Chapter Text
George had always been a high achiever, but he'd never been one to act on it.
He prided himself on being a walking contradiction - top of his class enough to be considered a 'smart kid', and yet most teacher's least favourite student. He'd rather talk to his peers, skip class or sneak out to smoke behind the school.
And yet, that was not why he was sat in a boiling hot classroom, in the middle of June, whilst everyone else was outside for lunch break.
No. George was plotting.
Or at least, that's what he was telling himself.
Two girls passed the open door of the room he was hiding him, and spotted him. They shared glances, gossip dying on their lips as they exchanged a silent conversation of raised brows and flared eyes.
George groaned, heaving over to the door and slamming it shut, before falling back against it, and tipping his head back. The wood was sickly hot against his skin, due to the opposite window, which let the sun burn blisters across his body. Through it, he could hear the clatter of students' muffled conversations, shrieks and footsteps.
God, George thought, voice like venom in his head, I am going to kill him.
Somebody knocked against the door he was leant on, and George startled, jumping away from the wood with a bashful grin - which quickly dropped, upon seeing Karl with a meek smile on his face, peering in through the murky pane.
"What do you want?" George grumbled, as Karl stepped through the door.
"Are you okay?" The boy asked, but the slight dubious lift of his lips, and the tilt of his head, gave him away.
"This is not funny,"
"Well," Karl said, failing to supress a grin, "It is a little bit,"
George's fists turned clammy at his sides, and he pulled himself to sit on the closest desk, throwing his arms up hopelessly, "He's gone too far this time. Spreading rumours about my... appeal."
Karl settled down opposite him, crossing his legs, "You'd prefer that he say you're bad at sex?"
At the word, George's face flushed a deep crimson, and his hands leapt to cover his face. He mumbled into his palms, dragging them across his skin and wishing he could erase the words and pretend this had never happened.
"I don't think he was making fun of you," Karl said, but George knew better, "if anything I think it was more of a compliment."
"So let me get this straight," George hissed, "you think Dream spreading a rumour that we hooked up is just a compliment?"
Karl shrugged, "Well I've seen you talk to girls. Maybe he was just jealous of all the attention you got,"
"What?" George's whisper cracked, incredulous, "I'm gay, Karl!"
His friend's eyes widened, before he let out a sigh, "Oh yeah,"
"'Oh yeah'," George mocked, "I'm going to kill him."
"Ah! My favourite secret Sex God!" Quackity said, clapping as he kicked the classroom door shut behind him, "I've been looking for you,"
George sent him a glare that should've burnt holes through his skin. The boy, however, remained unfazed, and scuffed his boots across the floor as he neared them.
"Quackity, we're talking revenge. As you're friends with Dream too, you're not allowed in on this conversation," Karl declared.
George watched the boy rearrange his beanie, tilting his gaze up to the ceiling in mock-deep thought. An evil smile curved his lips, and with all the frustration welling in the pit of George's stomach like poison, he wanted to wipe it off his face.
"I'll fight him," George said, imagining how his fist would feel against the sharp line of Dream's jaw. He wondered if the skin would be soft, or if it would be hard and calloused, and scrape against his knuckles and leave imprints on his palms.
"No, no," Quackity murmured, "Dream doesn't like fighting. You would never get him to agree to it. You're revenge has to be either subtler."
George sighed, resting his hands behind him and leaning his weight on them, "I'm no good at subtle."
Quackity pursed his lips, dropping down onto the floor beside Karl, so the three of them made an oddly-shaped triangle, "I don't know, George. Think of something else, then."
"I did think of something. Slapping that stupid smug smile off his face, and you said no."
Quackity only levelled him with a stare, forcing George to fall backwards again, eyes meeting the ceiling's.
"Okay. I'll think of something."
And that was how it began.
***
George lived life like a marathon.
His mind overflowed with aches, daydreams and imagined ideas of the future, so much so that it flooded out the present. Shoved the reality of his current life to the corner of his mind, until it seeped out the edges, and everything became a little less important. He would much rather think and plan for his life in ten years, than worry about the world of today.
Sometimes, though, he felt like he was racing through the years in the same way you might run down a cliff - like he'd started slowly, willingly, and then gravity had wrapped a forceful hand around his neck and pushed.
"Hello? George? We're trying to debate about climate change here?"
Ah, right. He was in debate club. His guilty pleasure.
"He's daydreaming about his boyfriend," somebody scoffed, and laughter scattered around the room.
George's neck snapped up, and the red of his cheeks bled into the stuffy, cramped room of debate club. He was usually so infallible, but something about this topic, the idea of Dream and him together... It got under his skin.
"We didn't sleep together," he bit out, but the words were drowned.
It was an old classroom, rearranged for the ten of them to sit in a small circle in the middle. The walls were a muggy yellow, that had peeled into orange, and the people were an eclectic handful of nerds and emos and loners. Like somebody had taken a scoop from the schools hall, and ceremoniously dumped them all in here. Even George himself didn't fit into the batch. Somewhere between liked and feared. Of course, he had taken care to threaten everybody in this room ten times over not to say anything about his membership.
Being an active member of 'debate club' wouldn't do much for George's rebel, bad boy image.
"Hello?"
Jolting back into reality, George straightened, mimicking the movements of everyone else in the room, as they all simultaneously looked to the door.
There, like a scene from George's worst nightmares, stood Dream, hand posed to knock on the open door, and a sheepish smile on his face.
"This is debate club," George interrupted, dryly, "you'll find your asinine yearbook club down the hall,"
After a moments silence, in which Dream was apparently struck silent, everyone looked between the two with wide, hungry eyes. Dream, finally, replied, "Uh, yearbook isn't on Wednesdays,"
Swirling on his seat, George opened his mouth to snap at the boy, but the words died on his tongue when Dream strolled into the room, dropped down on the seat beside him and slung his bag down next to him. He even had the audacity to smile at George as he did it.
"You're... here for debate?"
Dream frowned, "Yes? Is that so unheard of?"
George shrugged, "I heard you were illiterate, so yes. This is kind of unprecedented."
Dream glared at the side of his head where George refused to meet his eyes, "I literally beat you in English last week."
"A fluke. Rich kid pays off the teacher - not an unbelievable story,"
"George," Dream sighed, before seemingly giving up, and redirecting his attention to the other members to ask what they were debating.
George, on the other hand, only crossed his arms over his chest and leant back on his chair. He kept his chin held high and limbs locked, as though balancing books on his forehead. It was a matter of will and strength to ignore somebody like Dream. He seemed to have this magnetic pull, that reached out with ghost-like hands and begged you to look, look, look.
Swearing a silent oath to resist, George listened to the murmur of the room. For once, the debate at hand - between two of the less socially-oriented members - was not the main centre of attention. People talked in hushed tones to the person beside them, seemingly oblivious to the rounded ceiling and cacophonous walls, that carried their conversations like water through the air. Thin, wispy, and hard to ignore when it splattered across your skin.
"What do you think, George?"
Bloody bastard.
"Of what?" he asked, as though it wasn't expected that he listen to the debate. He merely batted his eyelashes, widened his eyes, and looked over to Dream, who had spoken first.
The boy raised an eyebrow, a smirk blemishing the corner of his mouth, "Of whether climate change is still reversible?"
"Well," he started, "not completely, in my opinion. And not without many years of work,"
"Yes, but we can't just give up!" Said the girl who had previously been fighting over the topic. Her bottom lip was snagged between her teeth, and her brows creased with an exasperation that could only come from an insolvable debate.
"I didn't say that. Obviously we have to try,"
"It's not going to happen," the boy said, rolling his eyes as they fell back into the heated conversation. At this point, somebody would normally step in and introduce a new topic, but hardly anybody was paying attention. They were far too invested in the reasoning of the school's star quarterback, arguably the most popular jock in the school, coming to sit at their little gathering of misfits and maniacs.
But, stubborn as he was, George simply turned his head to stare at the crusty, peeling orange of the opposite wall, and fell back into his daydreams. It had been just over 24 hours since Dream started those rumours, and George still needed to think of a way to get his revenge.
Debate club ended exactly when the bell rung. No sooner, no later. Everybody had deserted the room like its memory chased on their heels and lingered at their backs like a sour smell.
"George,"
Upon hearing his name, the boy in question considered the likelihood of escape if he broke into a run down the hallway.
"George," Dream repeated, closer now.
"Yes?" he said, spinning on his heels and spitting the word like acid. Like he wished he could watch it settle on Dream's skin and begin to fizz.
The sudden turn meant Dream had to stop mid-step, arm raised to land on George's shoulder, and leaving little space between them. This close, George could see the freckles dotted along the slope of his nose bridge, teasing the edges of his cheekbones.
Clearing his throat, George stared directly into the guarded green of Dream's eyes, and vowed never to let his gaze travel ever again. If only to prevent the solemn ache of anger pounding away in his chest. If he wasn't careful, he might end up socking the boy like he'd originally planned.
"I'm sorry about, well..." he trailed off awkwardly, eyes flitting to the side and hand coming up to the nape of his neck.
"About what?" George replied, relishing in the idea of making Dream spell it out. Drag out his apology, and ergo, his humiliation.
Dream met his eyes, narrowing them like he knew what the other was doing, "For telling people we slept together."
George hummed, resting a hand on his chin and pursing his lips in thought, "And why did you do that, Dream? We hate each other. Kind of weird, don't you think? Even weirder to then go on and ramble about just how good in bed I am, don't you think?"
Oh, he was having fun with this.
Dream, now blushing a bright red hue, stared like he half-expected this to be a dream, and half-wished the Earth would swallow him before he could find out.
"I didn't- okay, well," he sputtered, words slipping from his tongue, "You were the first name to come to mind. And I thought it served you right," he protested, throwing his hands up, "for that little stunt you pulled the other week, when you filled my locker full of condoms."
George smirked, tasting the memory on his tongue. He'd done it in the dead of night, picked the lock and filled the locker until it was overflowing. Dream had opened it the next day, and they'd flooded out like confessions. That, and two year's worth of memories, stockpiled, of him receiving his score, and pleading with the teachers to tell him who got first. If it was him or Dream.
It was best when he won, but those times when Dream beat him - by a fraction or a mile - were almost just as much fun. The way his stomach would tangle and his heart would plummet, and all the air would escape his throat in one short exhale. It was electrifying.
"I was the first name to come to mind, about who you'd been sleeping with?" George asked, because he was enjoying this far too much, "Do you have something you want to tell me, Dream?"
"You're such an idiot," the boy murmured, fidgeting on his feet like he was fantasising about running away, "we'd just gotten our scores back. Yours was just a fresh name."
"Is that all you wanted to tell me?"
"Well," Dream's lips twisted, and he passed his weight back on forth on his feet again, "I wanted to explain more."
George raised an eyebrow, "Go on, then,"
"I'm not trying to make excuses, but-" George sent him a look that clearly read as doubt, "-but I didn't just do it to upset you. I wouldn't do something like that. It was just Stella, she was, like, hounding me, and nothing else worked to ward her off. I just thought, if I told her I'd moved on, she could too."
Dream and Stella. They'd only been together a month, but the school had adopted them as their It Couple. He didn't know much about their relationship, but gossip was hard to ignore in a high school like theirs. It branched across the ceilings, dripped down the walls like ivy and slithered past metal and wood and ink to whisper in students' ears. It was torturously unavoidable.
Through it, he knew that their relationship hadn't all been roses and sunshine. Stella, apparently, had a taste for variety, and it had taken her hitting on Sapnap, Dream's best friend, to be caught.
Even just thinking it, George felt a small shudder ripple down his spine. He'd never liked the girl - she was too polished, like cardboard brought to life, and his gut twisted every time he looked at her.
Realising Dream was waiting, rather antsy, for an answer, George rushed out, "I get that, I guess. But still, did you have to layer it on so hard?" he chuckled slightly, and even Dream cracked a smile, "I'm never living this down."
A moment passed, and then, "Oh my god, that crazy cheerleader isn't going to come after me, is she?"
Dream burst into laughter, and George stepped back, like he could escape the joyous noise ricocheting down the hall.
"I'll try and keep her off your back," he said, and George nodded, unsurely.
He wasn't quite sure where this left him, in all honesty. He had decidedly less anger burning in his stomach, but he couldn't quite shake the two year long rivalry that had shaped and distorted his view of Dream. He was stuck, and he opened his mouth to say something - what exactly, he wasn't sure - but Dream seemed to decide before him.
"See you next time I beat your ass in maths," the boy said, hands dipping into his pockets and lifting his shoulder in a sort of wave before he turned and strode down the corridor, laughing at the insult George threw at his back.
Fine. So this was where he left it - enemies with the boy he was supposed to pretend he had slept with. Great.
This would be interesting.