Chapter Text
Before everything goes wrong, three thoughts cross George’s mind.
First—after Sapnap hollers, “Time for Dare or Dare!” and the crowd swarms around him with George caught near the center, he wonders, ‘Why did I let Karl drag me here?’ He shivers as someone squeezes next to him, far too close for comfort.
Sapnap grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. George follows his line of sight to a familiar figure. “Dream!” The blond cocks an eyebrow and has the audacity to feign surprise. ‘Of course it’s him,’ George thinks, huffing to himself. It’s always Dream—popular, charming, effortlessly perfect Dream.
Dream shrugs and strides forward, the crowd parting to let him through. Sapnap whoops and loops an arm around his best friend before glancing around.
And thus arrives the moment for George’s third thought before disaster strikes: Sapnap’s gaze locks on George for a brief second, the smirk on his face widening ever so slightly. ‘Oh fuck,’ his mind spits out.
“Dream, your dare is to kiss George!”
George’s brain shorts out. He’s never kissed anyone, and he certainly doesn’t want his first to be with Dream of all people. “Me?” he blurts out, aghast.
“What the fuck, Sapnap?” Dream exclaims, giving him a disbelieving look. Around him, George hears snickers, coupled with a few unabashed laughs. As if the noise isn’t enough on its own, George also has the utter delight of seeing and feeling over a dozen jittery souls pulse with life energy as George’s anxiety skyrockets.
Sapnap shrugs dismissively, and much to George’s chagrin, shoves Dream by the shoulder toward him.
George is sure his face is red, though whether it’s primarily from rage or embarrassment is anyone’s guess. “I don’t—we don’t have to do this,” Dream says, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. ‘That makes two of us,’ George thinks. ‘Although you don’t have to look that put off by the idea.’
George scoffs, pointedly ignoring the way his stomach twists at the question. “Oh don’t worry, I get it, the thought of kissing me is repulsive to you,” he mutters.
“What?” Dream blurts out. People laugh again, louder this time. The life energy in the room feels suffocating.
George shoots Dream a glare and turns to go—he’ll shove his way out if he has to, anything to get out of here—
A hand grabs him by the shoulder and he comes face to face with Dream. George groans. “Let go—”
Dream suddenly stumbles forward, colliding with George. Their lips meet for a brief moment and it feels as though he’s just stuck his hand in an electric socket. The other partygoers yell and a few whistle appraisingly. His ears start ringing.
George shoves the other boy off him, heart beating wildly. Without a second thought, he forces his way to the door, the crowd’s laughter echoing in his ears long after he’s left the premises.
Even after his ears stop ringing and his heart rate levels out, he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. The tingling sensation from the kiss still hasn’t completely left him, and it’s especially noticeable in his hands.
A thought occurs to him. George furrows his brows as he holds his hand out, palm up, reaching for the familiar energy he’s managed for three years now. To his relief, it’s still there, though it feels different. He wills it to the tips of his fingers, only stopping once he sees the subtle glow flare. He squints—the color seems a bit lighter than usual, but he can’t really tell. It’s a bit dark out, after all.
George sighs. ‘Everything is fine,‘ he tries to convince himself. His abilities are fine. His social life might be in shambles, but it’s not like he had much to lose at this point anyway. The weird feeling is just his nerves from the party—nothing more, nothing less.
The next day, George wakes up to find that while the tingling is gone, something still feels odd. His phone buzzes with a new message from Bad with a name and an address about a twenty-minute walk from his home. He shakes his head. He’s not going to let a stupid kiss with the boy he hates get the better of him—he has a job to do, after all.
George likes to think he’s made his peace with his role as a reaper. He’s not going to lie and say becoming one was a dream come true for him—quite the opposite, really. Then again, who could blame a thirteen-year-old for not wanting the responsibility of collecting souls?
Technically, people would die regardless of whether a reaper intervened or not. George just severs the connection to the living in a more efficient way, or in the case of a sudden death, redirects the soul to the afterlife. He’s helping people, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. He’s accepted this about his job.
The part that annoys him is this: apparently, in the countless years that reapers have been around, no one has invented an easy way for him to get to the people whose souls he needs to reap. ‘Why do all the dying people have to have fences and locked gates around their houses?’ he gripes to himself.
After double-checking that he’s at the right house, he glances around, ensuring that no one is nearby, hoists himself up and over the wooden fence separating the sidewalk from the owner’s yard.
The light is on in the bedroom on the second floor, and Bad mentioned that the owner lives alone, so George isn’t too worried about getting caught as he pries a window on the first floor open and climbs in.
Upon entry, he is immediately confronted with the unmistakable scent of mothballs. He wrinkles his nose as he tiptoes through the house and up the stairs.
The bedroom door is open, and George can see a figure seated at a large desk, seemingly unconscious. An elderly woman—she looks vaguely familiar, though George can’t place where he’s seen her before, and frankly, he’d rather not. Better to figure it out after he’s sent her soul off.
George sighs. He hates this part—it may have gotten easier over the years, but it’s still heartbreaking regardless.
‘I’m helping,’ he reminds himself as he approaches the woman and calls upon his energy. His limbs grow unusually heavy, and he has to stop to rub the bleariness from his eyes, trying to figure out why he’s suddenly so tired.
When George reopens his eyes, he takes a moment to reorient himself, before realizing something: the woman doesn’t have the aura of a dying person. In fact, George can’t see her soul at all. He blinks, searching for any sign of life energy anywhere.
Nothing. It’s a bit eerie if he’s being honest. He can’t recall the last time he walked into a room and felt nothing at all. ‘Weird,’ he thinks. He deliberates calling Bad about it but eventually decides against it, reasoning that his powers are probably malfunctioning because of yesterday’s stressful situation, and he doesn’t feel like explaining the kiss to his boss.
Shaking his head, he takes a step closer to the woman, close enough to reach out and touch her. A pang of despair suddenly reverberates through him, making him gasp. He reaches out to steady himself on the desk instinctively. ‘What the fuck?’
At this point, George is just desperate to finish this assignment. Forcing himself to pay attention, he takes a deep breath to calm himself as much as possible—frantic reaping leads to a rocky transition to the afterlife for the soul—and focuses his energy into his fingers. Carefully, he reaches forward to brush the woman’s hand lightly.
Now, usually what follows after is cut and dry; the person’s soul detaches from its body and fades from view. George goes on his merry way and returns to his dry school life, in which he casually pretends he hasn’t seen dozens of people die.
Instead of this happening, the woman gasps and sits up. George scrambles backward, eyes widening.
She turns and locks eyes with him. For a horrifying moment, he’s convinced she’s about to start screaming and calling the cops.
And then she smiles and leans forward. “Why hello there,” she purrs, batting her eyes at him.
This time, George says it out loud: “What the fuck?”
She reaches out a shaky hand and George’s survival instincts kick in, making him yelp and flinch back. He’s already had one unwilling kiss this week, and he does not intend to raise that number.
Without thinking, he bolts out of the room and doesn’t stop running until he’s back on the street.
His hands tremble as he calls Bad. The line rings several times before it connects. “Hey George, what’s—”
“Instead of dying, my mark woke up and tried to kiss me,” he hisses.
He hears shuffling from the other side of the call before Bad asks, “What?”
George groans. “I thought it was weird that I couldn’t see her soul but I thought it was just nerves or something—”
“Did anything happen to you recently?” Bad interrupts. “Anything weird?”
George scoffs. “If you count Dream giving me the awkwardest kiss in front of a dozen people at a party yesterday weird, then yes,” he replies, grimacing at the memory.
“Dream kissed you?” Bad asks.
“For a dare,” he clarifies. “He looked like he would’ve rather jumped out a window than kissed me, it wasn’t remotely romantic—”
“The kiss,” Bad interjects. “Did anything feel off about it?”
“It felt like I got shocked with electricity,” George replies. “And everything felt wrong afterward.”
Bad sucks in a breath. “Oh no,” he mutters.
“What—”
“I—George, you need to get to Prime Park now,” Bad tells him, a panicked edge creeping into his voice.
“The park?”
“Find Dream and make sure he doesn’t—” Bad groans. “Make sure he doesn’t touch anyone.”
“What does Dream have to do with my abilities not working?” George exclaims, throwing his arms in the air.
“George, listen!” Bad yells. “If I’m right, Dream has your powers and is about to kill someone if you don’t stop him in time!” George swears under his breath and hangs up the phone. ‘I’m never going to another party,’ he thinks as he takes off running in the direction of the park.