited for it to move, forgetting that he was in control.

“Don’t be weird.” He mumbled, though a nervous laugh reached up his throat. With his head now bowed, he looked down and over his clothes. 

Ew . He thought, nearly not wanting to respond.

“I’m not! I’m just making sure you’re dressed appropriately for the season.” Dream said like a dick, and George scoffed, though he returned to his keyboard, fingers messed about over the controls. 

“Black sweatpants.” He looked to chat, glad for once that his camera was off, and he realised that Dream had loaded them into a Hypixel game. “And the hoodie.”

“The hoodie?” Dream asked, voice still soft. Chat talked about it, George hated his chat right now.

“No.”

“It is! Isn’t it?”

George groaned, and he waited for the BedWars game to start. “Okay yeah. What about you, idiot?”

Dream chuckled, their game started, and both of their characters started backing up into the iron and gold generator. Dream didn’t respond until he’d gotten enough iron to leave George’s character and start bridging off.

“Grey sweatpants.” He answered, dragging on the ’s’ sound as if he were a snake. A snake holding Georges throat, closing in. “And a random green hoodie I've taken a liking to lately.” He laughed, brushing off their tension as if it were nothing, he scolded George for dying in the game. 

“Not your merch hoodie?” 

“Nah, it's darker.” 

George’s lips parted, “oh.” He turned to the game again, his screen alive against the darkness of what was his surroundings.

He died again, he thought a lot while waiting to respawn. Dream, sweatpants, Dream, hoodie, dark green, sweatpants, big di-

He coughed, character stopping and chat falling to pieces, though they slow before he regained his composure. 

“Are you alright over there?”

The voice tempted him, tantalising. He wasn’t even doing anything but playing fucking Minecraft and kicking little kids’ asses, and asking his best friend if he’s okay. And yet George was crumbling. 

“Yeah,” he said mindlessly. He had to shut up his thoughts before he stepped foot off that plane.

❤︎

“George?” The door opened, and Quackity stared at him, for a good while before he sighed and stepped through Dream’s threshold, door shutting behind him. “Hey, are you all good to talk to?”

George didn’t even look at his best friend, eyes still focused on the two framed photos on Dreams desk. The first, his tweet, I love you Dream <3 and the second, him and Sapnap, with an edited George face between them. He’d laughed at first, finding it hilarious. Until he realised that he’d never be able to get a photo with his two best friends because one of them was dead.

He cried for at least another twenty minutes before he, exhausted, fell into Dream’s desk chair, bundled up with his knees tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around himself.

“Sapnap—“ He paused. “He wanted to come in, and check on you, but he didn’t know if you’d still be angry so he asked me to check on you.” The man behind him explained, “Tina left an hour ago.”

George hummed, voice breaking from his pitiful cry sessions. 

“We can talk tomorrow if that’s better, uh— it’s quite late.”

George couldn’t turn around, he couldn’t face his best friend, with tear-stained cheeks that Dream was sure to call beautiful. He couldn’t believe half the things that came out of his mouth, and the fact he’d hit his best friend—

He shuddered violently.

“Should I leave you alone?”

“No, stay.” George choked out, and he turned to the raven haired man. “Please.”

Quackity’s face fell, and he nodded, and stay he did. They didn’t talk, only having each other as company, Quackity on his phone and George staring at each thing on Dream’s cluttered desk for about five minutes total on each item.

There was a fork. He smiled, holding it carefully and knowing it as ‘the’ fork. Figurines on his desk lined at the back took up quite a lot of his time as he tried to figure out where his, Sapnap’s and Dream’s was. He found it, in their own separate group by the framed photo. His keyboard lay untouched, though no dust resided, his monitors much the same. 

There was clutter, too much clutter. Papers and scrapped pages, scrunched papers and more pages.

George took a closer look.

His heart dropped.

“Oh, those are confessions.” Quackity spoke up from behind him. And bile rose in George's mouth, he knew Dream loved him, Sapnap had said he had, yet what was written was so much more than love. And he hated to think that the only real chance he had at a relationship was now dust or dead. 

He wondered what it would be like, if Dream had never been killed. He thought, long and hard about the dreams he would have, of sugar and smiles. He’s sure Dream would never leave his side.

Yet in the past week, there were nightmares that haunted him long after daybreak, that entwined around his fingertips and threaded through his veins. 

The pages he flicked through were nightmares, vile, evil and taunting things that made him want to scream. Yet he sat frozen in the chair that smelt of the blond, in the hoodie that smelt even more of the blond. Scrawly handwriting met brown eyes, that narrowed and darkened and flashed with hurt. He didn’t want to even think for a moment about anything anymore. Like how Dream’s laugh and voice would soften when addressing him, or how he sent various things when sending his fan mail over, or when he would do stupid things but always ask for forgiveness with well-thought out apologies.

George didn’t want to think about the other things. Did it hurt? Was he in pain? Did he die on impact? 

Was it his fault?

The pages he was holding soon crumpled, wrinkled and crinkled and wet with tear droplets. Quackity hugged his best friend from behind, and the brunet only imagined Dream there instead. Holding his body close and whispering sugar sweet sentences into his ear.

If looks could kill, George would be holding Dream’s hand in Heaven right now. It was twelve in the morning, and George hadn’t slept a wink last night, instead spending the whole night going over and over the notes as if they were evidence for a crime scene.

Quackity sat on the couch, legs outstretched, George in the chair, and the couple on the couch across from Quackity.

“We need to talk at some point.” Quackity said, he looked between both parties. “You all said shit last night, maybe some of you meant it, maybe some of you didn’t. Let’s start with that, hands up if you meant what you said last night.”

Three hands rose.

Quackity sat back, “oh.” He drew in a breath, prolonging the exhale, prolonging the blow. “Okay. Let’s go around and say one thing we didn’t like about what each person said…” He trailed off, cringing, “Or did.” He sighed, looking at Sapnap. “You go first.”

The brunet scoffed, looking to George, “I don’t like how you fucking slapped me.” 

“Yeah? Well I don’t like how you called me selfish. ” George snapped.

“Karl said that first!”

“Hey what?” Karl spat, turning to his boyfriend shocked.

“And you made it worse!”

“Everyone shut the fuck up! “ Quackity stood up, if looks could kill, they’d all be holding Dream’s hand in Heaven. The man looked towards the three, he’d always been happy, always the joker, now he snapped. With eyes bane, and infuriated breaths, he closed his eyes and gained his composure. 

“You all fucking suck.” He said simply. “We’re supposed to be friends, friends. Our best friend just died, and here we are fighting about who’s grieving worse, we all fucking deal with it differently.” He looked to George, “You just deal with it silently.” Then the couple, “And you two deal with it by talking about it. You both call me when you want to talk about it, you talk to each other, George has dealt with it silently. Don’t call him selfish for snapping, George, don’t go slapping people. Guys, we need to work this out. We’re mourning, we’re going through the stages, including anger, but that doesn’t mean we can take it out on each other and then continue to.”

He took a breath.

Silence enveloped them, they crumbled.

There is always the calm before the storm, but the calm after is just as important. George thought that was last night, him and Quackity sitting in Dream’s room for hours before Quackity retreated to his own room and George not long after passing out on Dream’s bed.

The calm after the storm is actually right now. Where they all do not say anything and they all watch each other with furious eyes and quiet mouths. Calm frowns and tight jaws, there is nothing more important in a fight than this moment.

“I’m sorry.”

Because it’s the time for apologies, or not to apologise. 

“For slapping you.”

And addressing each other in a sincere way, where the past furiousness is calmed with gentle rolls of wind and blooming flowers. The rain passed, no longer so bitter and raw, the wind resided into a breeze, it was warm and there were few things that were ever warm these days.

His voice was warm, “I’m sorry too, for calling you selfish. And for being inconsiderate about your feelings.” He paused, coffee brown eyes stained George’s skin as his stare lingered, “He loved you differently, you loved him differently.”

It hit George then that it was different. They just lost a friend, a best friend. He lost a lover.

“I’m sorry too.”Karl sighed in relief, “It escalated, it shouldn’t have.” He offered, and he offered a smile too to George, who accepted.

“Sorry for raising my voice, and for being bitchy.”

The three of them laughed, Quackity breathed, he sat back down, chewing on his bottom lip. He wondered how Dream would deal with it. He wondered if they’d even be fighting if he was here.

❤︎

They called the night before, the morning of, and the afternoon of George's flight. 

In the night they fell asleep together, even if their times were different and such. Dream’s laugh was softer, it brushed George's ear in just the right way and he allowed it to. He wouldn’t think anything more of it that way.

He would. 

He wondered what his actual laugh would be like in his ear, his breath on his skin, warm, everything about him was warm. That, he enjoyed about the other, that he was always sun-kissed.

“Thinking?” Dream asked, and George hummed, swivelling in his chair and looking over his monitors. Dream had been sending him stupid tweets or memes he found, and he’d left them open on his screen.

“Just, y’know, this time tomorrow…” He trailed off.

He did not know what tomorrow would entail. He knew he was going to get on that plane, he knew he was going to want everything, and need everything, from his best friend, but would he hide it all too well? He wouldn’t. George feared he’d ramble his feelings out to Dream the moment their eyes connected.

“Tomorrow we’ll be together, and I'll drive you home.”

Home, George smiled.

“And then you’ll pass out on your bed, or mine, and Patches will cuddle you, and I’ll edit for a couple hours.” He sighed happily at his fantasy. 

“I like that.” George said breathily, browns flicking to Dreams icon, a green ring around it as he laughed, a wheeze that he felt safe within the arms of. 

“I know.” Dream hummed, fingers tapped against his keyboard and George could tell he was nervous. He’d been more jittery, more worrying. Always checking up on George to make sure if he’s still coming, or telling him to check if his plane was cancelled.

“Don’t be late for your plane either.” Dream said quickly. “Like, you have to be on time.”

“Okay, and let’s say I do miss it.” George grinned, pale skin spreading for strawberry smiles to make their way through. “There’s a high chance I'll miss my flight and have to rebook.”

“I– Ugh. I’m just–” Dream scoffed again and George laughed. “I’ll wait in the airport for you tomorrow, and I won’t leave, nuh-uh. Although if you miss your flight I'm going to go to the Denny’s across the road or something.”

“What the hell! Don’t go to Denny’s!” George laughed, but he trailed off when a sinking feeling dropped in his stomach. Once fluttering butterflies now pinned themselves to the walls of his stomach, and an odd, empty feeling made him sick, vile taste tests in his mouth and a choking bitterness in his throat.

He was just nervous for tomorrow.

“Denny’s sucks.”

“You’ve never been there before, idiot.” Dream laughed. 

“Yeah, but remember when you got food poisoning?”

“Okay i’ll die on the way there.” Dream agreed, and George held his stomach, frowning. Why was he so sick all of a sudden?

Nerves. He sighed, nodding to himself bitterly. Just, and only nerves. 

When Dream called George the next morning, George was already awake, it was six a.m., which was odd because he was never awake at six in the morning. And even then he’d had at least seven hours sleep.

“Morning~” George replied to the fuzzy ‘good morning!’ with an elongated ‘ing’. He held his suitcase, already packed and stuffed with essentials. He was staying for long enough to meet his friends, and Dream. Dream. And his family if Dream could force the two together.

He’d do anything to make them meet.

And it wasn’t like his family didn’t want to meet George, George was sure he’d just be an awkward tumbling mess and therefore a nervous wreck, and therefore not wanting to meet Dream’s family when so high on anxiety.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” Dream asked him over the phone, and George stifled scoffs and smiles.

“I’m alright.”

“You’re quiet.”

“So are you!”

Dream laughed, he laughed a lot. He laughed even when George wasn’t being funny.

“I just can’t believe it’s happening.” Dream groaned, and over his speakerphone, George could hear Dream falling back onto his bed. “I have this whole thing arranged, and i– I shouldn't even be telling you this.”

“Tell me! You have to now.” George gripped his phone, and a smile spread when Dream’s ever-so-warm laughing sigh came through. 

“It’s nothing, I can’t spoil it.”

“Dream!”

“George!” He returned the energy.

God, George loved this man with every living fibre in his body. He loved so much about him, and that alone warmed his cheeks into a blossoming vermillion. 

That late morning George was late for his plane. And it wasn’t even the first plane he missed.

“You’re an idiot!” Dream laughed, and George scolded him quickly as he made his way through the airport. He’d never been one to travel, not by plane anyway. And the last time he’d been to the airport must’ve been years ago.

“I know! Shut up– Oh shit- fuck me, wheres the fucking gate!?” George rambled, cursing aloud and he cringed at how loud he was. 

“Stop swearing.” A laugh fell through his speaker, and slipped into George's ears like honey, he hated it, he couldn’t love it, he wouldn’t let himself. Starting from today, he was not going to be a Dream simp.

His voice was warm, “It’s going to be alright, George.”

George cursed himself again, legs weak and lips parted. He could fall to the floor feebly because of this man's voice alone. And yet now he had to see him in nine hours.

Well nine hours if he wasn’t going to miss his second flight.

George found himself faced with a window, the plane was departing, and he was still in this fucking airport.

“Did you miss it?”

“Yeah.” George sighed, out of breath and he slumped in the nearest chair. “How do you miss two flights?” He asked himself, yet Dream piped in in reply.

“You be an idiot, be late and get stuck in traffic, and then fall asleep during the wait—”

“Shut up.”

Dream’s laugh was warm.

“Sorry, like, I'm really sorry.” George said simply, voice quiet and the calm after the storm arrived. 

“Why? You didn’t– haven’t, done anything.”

“Yeah, but I'd be well half way into my first flight if I’d left earlier.” He stated, and there’s a hum on the other side of the line, agreeing with him. 

“Okay, well you go and book your ticket and wait, I have to sort a few things out before I–”

“Don’t go to Denny’s.” George quipped quickly and the other scoffed.

“Stop bringing up Denny’s, and stop being late and I won't resort to Denny’s for my starvation. Airport food sucks actual ass here, tastes worse than Sapnap–”

“Don’t finish that.”

“Okay, mom.”

“Don’t call-”

“Love you.” Dream chimed.

If George could go back, he was sure he’d say something better. Maybe he’d tell him he loved him way more than just, ‘love you too.’ Yet that was what he said, and he ended the phone when Dream said, ‘see you soon’. 

Maybe he should’ve known that soon was never actually soon. Maybe instead he should’ve told him a few things, and told him about that gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach at the mention of Denny’s.

George thought it was bizarre, and he sat in the backseat of the cab car pondering that awful feeling. 

His body knew something was wrong, the universe warned him and he misunderstood the warning as anxiety and nerves.

Truth be told, those nerves were worse, and he was having them right now. Every intersection, every street, every pull out onto a new road and George would hold his breath, grip the car door and shut his eyes.

“You alright?” 

The voice was warm and cheery, taking George aback. For the past week he’d only been associated with people who were grief-stricken and depressed. Now though, a stranger in a cap and a wide grin found his eyes in the mirror.

“My best friend died. I’m uh- meeting his mom today.”

The man’s expression changed, “Sorry to hear that.” 

George shook his head, offering a pained smile, “It’s, it’ll be alright.”

Everything will be alright. It will get better, it will be easier. George knew that grief never just went to get milk and disappeared forever. Instead it stayed, it became a part of the person dealing with that grief. 

He still lived with the grief of his mother, who died on black ice and slipping wheels. 

That grief came and went sometimes, took a walk, then called to make sure they were still in thought.

“Car accident?”

George nodded, and he noticed the way the man gripped his wheel, slowing more carefully to a stop on the next red light.

George knocked twice, once felt too short, thrice felt too overbearing. In the time that he waited for that door to open, he took a take of himself. Black jeans and an easy-going navy fleece that he’d stolen from Dreams cupboard. His hands tapped against his thighs, palms cold and he cracked his fingers out of pure habit.

The door opened cautiously, a woman with dirty-blonde hair that was tied over her shoulder into a plait. Her green eyes the spitting image of Dream’s (he’d seen a few photos in the past few days).

“George?” She asked, her jaw dropped and her eyes clouded. George thought he was about to cry. He cried.

Her arms engulfed him in what he knew was a mothers hug. A safe embrace that he melted into, her arms held around his body swayed him, and she rubbed circles into his back, he clung onto her, a piece of her son, a piece of Dream.

She pulled away first, with slow tears and smiling strawberry lips. “You’re just as handsome as he always told me you were. Come in, come in, dear.” She ushered the brunet in, who nimbly took off shoes that she told him was unnecessary to do. And within five minutes they’re sitting with cups of tea and biscuits.

“I boiled the tea before, I got your message and decided it was time to get out of bed.” She laughed sweetly, though no wheeze, her laugh was warm. And George couldn’t bear the thought of his own mother losing her son.

He’d lost his mother first.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She shook her head, pain laced within exhaustion and weak grief. “It is as much your loss as it is mine.” She took a pause to bring her cup to her lips, drinking hot tea to drown away her problems, “How are you? And Nick? I do wish he’d come too”.

George nodded, “He’s alright, he’s not alright. But he’s better than he was, not crying as much. We all had a fight a couple of nights ago, but it got sorted out.”

Dream’s mom smiled. “And?”

“And?” He looked up. Browns met the wrong greens.

“I asked how are you too.” 

His heart broke, he wanted to cry, he wanted his best friend. He wanted him here, to keep the conversation flowing, to laugh and to smile, and to hold his hand and shrug an arm over Georges shoulder, bring him in by the waist and introduce George to his mom as his boyfriend. 

Instead he brought them together with his death.

“George?” His train of thought was broken, by a soft voice and a hand over his. 

“I’m terrible.”

He’d finally come to terms with how he was. And it wasn’t hard for him to see just how he was doing. His cries went long into the nights, where he’d only pass out, exhausted, on tear-stained pillows, damp and dull of love. He refused to change them, because they smelt of Dream, and nobody could find his cologne. Karl had said that the last time he saw it was in Dream’s car, which was still out for repairs.

His phone too, was missing, and though George was glad he didn’t have to hear the buzzing of his own messages, being pinged to a dead man’s phone, he also wanted more than ever to see his camera roll (mostly because Sapnap said he was always screenshotting photos of him, and that he took stupid selfies of himself to show to George one day).

He’d come to terms with the fact that he was doing terribly, because he hasn’t slept anywhere other than in Dream’s bed or desk chair. And if he fell asleep in his chair, someone – usually Karl –  would wake him and move him to the bed. He ate a day’s meal in the course of a week, though no one else was any better. He, and the others, had been more quiet lately.

For the first few days, they all cried, for the next few they fought, for the days after, they talked, and now they did nothing. They were barely breathing people who did not live, only survived. 

Dream’s mom seemed to understand everything. And she pursed her lips together, she smiled weakly, and she leaned over, pulling out a drawer from the coffee table. “For each of my children, I make a photo book.” She said simply. “It’s never quite the same as a camera roll on phones these days, and even my youngest daughter, Drista, has one”.

She pulled out a green hardback binder. “His favourite colour was always green, and his book was always the largest, even if second oldest.” She laughed, combing away stray hairs that fell out of her plait. “I loved taking photos of him, his father too. Everyone did.” 

George noticed the way she hesitated opening it. 

“I used to go through all of them weekly, sit down and just cosy up, laugh at my children. For my eldest daughter, I used to embarrass her by showing all her weekly boyfriends her book. But Dream never brought any girl home.”

She looked up at George, taking in him, and only him. Dark brown hair that he washed today just for Dream’s mom, so that he didn’t look like a total wreck. And his umber eyes scanned hers, the wrong green eyes. 

She cried softly, “I guess he brought you home.” She laughed, and he did too. “I haven’t opened it since he …died. And I’m sorry if I cry, I’ve never opened one of these when one of my babies is actually gone-gone.”

He nodded, refraining from speaking because if he did, he would only break into sobs.

She turned the page, and the first collection of photos was that of a younger her, as George inspected. A platinum blond boy was in her arms, crying. His body was cradled by her arms, and clothed by a sheet.

“This was the day he was born.” Her fingers traced the photos, sleeved by cellophane, and she patted the space between her and George, “here, come closer, Dear.”

He scooted over, mug in hand, as she had in hers, and over his lap and hers was Dream’s whole life.

The pages turned, they smiled, they wept. George loved each photo more than the other. Dream on an alligator (?), in a batman costume, in the bathtub with his older sister, their laughs as big as the bubbles in the bathtub.

George loved the tween-stage, as Dream’s mom put it. For each photo was Dream either staring at the camera in disgust, eye-rolling, scowling, or plain and simple, pretending it didn’t exist.

His cheeks were round, and his eyes were a solemn green, his hair fell long, still that sandy-blond that he’d been seeing, and waves fell over his face like it had two weeks ago. 

George loved the teen-stage even more. Dream’s cheeks lost that ‘baby fat’, he smiled, he grinned, his hair turned three shades darker and he cut it short. His teeth were straight and developed, his heart was full of love for the world.

“This is my favourite photo.” Her voice was small, and without looking, George knew she was on the verge of tears. 

Browns found the photo Dream’s mothers frail hands pointed to. A tall blond, Dream, and a shorter blonde woman, his mom. He held her arm around her waist, and with a big smile did he look to her, where she only looked up. He was dressed in a white button up, tucked into black dress pants and a belt. His shoes were shiny and pointed.

“Prom?” George asked, and she smiled.

Her fingertips brushed over her angel’s face, “He didn’t want to take a date, every other boy was. But he insisted that he couldn’t.” She scoffed, “Said that there was this person that he liked, that didn’t go to his school and he wouldn’t betray them.”

She paused, lips curled upwards, “When he addressed the person as a ‘them’ I knew straight away it wouldn’t be a girl. I mean of course pronouns existed, but he had a friend back then who actually went by they/them and he’d always tell me their pronouns– anyway! I knew it was a boy.” She grinned devilishly, head turning slowly to meet flushed pale cheeks.

“ Me? “ George spluttered.

She nodded. “You.”

“But I— this was years ago!”

“Four.” She agreed, looking down. “When he loves, he loves hard, he falls hard, and he’ll never give up.”

George felt weak. They could’ve been together, they could’ve done long distance– or he could’ve made the move sooner. Dream wouldn't be dead.

“Stop.” She turned the page. “You can’t, and I won’t let you, beat yourself up over his death. The universe has a reason for these things to happen, and I don’t know why they would turn a fallen angel back to Heaven’s gate, but they have.”

George cried softly, she held him, and together they turned the pages, together they neared the end of his life where the slips of cellophane no longer held anything new.

The last page has a picture of just Dream, him and his two sisters, and then another of his whole family, brothers, father and mother now included. “Drista added these the other day. She–” Dream’s mom scoffed, looking at one of the photos, “Look, she’s gotten her tears all over the photo, how careless.” George could tell she didn’t actually mind, and that instead she was just trying to think of anything else rather than the fact that this was the last photo taken, ever, of her whole family altogether.

That night, a cold Wednesday that clouded the sky of the moonlight, the group decided to watch a movie. Karl was snuggled up into his boyfriends side, to which Sapnap was groaning because Quackity insisted on keeping his head planted on his lap, and George was next to Karl, an empty space beside him keeping him insane.

They’d all somehow learnt that they could squish onto a singular couch together a couple of nights ago when eating takeouts. And everytime they were left with an empty spot, George would be sure to sit by it.

He often waited for Dream to come through the door, with grins and smiles and worried expressions, he waited for him to say surprise! or something stupid at least. He waited for him to come out of his room finally after hours cooped up editing one of their videos, and to sleepily sit by George and scoop him up, strong arms around his waist like how he had held his mother, and George was sure he’d be the type of person to bury his head in the crook of Georges neck, tickling blond waves on his skin.

He’d hold his hand, he’ll hold his hand. 

He’ll never hold his hand.

George did everything he could not to cry that night, and yet as soon as he opened Dreams room, he was met with the acceptance that Dream was not cooped up editing, that he was not busy doing something out and he would not be coming back. That he was dead, well and truly, a fallen angel turned back to Heaven's gates.

“What are you doing?” George asked, his balled hands rubbing at his eyes, he’d had not even a blink of sleep last night, too busy looking over Dreams desk again.

“There's posters of our faces on Twitter.” Sapnap chuckled, scrolling mindlessly, “missing, my kitten, age: old, height: taller than Sapnap – hey, what!? – love interest: blob.”

“So what? We’ve been gone only a week.” George deadpanned, plopping down onto the couch beside the brunet. His brows knitted together and dark eyes traced the aforementioned tweets on Sapnaps phone. Silly memes were being made about the disappearance of the few content creators.

In the past week since Dream had died, Sapnap had streamed once with Karl; it ended within thirty minutes, Sapnap blaming it on the fact he had to help Dream with something. In fact, he had been trying to hold back his tears, and it wasn’t until the couple was offstream that he finally burst into tears, the realisation that his best friend was never going to stream, or upload anything ever again broke him.

Crumbled him.

Quackity and George hadn’t streamed, and that was for the better, Tina, being the only other person to know of his death had maintained her streams, trying to keep at least some things hidden.

“How many drafts do you have?” George asked, head on his best friend's shoulder, who’s shoulders shook with careful laughter.

“Drafted tweets? Ten. I had zero a week ago.” He sighed, sighing was all the men did these days; sighing and crying.

“I have more.” George mumbled.

“Do we even tell them? How would we though? And– what are people going to do?” Sapnap bit his nails, George pulled his hands away from his mouth. “People relied on him, George, they loved him, and people who hated him didn’t actually want him fucking six feet under.”

“Wait after the funeral.” George answered. “We wait, because what if those crazy stalkers start going through funeral services under the name Clay .” The name took him aback. The brunet shook it away quickly. “We can talk to his mom about it – oh! She’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

Sapnaps head rose. “Actually?” A smile crept.

“Yeah, said some stuff about how you were always like another blood-son.”

“Hah! Bet she didn’t say that to you!” Sapnap quipped, a little too happy.

George sat back, shoulders clicking as he rolled them, neck much similar. “No, but she called me her in-law.”

“What.”

“Did you know he’s liked me for over four years?” George shook his head at the absurdity of it, still, he could not wrap even his index finger around the fact that Dream had liked him for so long. His own feelings had risen for the man only a year or two ago, when the flirting became more mature, when the jokes started taking its tour around the world.

“Yeah.”

“What!?” George laughed, he felt freer.

Sapnap grinned, relaxing back into the grey cushion. “Yeah, he told me the moment his feelings started developing. We had this massive talk, about things. I asked him a couple weeks later if they were still there, he said yes, i asked him if he wanted more, he said yes, I asked him if he wanted you to be in his future as more, he said – he said … yes. And that was that.” Sapnap looked at his best friend. 

“I’m sorry, George. About the other day. Sure, I knew him, I lived with him, he was my best fucking friend– but he was yours too. He was ours. And though he was your friend, he was also your lover. You loved him as much as he did you. I guess we were all just saying shit, and –” He laughed, “I really deserved that slap.”

“I deserved it too though, I think in some way I was so caught up with my own love and loss that I didn’t think for more than two minutes about you, and Karl, Quackity. Everyone.

It’s so hard to deal with my own feelings that often-times I forget about others. And even then, like Quackity said, I deal with these things alone.”

“And you shouldn’t have to. We’re all struggling, we’re all surviving, it’s a way of life that sometimes we forget to understand. And George, we’ve never lost a person like this, – i— sorry, I mean you lost your mom of course, and your aunt.” George nodded to let him know it was okay. “I’m just saying that this is our best friend, we knew him as our best friend, we all talked every second of every day, every minute of every night and now to have that loss of a person is like feeling lonely in a world of seven billion people. I’m rambling so much right now, and this makes sense in my head but it–”

“It makes sense.” George whispered.

“He’s gone, and we were all his best friends, so don’t grieve for the person that we loved and lost alone.  

To love him was the greatest opportunity many of us were given, but with love comes the tormenting grief and loss of a person,

the affliction.

, it comes, it always will. Maybe with heartbreak and break ups, and sometimes with death. Sure he should’ve died when he was old and fragile, not young and in love, but he died and that’s that.”

To love and to lose.

George thought long, with a pregnant pause that tided in with blond waves of the Summers saccharine sunset, where moonlight hit the crevices of every blue thought he was having. The right greens haunted his mind, they laughed, they were warm, unlike how cold he was now. 

To love Dream was the most freeing thing George had ever experienced. Dream loved so hard, and so much, and so dearly, and yet he could not show his love with kisses and affection, only words. And now he could not show his love at all. Nor even could George.

Black and white surfaced the hall, with bouquets of red roses and white. The music in the speakers played soft, with slow feet that could not even dance. Each seat lined the room with red cushion, with stiff backs that no one would care about in twenty minutes.

“Nick.” A voice greeted softly, and the four turned to be met with Dreams mom, who addressed each by their name and gave them a card with the funeral plan.

George wanted to cry when he saw the photo chosen, with a son's loving embrace holding his mother in formal wear.

“He’s- he’s up front.” She quietened her voice, nodding off behind her to where a casket layover blood red sheets. “You can go, it’s okay, but if you’d rather not, then please,” with an open palm she directed them to where people stood and mingled. Many people too, from what George noticed.

And then his eyes fell across a girl, who stood weak with a dark green dress that hung to her knees, her tall frame supported by a wall, she held her hands tight, and pressed her lips together. 

“Are you coming George?” 

He turned back to his friends, Dream’s mother had left, now standing with her husband, who held her hand strong, though he was feeble. “Yeah.” The four walked through the aisle, all wearing suits, George had opted for a dark green tie, the rest of them in black.

The top half of the casket was open, as it would be before a service, to pay respects to the dead and say final goodbyes. To mourn, to grieve, for the funeral after would be to celebrate the life of Dream. George, who stood behind Quackity and Sapnap got a glimpse of the blond waves, pale skin and eyes closed, chapped lips and arms folded over one another. He wore simple clothes, and Sapnap commented on his jeans, laughing and telling George quietly how he loved them.

George had never looked away so fast.

He couldn’t believe that he was finally meeting his best friend, his lover, his Dream, and that he was being greeted by death and cold skin. He instead focused on the walls, on the dark oak and the stained glass, until there was a tap on his shoulder and Sapnap was looking at him with worry.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly, and George noticed that the other two had left, Quackity in near tears and Karl supporting the other.

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay. That’s okay.” Sapnap sighed, eyes flicked to his dead best friend, who lay peaceful, “I don’t think I am either. So how about we take this one step at a time?”

George nodded, and he allowed himself to turn, to be turned with feet that danced over soft grey carpets and nimble feet. “One step at a time.” He repeated, Sapnap nodded and held his hand.

“I’ll leave you for a moment, there’s someone I need to say hi to.” 

George nodded, and Sapnap smiled softly, hands slipped and feet walked, they danced – oh they danced. And George wondered if Dream danced too, with kind words that met free bursts of laughter and striding steps with a lean body.

He wondered if he swung to the music of the night, the thoughts that bubbled carelessly and gleaned in a vermillion fine line.

“Hey.” Grief, death united them. George looked to the chair to the right, and he sat down with Dream. “Two things, - no three. Fuck you. I love you.” He took a deep breath in, it shook. “And I miss you.” “I just– I told you not to go. I knew something was going to happen- and I– I just, what the hell!? ” He stopped, every single thing he’d ever wanted to tell this man was not finding his lips, and instead they detoured through his brain and rattled his juices. He had not a single clue as to why he was here, with a man he’s meeting on the day of his funeral. 

He found it strange. To have Dream here, within his proximity, yet his sun-kissed skin of the sunshine states loving embrace had been damaged with death’s dance. Angelic features, soft and pale like his own, the smooth of his cheeks sharpened and he wished more than anything for them to loosen and laugh, for him to sit awake and shake his head, then hold Georges hand and–

No, George thought. Fingers curled and grasped desperately for something to hold onto. He’s dead.  

He was dead, he was gone, that was the finality of this forsaken grief. His best friend was gone, he was not coming back, he was never going to love George the same again, George was going to love Dream the same forever. And forevermore would he be gone, would his smiles no longer crinkle at the corner of his mouth and eyes, for no longer would he laugh and wheeze.

“I love you.”

I know.

“I love you so much.”

George, I know! ; He'll laugh, voice warm.

“This– it isn’t fair .” George crumbled.

“I know.”

George looked up, his heart broke, he crumbled, he cried, and small hands wrapped around his frame, arms engulfing him and he felt long hair tickling his neck.

They stay like this, him and the girl, and before long, he’s stopped crying, only looking at the dirty blonde, her green eyes peering back down at him.

“Nice to meet you.” She frowned, though when the brunet smiled, she did too. “He talked too much about you, I hated a lot of it because it was mostly him just being lovey-dovey and shit but you know, it was nice to know that he was at least in love once.”

Drista pulled out a chair from the lineup, and she looked at her brother, tears formed in her eyes and she wiped them away quickly. “Did you at least love him as much as he did?”

George scoffed, leaning forward, his hand met smooth wood. “I loved him more than he loved me.”

The girl laughed, and they let the quiet take them over and hug them. 

George thought, he thought about how he was here, in Florida, meeting Patches and Dream’s mom, his sister and the rest of his family, he was sleeping in his bed and holding his blue mug, he was now with his best friend and laughing at him with jokes in mind.

And after all that, Dream was dead. He is dead.

“Will you come to the after drinks?” Drista asked him, leaning forward and holding George's hand.

It was warm.

“I don’t know–”

“He’ll want you there.”

He’ll want George there, he wouldn’t want him there, he’ll want him there.

There is a moment in time, when you accept that the person who has died, is dead, and for George he had been taking it in steps, like the five stages of grief.

He had loved, and he had loved so hard, and so much, and so dearly, and he had lost,

Drista left his side soon, though making a comment on their use for the colour green, and that was when George found his words for his angel who had been turned to Heaven's gates once more. 

“To love you was the easiest thing I have ever done. And to lose you was the hardest.” He stood up, turning to be met with faces who did not care of his presence by Dream’s side. So instead browns lingered back over his angel, his best friend, the man whom he loved and the man he would always consider his dearest.

“I thought it would be easier than this.” George crumpled his note, tears fell over his natural pale palms and he scanned the blond in front of him. He wanted to hold his hand out, to feel that same marble that their kitchen counter had. He wanted to reach for the cold, for the voiceless lips that slipped into downturned lips. 

“I thought we were supposed to meet, and then I was supposed to move in, and you were going to do your ridiculous sounding date but then we’d get together, and everything would be easy.” He looked up, “This isn’t easy.”

George stood, and so slowly did he reach for cold fingertips, did his own graze the once sun-kissed skin, and the right greens that closed. He’ll sleep, George will let him, and he’s sure that when it’s his turn, Dream will greet him first at Heaven's gates. He has angel wings and a halo, dancing on soft butter-smooth clouds, he has a dimple on his chin, and smiles in his eyes, that crinkled when lips turned upwards. His front row of teeth shine through, it’s a simple smile, yet George will find it endearing.

Perhaps George did know, what grief was. And how suddenly it could overcome his soul, the entirety of his body and mind. Here, with shaken fingers that tapped against thighs and choked sobs that are coarse against dry throats. He decided he’ll wait for his time, and at least in the meantime, he can accept that his love for the man who has died will never quite dissipate, and instead the affliction of grief will have become bearable.

—

two weeks ago.

thursday | 12:41 p.m.

Dream sat in his car for a good three minutes before actually starting the aforementioned car. He’d always been sure to keep it clean, with not a scratch or a dent on the grey Audi, and he’d even gotten Sapnap to finally clear his shit out of his car. 

His phone rung, and Dream was sure to connect it to his car, “Hey Sap.”

“His flight got delayed again?!” Sapnap shouted, and the blond laughed, green eyes flicking over his gears before he moved, “Jesus, I thought twice was bad. No, once was bad!”

“It’s fine, it’s George, what did we expect?” He grinned to himself, checking mirrors and once he’s checked over everything, he goes again.

Dream was a careful driver, he was cautious, and he hated going too slow or too fast. He was mindful of other drivers and never broke rules, never ran a red light, nor orange, only green. He would park within the lines and he would be safe.

“Where are you going?” Sapnap asked, and the green-eyed angel figured he’d must’ve heard his car starting.

“Denny’s, I'm starving.” Dream groaned, relaxing his seat back and he swung his arm over the back of the passenger's seat, eyes scanned, he made sure he was clear before pulling out onto the road.

“I hate Denny’s, I hate you for liking Denny’s.” Sapnaps voice rung through the speaker, and Dream stifled smiles, sun-kissed fingers flick the indicator on. Warm, his skin, and he dragged a hand over his face when the lights turned orange, slowing.

“Denny’s not that bad.”

“It is that bad.”

“Better than that shitty Airport food.”

“Ew, no, just starve.” Sapnap faked a gag, and the blond laughed, the right greens watched the cars move in front of him, fast and too fast.

“You could be picking him up too you know, or I could be in bed and you can wait at the airport for nine hours.”

“Or, you could come back home and wait nine hours, then we can both go.”

Dream thought about it, he thought about turning the indicator off, and instead going straight where he could at least go home, wait, bring George back with Sapnap. “No, I want to be here.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Hate you!” Dream laughed, green eyes met green lights, and he sighed, pushing on the accelerator.

“You fucking suck, hate you too.”

The wheel turned to his command, fingers held their grip to the leather, and he found his lane on the right.

“Whatever you say~” Dream sang, slowing down when a car began to pull out in front of him. “It’s a mission to get to Denny’s oh my God. Why are so many people out on a Thursday? It’s Thursday!”

Sapnap laughed on the other side of the call, and he spoke once more, voice quiet though audible through the car speaker, “what are you going to do? When George gets here I mean, cause as much as im loving the whole ‘in the moment kiss’ bit, it’s not–”

“Realistic, I know, I know.” Dream said breathily, and he parted his lips for silence to slip through, furrowed brows and dead-luck. “Traffic is bad, I may as well spend the whole nine hours here.”

“Yeah, and then I have to go get the british fuck.”

“You love our british fuck.” 

Sapnap made a noise, “Ernghh, maybe. But you wouldn’t tell him that would you?”

“Sure I guess.” Dream smiled, he frowned, he groaned, “Another red light?! What the hell, dude.”

“Sucks to be you.”

“Sucks to be an ass.” The blond quipped, and he ran fingers along the wheel, they tapped, he hummed, his eyes scanned his surroundings. “Should I come back?”

His friend sighed, tangible in the speaker, “the question is: do you want to?”

Dream thought, the green light changed, and he decided he’d go straight. He’ll come home, and then when he meets George, Sapnap will be there too. They’ll laugh and maybe they’ll cry, they’ll grin and maybe they’ll weep.

“Yeah, i’m coming.” Dream shook his head softly, new blossoming smiles, “Love you, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever. Love you too, my brother.”

But they’ll all be together, all three of them, and Dream will finally meet George Davidson.

Though, it could never be so simple, never had been, the green light changed, he pressed on the accelerator, the same way he had at the same intersection, and instead this time,

he was met with his own demise. Car tires squealed and the sudden crash of metal on metal, rubber on tarmac and blood rushing under skin.

He did not die on impact like Sapnap had told George he had. And instead he suffered for a few short seconds, he could hear his best friend, who called his name, he can hear cursing outside, screams and then, he could faintly hear George in the back of his head.

Dream supposed he has loved George for more than enough years, or maybe too little. He loved his laugh, he loved his scoff, he loved his eyes, he loved his heart. 

He was sure that there would be a day, a time, a second where the two met eyes, met foreheads and skin, bodies pressed together, entwined in soft butter-smooth sheets with tangled arms and legs. The right browns would meet greens, and Dream would bask in his attention, in George's company and proximity. He would hold him close till death do them part, yet death had torn them, wrenched them their separate ways, and that would just have to do for now.

So in those few, short seconds where Dream is alive and trying to breathe, he held his own hand. He rubbed his knuckles and he breathed, though it wobbled and he struggled. He said not a word yet he suffered and made sure to only pay attention to Sapnap’s voice and George’s hand entwined in his hand and heart.

He would have to wait another day, another time, another second where the two would meet eyes. But for now he’ll send roses, down to Earth’s hearth, he’ll hold his friends accountable with mistakes and anguish, he’ll make sure that Goerge will find his cologne in his hoodie pocket, he’ll make sure that it’s easy.

“ Dream!? Dream? Dude? what the hell is going on? Dream! Are you okay? Is everything okay?”

"Brother?" He cried.

He smiled, viridian green, the colour of nature and all things beautifully angelic met heavenward, he saw his roof, he saw the ground beside him, and finally he saw death.

George – his angel, greeted him warmly at Heaven's gates with little to no affliction.