Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

George woke to a foot smashing into his ribs.

A warbled cry bubbled out of his lips as he rolled to his side. The foliage that blanketed him clung to his body, the weeds wrapped around his limbs snapping as he moved.

“Oh my gods,” a voice gasped.

The mud on his skin cracked as George contorted his face, gasping, his tangled eyelashes ripping themselves apart as he peeled his eyes open. The light burned, throbbing dully in the backs of his eyes. A groan slipped out of his lips. When the pain faded, George took in his surroundings.

He was in a forest. He saw the swaying tops of trees, leaves undulating in the wind, bursts of white light sparkling between clumps of green, and mellow beams of sunlight reaching for the ground through gaps in the foliage. Bracken crowded the edges of his vision, the blue sky peeking at him through the canopy. The air was hot and thick with humidity.

Bile spurted into his mouth, which he swallowed with a grunt, burning his throat. A rancid taste remained on his tongue.

He glanced to his side and saw muddied jeans, a wrinkled shirt that billowed in the wind, and shaggy blond hair. Wide, glassy eyes met his.

“Hello,” George croaked out, his voice raspy from disuse. A thudding headache started to harass his head. “I’m George.”

“Um.” The human took a step backward.

George rolled onto his stomach, crawled to his hands and knees, then onto his feet. As he straightened his back, a wave of dizziness slammed into him, so intense his vision faltered. He tilted over, nearly falling off his feet, catching himself in a stumble at the last second.

“Oh my gods,” the human gasped, jumping towards him. “Are, are you okay?”

“Oh, what?” George glanced down at himself. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

“You, you, I—” The human extended a hand, then pulled it back towards himself. “Can you stand?”

George straightened himself, leaned against a tree, and attempted to gather his shoulder-length hair in one fist, pushing it from his eyes. The entire thing was one matted, impenetrable knot. His head started to pound, rocks slamming against the backs of his eyes, which fluttered shut in response.

“Gimme a second, I will,” George laughed breathlessly, rolling his head to rest against the trunk.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” When he opened his eyes again, the headache flared. George clenched his jaw to not cry out. “I just need a second. Do you have water?”

“Water?” The human parroted, then blinked and answered. “Oh, uh, no. But I can get some. We’re close to my village.”

“Hmm,” George responded eloquently, letting his eyes drift shut for another second, his tongue licking at the dry walls of his mouth, his throat bobbing in an attempt to produce spit.

George glanced down at himself. The layer of grime that coated his body was so thick that it was impossible to tell what color his clothes were. Twigs, leaves, and chunks of moss hung off him like some crude decoration. His mosquito-bitten skin was caked with mud. His hair was unbelievably greasy and his clothes dotted with moth-chewed holes.

After a few seconds of cumbersome silence, the human spoke again. His voice cracked on the first word.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m just peachy.” George looked up to shoot the human a closed-lip grin.

“Um… Okay. Are you, um…”

The human trailed off. He looked queasy. His breath was slightly labored.

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m freaking out.”

George nodded. His throat was bone-dry. Gods, the taste in his mouth was putrid. Bile lurked in the base of his throat.

“Is there a village I can get you to? Or, uh, someone I can get?” the human stammered. His hazel eyes were big.

“Oh,” George shook his head, moving slowly to avoid worsening his headache. “It’s fine. You can dump me right here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, no, no way I can,” the human laughed nervously. “We get lots of wolves at night.”

“Oh, I can take a wolf.”

The human let out a disbelieving noise that was more nerves than laughter. “What… If you need new clothes I—”

“No need, really.”

“I, I can bring someone here—”

“Not necessary.”

“You can come and shower at mine.”

When George glanced up at him, he saw the human’s Adam’s apple bob sharply. His hands were holding each other so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. “Yeah, I mean, it has hot water and soap. You can, like, clean or… uh…” The human trailed off.

George considered the offer, then shrugged after half a second.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind that. One second.”

Before the human could respond, George turned to the shallow imprint of where his body had laid, leaned down, and wrapped dirtied fingers around the hilt of his sword. One yank hauled it out of the mud, the silver blade brown with dirt. His armor was next to it, bundled together with leather straps.

If possible, the human seemed to grow even more apprehensive at the sight.

“Ready?” George suggested sharply, reveling in the way the human jumped.

“Uh, yeah. It’s just this way.”

They set off away from the setting sun, walking in sluggish silence. George was still unsteady on his feet but managed to walk in a straight line without blacking out or vomiting all the bile in his stomach. Lost in his panic, the human didn’t notice George’s sickly appearance.

Eventually, signs of human settlement started to appear. A rotting fence that served no clear purpose, a scatter of rocks with various drawings and words carved in them, and an abandoned shed with more holes than wood. They broke the treeline to reveal neat, stretching rows of soft green crops and in the middle, a tiny cluster of buildings.

“What’s that?” George gestured to the tall, woody stalks. The human jumped at his voice.

“Sugarcane,” He choked out. “We’re sugarcane farmers. Village. We’re a sugarcane-farming-village. Um.”

George let out a light laugh, and the human’s shoulders loosened at the sound. “Sugarcane. Nice.”

George glanced over at the human. He was tan. Very tan. A mop of mused blond hair flopped on his head, and his sun-kissed skin glowed in the sunset’s light. Freckles splashed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, collecting in a little pool near the bottom of his left jaw. His clothes were covered in old and fresh mud stains, the knees of his jeans discolored with grass. He was tugging at the collar of his loose shirt, fingernails black with dirt.

“Yeah, nice.” The human’s lips curled in a ghost of a smile, and his teeth flashed in the sunlight. George gave him another grin.

“Do you have a name?” George continued.

The human blanched, then nodded. “Uh, yeah. Dream.”

“Huh,” George marveled. “Never heard that one before.”

“Most people haven’t,” the farmer chuckled, his tentative smile growing.

“Did you ever get bullied for a name like that?”

The human shook his head. “Nah. In a village this small, there is no room for bullies. Including me, there were a total of three kids when I was growing up.”

“How many people live here?”

“Forty-two, I believe.”

“Woah.”

“Where are, uh,” Dream swallowed, “where are you from?”

“Oh, bahh,” George waved a hand in the air, physically dismissing the question. “Everywhere. Nowhere. Don’t really remember, after all this time.”

Wisely, the human shut his mouth and accepted his answer. He looked away, fixing his gaze on his muddy boots.

When they were amidst a collection of houses, Dream guided them off the main path and down a smaller one. They came to a stop in front of a neat, cheerful cabin.

A wild garden was positioned in front of the house. It looked like it had once been cultivated, then abandoned for the dandelions and bindweed to take over. The dry husks of withered plants were crowded by the reaching stalks of other various weeds.

The cabin was modest and cozy. Yellow light poured from the open windows, the porch creaking happily as they walked along it. Dream swung the door open with no need to unlock it.

The interior radiated warmth. The ceiling, walls, and floor were made from happy oak. Overstuffed couches covered in pillows and blankets crowded in front of a large fireplace on George’s left. A large kitchen sat on the right side, and a hallway branched out in front of George. Orange sunlight streamed in through big windows. His mud-caked shoes tapped against the rough, hardwood floor.

“Your place is lovely,” The traveler nodded politely, letting his gaze drag over the room. “Feels like a grandma’s house.”

“…Thanks.”

“You are welcome.”

Dream let out a laugh that sounded forced, which buckled under the muffling silence that descended upon them.

Dream cleared his throat before stuttering, “Um, the shower is out back. It’s outside, but clean and there’s hot water. I can get you a towel and a change of clothes. The soap’s already there. I can start with dinner if you have any requests. Or allergies, or dislikes.”

George let a dash of gentleness slip into his gaze as he studied the human. “I’m fine with everything. Thank you, Dream. Most people wouldn’t go all this way.”

Olive, freckled skin blushed a rosy red. “Oh, uh, thanks. I’m just being decent.”

George shot him a disbelieving look as he made his way to the shower.

The shower was divine. After sitting in pipes all day, the water was heated by the blazing sun and was warm as it gushed out of the faucet. The smell of the forest had crept through the pipes and Dream’s soap had light traces of citrus, leaving George smelling like rich earth, oak trees, and watery sugarcane. George stayed under the water until his fingers went pruney, scrubbing at every inch of himself. The water pounded all the tension out of his tight muscles, and by the time he stepped out and started to change, he felt loose and deliciously relaxed.

George changed into the clothes Dream gave him and wandered back inside the house to see food sizzling on the stove. He left a trail of water droplets from his hair as he ambled around, his usually brown, flowy hair black and clumped with moisture. The traveler offered to help cook and Dream refused with an admirable ferocity.

George sat in silence at the table while the human prepared the meal, obviously snatching glances at the warrior every chance he got. Dream was trying to be subtle about it, but the human managed to screen every thought that crossed his mind through his posture. It was partly endearing, but it made a small part of George feel old and weathered. He smushed the feeling down, dedicating his attention to picking apart the cheerful room. The brilliant light that streamed in through the windows from the setting sun made twinkling patterns on the walls, the oak glowing under the light. Ambient noises from the forest drifted in through the cracked windows, the ever-present rustle of trees a pleasant background to the warbling and chirping of hundreds of hidden birds. A faint breeze drifted through the house, bringing the scent of earth and sugarcane. George looked back at Dream.

The human’s eyes flickered back and forth between the traveler and the steaming pan in front of him, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening every second. His lips pressed themselves together, relaxed, then went tense again like a choppy dance. Agony and deliberation were painful on his face, and George was tempted to bark out, Just say what you want to say! The traveler held back, and after a few minutes of gathering courage, Dream finally coughed out, “You…”

His voice squeaked. His gaze was distant and his cheeks flushed as if he hadn’t let himself consider the consequences before barreling forward. It was a childish motion, wide-eyed and naive and hopelessly frightened of the bigger, stronger adult. George felt an unpleasant twist in his stomach. “You were asleep when I found you.”

George took it in stride, his expression expertly blank, coaxing the human forward, the slightest upturn on his lips and eyebrows to ensure his face couldn’t be taken for hostility.

“Yup,” he responded.

“You were asleep in the middle of the woods.” Dream’s face was growing redder.

“Mhm.”

“On the floor.” Dream was gripping the wooden spoon so tightly that his knuckles were growing white. “Covered in, uh, stuff.”

“I was.”

“I-I…” the human tried, letting his voice fizzle to silence for a few seconds. His eyes flicked back and forth, his brain visibly churning as he reached for the right thing to say. George sat still, blank and waiting, calm as a blade.

A crow cawed harshly somewhere in the woods, a branch creaking in response.

“When I was a boy…” Dream started, his words more a question than a statement. “I heard these stories of a god who slept for centuries at a time. Supposedly, he was some… legendary fighter that had leveled nations.”

George sat up straighter, placing his glass of water back on the table. His stomach dipped the slightest amount at the human’s words. He hummed, a short and innocuous sound, an affirmation that he heard the words but devoid of any reaction to them. The buzzing forest around them fell hushed, hanging onto Dream's words.

Dream swallowed, his gaze pinned to the pan in front of him.

“Apparently, he could send the mightiest warrior to sleep with the power of his mind alone.”

"Oh?"

Dream blinked, his eyes glued in front of him, away from George.

"Um, yeah. I just… The armor? And… the scars. Seeing you… Yeah."

George heard it. The unasked question.

The god laughed.

“Ah, stories,” George answered. “Funny things. Always based in truth, and always anything but.”

A beat of silence. Then two.

Dream’s lips parted. He blinked.

It took a second for the implication of George’s words to settle in.

The human set the wooden spoon down in the pan. He walked towards George, eyes wide as plates. His left eyebrow twitched, lips parting further, forming questions that didn’t leave his tongue.

Hazel eyes searched his.

“So…” the human’s voice was low and rumbling, filled with a mix of caution and disbelief, “you’re saying that… the stories— those stories are…”

Dream trailed off, grappling for coherent words. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Are you…?”

George grinned as an answer. A shaky breath slipped out of Dream’s parted lips.

“To put someone to sleep, I need to touch their head,” the god supplied distantly. “And centuries is an exaggeration. My curse is that I sleep until something external wakes me, so however long I sleep depends on my surroundings. Years, occasionally decades. If I were sealed away in a tomb, I probably could sleep forever.”

Dream let out a breathless noise, mouth parting wider in awe.

“You— You don’t seem like a god.”

“What’s a god supposed to be like?” George felt an amused smile stretch across his face.

“I-I don’t know!” Dream’s face had grown dazed, more flushed, and more bewildered. “I’ve never met one!” He let out an astonished laugh. “Oh my gods!”

“So you believe me?”

“I… I think I do.” Dream clapped his hands over his mouth, eyes bulging out of his head. “Oh my gods! There’s a god in my house!”

“I could be lying.”

Dream squinted at him.

“Nope. No. No.”

“If you say so,” George chuckled.

George’s smile, strangely, had lost its sharpness. Instead of the practiced, expected, distant razor-sharp smile, the one that had climbed onto his face was… earnest.

“I mean, this… this is… What are your powers?!”

“I don’t age,” George offered.

“You’re immortal?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my gods!”

Dream took a step backward, laughing, his hands still cupped around his mouth. “Of course. Yeah. I-I could never. Immortal. Oh my gods. I couldn’t. No, I couldn’t. That sounds exhausting. That’s… that’s insane. ”

“I make do.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t remember. A million years.”

“I…” the human shook his head. “My brain isn’t working. This is crazy. I’m just… oh my gods.”

Dream’s face was split into a luminous, open-mouthed smile. His eyes were blown open. His breath was coming out in puffs. He stepped forward, then stepped back again.

“In my village! My tiny little village!” The human’s voice pitched up in disbelief. “I… This is so surreal.”

Dream’s reaction was a little endearing. A little. A tiny bit. Minuscule. Not even noteworthy.

“Yeah.”

“I’m so close to freaking out. This… this is insane!” Dream’s hands were plastered to his flushed cheeks. His eyes glittered. “Insane! I’m repeating myself. Whatever. Oh my gods.”

“Dream?”

“Yeah?” His big eyes blinked.

“The food.”

The human managed to salvage the meal with minimal damage.

George helped set the table, laying out plates and bowls carved out of thin, smooth wood and forks made from cheap metal. The table was a few paces away from the kitchen, George and Dream weaving around each other as Dream finished up the last touches of the food. The silence that started to stretch between them was edging toward being awkward.

They took their seats and tossed meaningless small talk between them to escape the creeping void of awkwardness. George lifted his fork to take the first bite.

The meal was bland. Incredibly bland. George felt terrible to think so, but the food was completely tasteless. It consisted of plain rice, soft vegetables, and literally nothing else. It was like chewing sawdust.

George ate as quickly as he could and kept a pleasant expression on his face. Dream scrutinized him, searching for any flicker of distaste.

“Is it okay?” Dream asked, his hazel eyes big with worry. “I’m not that great of a cook, so—”

“Stop.” George rolled his eyes and grinned with practiced nonchalance, taking another pasty bite. “It’s fine.”

Dream didn’t seem satisfied. He had abandoned his still-steaming plate to stare at George, his worry impossibly mounting.

“Before you ask again,” George barked, voice confident and humorous, yet braced with steel, “I like it. I’m going to continue to like it as I keep eating. Relax.” It was half a joke, half an order. His words finally seemed to reach Dream, and he slumped as some of the tension drained out of him.

“Okay. Sorry. Sorry, this is so crazy for me.” The human half-chuckled, half-whimpered. He had a death grip on his fork.

Just his luck that George managed to stumble across the kindest man in the entire country.

“I like it.”

“Okay.” After a second, the human blurted as an afterthought: “Thank you.”

They ate. Polite conversation was exchanged.

As George was drying his hands after washing the dishes, he turned to the farmer with a grin.

“I have a weird request.”

Dream blinked, his head tilting slightly.

“Okay?”

“Can you cut my hair?”

They dragged a chair outside and Dream draped a towel over the god’s shoulders. With hesitant, careful snips, the human started to trim George’s matted locks. George felt his head grow lighter with every cut. Terrified of messing up, the human went at an agonizingly slow pace. They had been sitting outside for so long that George was starting to suspect that Dream was cutting off one strand at a time.

From the corner of his eye, the god studied the curls of black hair that had fallen near his feet. A pleasant relief settled in him as his shoulder-length locks were sheared off. George always preferred his hair clipped short enough to stay out of his eyes.

“I thought you said you’d done this before,” George groaned, studying the pink, sunset-stained sky. The human let out a squawk of protest.

“I don’t want to make a mistake! I’ve cut my own hair, but it’s different.”

“I don’t care, just cut it off.”

Dream huffed, but complied, and the snips increased, George feeling long sections of hair falling from his head and fluttering to the soft green grass below their feet.

“So, tell me a bit about yourself.”

“Oh, um…” Dream hummed, hands busy working at his hair. “Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid. I like reading books. I know a lot about sugarcane. I play the piano.”

George felt himself perk up at the last word. “Piano?”

“Yeah. Um, the piano in the living room is my grandfather’s. He was my first teacher, up until I was about eight. Since then, I’ve been scrounging enough money for weekly lessons up in the city.”

“How long have you been playing?”

“Gods, it’ll be 18 years soon. I started when I was five.”

“Are you any good?”

“I’d like to think so.” George could hear Dream’s bashful smile in his voice. The god grinned wolfishly in response.

“Do you like it?”

“Well, it’s the only lover I’ve had. And I know I’m gonna spend the rest of my life playing. So, yeah. I like it,” the human’s voice was dreamy with affection. George felt something blooming in his chest, rising to meet it.

“Why?”

“It’s music,” Dream offered. “Do I need another reason?”

“I suppose not. What’s your favorite key?”

“D minor.”

“Favorite composer?”

“Chopin. So sophisticated.”

“Favorite chord?”

“Umm… Oh! It’s kind of obscure. A diminished 7th arpeggio on C-sharp. But only when it’s an arpeggio. The chordal version sucks. But the classic C-sharp minor triad also never hurt anyone.”

“Sonatas or sonatinas?”

“I wish I had the patience for sonatas.”

“Is a D-flat the same as a C-sharp?”

“In pitch, yes. In theory, no.”

“Alright, I approve,” George laughed, relaxing. “You’re going to have to play that first chord for me. I forgot how it sounds. But honestly, any diminished 7th sounds so cool.”

“Right? I played this piece by Brahms that was like, 90% diminished 7ths. It was so fun. Do you play?”

“I’ve done everything. I used to, a few lifetimes ago. I don’t remember any of my repertoire, but I can still appreciate a good sonata.”

“How big are your hands?” Dream grinned. George whirled around his seat so they could press their palms together, fingers stretched as long and wide as possible. To his anger, Dream’s hands were huge, easily stretching past his own.

“Ugh!” the god groaned. “How are your hands so big?!”

“Farming??” Dream laughed. “I don’t know. I’m a big guy.”

“Can you reach a 10th?”

“I can do an 11th on my right hand.”

George's jaw dropped in outrage. “Piss off!”

George turned back around, letting Dream resume on his hair.

He thought that was as far as their conversation was going to go, but to his surprise, the human plowed forward with a cautious question, and they locked themselves into a steady discussion.

Favorite pieces were exchanged, long rambles spilled out, excited chatter suddenly overlapping as they swapped sloppy explanations and eager descriptions of compositions, iconic performances, and particularly genius motif structures. Talks of godhood and previous apprehensions of their compromising first interaction fled both their minds as they ranted, and ranted, and ranted.

Their conversation became effortless. Infinite. They couldn’t get their words out fast enough, hands waving to emphasize their points, the voices growing louder as their enthusiasm heightened. Even when Dream finished cutting and shaping George’s hair, they still sat there outside, babbling over meaningless things that suddenly seemed of the utmost importance. The sun arched across the sky, settling behind the treeline as shadows started to stretch and expand in its absence. The time whizzed by so quickly that the god realized with a jolt that he could barely see Dream’s face through the watery darkness. The human’s eyes reflected the moonlight, his skin glowing a glassy, pearly pale.

By the time they went back inside, George’s stomach ached from laughter, his jaw and tongue were weary, and his cheeks hurt from holding a constant smile.

While Dream was adjusting the kitchen chair back in its place, the warrior was hit with the realization that he would have to leave. Something sunk in his stomach. A glimpse at the clock confirmed that he had already long overstayed his welcome.

“Well,” George plastered on a wide smile, “this has been fun. A lot more fun than I expected it would be…”

Dream straightened up, his expression sobering as he met George’s gaze.

“But I’ve got to head out,” the god finished. “Thank you so much for your kindness.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Dream’s voice went soft and his eyes big.

“Can you show me to that city near you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Great.” The warmth of their conversation cooled and hardened into a stone in the bottom of George’s stomach, coldly dragging him to the ground. He felt slower, stiffer, like a gentle cloth left outside to harden with frost and unforgiving sunlight. The warrior slid on a belt, strapped his sword to it, and picked up his armor with his free hand. Something tugged at his stomach.

He looked expectantly at Dream.

“So?”

“It’s a bit of a weird route,” The human shuffled, glancing to the side. “There’s a big patch of quicksand in between us, so I’ll have to show you around.”

The warrior twisted his lips in thought. “Any chance you could do that tonight?”

The human glanced through the window at the pitch-black sky. “I’d rather not. The woods can be lousy with wolves this time of night. I mean, if you insist—”

George waved a hand through the air. “I’ll wait until morning. No big deal.”

Dream nodded, his hands jammed deep in his pockets.

“Where will you sleep?”

“Not sure,” George hummed.

The human bobbed his head awkwardly, avoiding the god’s gaze with impressive tenacity.

“You, you can stay. If you want,” Dream finally choked out. “There’s space on the couch.”

George caught his gaze, and the farmer paled. “We met three hours ago and you know I used to be one of the most feared warriors alive.”

Dream nodded. “I’m stupid.”

“I could murder you in your sleep.” The corners of the warrior’s mouth began to curl before he could stop it, voice warm with exasperation. “I mean, seriously!”

The farmer blushed a rich red. “Will you?”

“I guess I’ll try to avoid it.”

Dream tried to laugh, but it faltered after a second. “Reassuring.”

“I try,” George patted the human as he passed, plopping onto the couch. The farmer stiffened at the contact. “And I’ll take the offer. Thank you.”

Dream woke George after eight hours instead of forty years.

His fingers were uncomfortably icy, and his breath fogged when he breathed out. As he sat up, a wave of cold air nipped at his skin.

He wrapped Dream’s blanket around his shoulders tightly, huddling against the creeping chill. Dream shoved a warm mug of coffee into his hands, and the warrior nearly kissed him.

“What season is it anyway?”

“The end of the winter. Spring’s coming soon.”

“Oh, bless you,” George whimpered meekly, and Dream let out a breathy chuckle. The warrior took a sip, reveling in the way the drink warmed his stomach, leaving him feeling fuzzy.

They stepped out of the house bundled in jackets, letting out puffs of white breath. The world was coated in a layer of frost. It seemed like everything had been frozen solid, and he and Dream were the only living things in the world awake.

George feared that after the night, they would finally be struck by the suffocating awkwardness that must inevitably be coming. Both of them will stumble over their words, unable to say the right thing, unable to crawl out of the sinking silence that slowly swallowed them. The walk to the town would drag out, and once they reached it, George would hurry away, glad to be done with Dream.

The fear was dashed immediately. A simple complaint on the temperature launched them into a discussion over favorite weather, related stories, related stories to the related stories, and so forth. They kept spiraling, bounding from topic to topic like rabbits. Walking in the chilly morning, Dream’s nose flushed red and his hands jammed deep in his pockets, George felt like this moment could last forever.

George didn’t notice they made it to town until the delighted screams of distant children, the hum of talking pedestrians, and the rhythmic clip-clop of horseshoes on cobblestone brought him out of it.

“Oh!” Dream blurted, “Every so often when I’m in town, I stop by this cafe. It’s absolutely divine, it’s the only thing I let myself splurge on.”

Whatever was tightening around George's lungs loosened.

“Well, I can hardly turn that down, can I?”

Dream led them to a quaint place. The floor and walls were made of soothing dark wood, creaking under their steps. Noise and chatter bustled through the room, the smell of baked goods, caramel, and coffee filling the air.

They bought warm mugs full of rippling coffee, white threads of cream spinning among the brown. Steam gently danced up from the surface, warming the god’s numb fingers as he pressed them to the mug.

Dream guided them to a circular table where they sat facing each other, an opening to the street on their left. George awkwardly shoved his sheathed sword and armor under his chair.

“What’s the greatest meal you’ve eaten?” Dream asked once they'd settled.

“Um,” George racked his brain, groping for memories beyond purposeless battles, “I don’t really go out much anymore. I'm an old man. I can’t think of anything now.”

“Aww, really? You’re a traveler, right? You must have seen some incredible places.”

“Yeah, probably,” The warrior, inexplicably, felt embarrassed. “Honestly, it has been so long, I can barely remember those days.”

“Oh.” The farmer tried not to sound disappointed.

A silence settled over them.

The god swallowed, glancing away.

“Sorry,” The human blurted out after a bit, “Sorry if that sounded—”

The warrior shook his head dismissively, “It’s okay. I get it.”

“Sorry,”

“Stop. It’s fine.”

After a beat, Dream trudged forwards.

“So, what is something you do remember? Can you bless me with a charming anecdote of past times?”

The warrior accepted the peace offering, shuffling through his memories as he let out a light laugh, “Uhh, probably. Let me think.”

“You must have seen so many things,” Dream mused, “I’ve never been past this town.”

“That’s as foreign to me as my traveling is to you. I can’t imagine staying in one place for so long.”

“It’s a simple life.” Dream shrugged. "Oh! Who’s the most famous person you’ve ever met?”

“A million kings and singers and actors and everyone you can think of.”

“What are they like in person?” Dream brightened.

“Dry.”

The farmer wilted. “Aw, really?”

George laughed. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Hmm. Who’s the most famous person you’ve dated?”

“None of them."

“Really?”

“Yeah, I haven’t dated anyone, actually. Not my thing.”

“Oh!” Dream perked up. “Okay! Cool.”

George let out a snort, taking a sip. “Yeah, it’s super cool. Very hip with the kids.”

The human blushed. “What else am I supposed to say?”

Warmth brewed in the god’s chest as he laughed again.

Through creamy sips of coffee, the god made a delightful discovery. Dream’s normal laugh was sweet, warm, and yellow, full of citrus and freckles. It was comfortable and gentle. It made something pleasant flutter in his chest.

His hardest laugh, however, was a monstrous thing. It was loud, ugly, and unapologetic. The farmer’s cheeks were flushed bright red, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he gasped raggedly for breath, his mouth open as a wheeze squeezed itself out of his heaving lungs. George was laughing so hard, it was completely silent, punctuated by sudden inhales as he struggled to catch his breath. He distantly noted that they were getting louder than one might deem socially appropriate for the mellow cafe, but he was too far gone to care.

Dream let out another high-pitched wheeze, and George crumbled into a fit of giggles at the sound.

They left the cafe in a hazy mood. Everything seemed utterly hilarious. Every time they peeked at each other, they dissolved back into hysterical laughter. George’s stomach ached, and he was out of breath. Almost unconsciously, the warrior preserved a mental image of this day, stashing it in a distant corner of his mind so he could recall it during every rainy moment and feel the day's sunshine, even for a few seconds.

Logically, now would have been a perfect time to leave. They were both happy and full, easy smiles stretching their features. Whatever moment they shared would end on a sweet note.

Instead, the god kept dragging the conversation on and on, refusing to let it dwindle, his heart slowly sinking in his chest. They wandered around town and ate lunch sitting on the curb of a quieter street, legs folded to their chests.

As they finished their sandwiches, a gentle lull appeared in their chatter. Strangely, it wasn’t awkward as George dreaded it might be. It was peaceful, both of them relaxed. The bustle of the city murmured mutely around them, their street a secluded pocket away from everything else.

“I thought you would have left by now,” Dream suddenly said, his voice ringing through the stillness.

The warrior felt his stomach drop. He swallowed thickly, hesitating for a second too long before humming out: “Hmm?”

The human stared across the street, refusing to meet his gaze. “We’re in town. You could have left a while ago to go to your… war. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you didn’t. Today’s been the most fun I’ve had in forever. I just…”

“Yeah,” George mumbled, “Yeah. But, I mean… I’m having so much fun, I’m not in a rush, and—”

“Me too!” Dream brightened timidly, “Today’s been amazing. I kind of don’t want it to end.”

The warrior paused. The human’s eyes gleamed with daisies and summer breezes. His jeans were frayed at the edge, stained at the knees with a lifetime's worth of mud. He had a dimple on the left side of his face. Something warmed in his chest. Unconsciously, he mumbled, “Me either.”

“I heard there’s a wax museum a few blocks down from here. Wanna check it out?”

“Okay.”

Time acted funny around Dream. He made hours pass in heartbeats, and stretched seconds into lifetimes.

They went to the wax museum, then made each other laugh so loud that they got kicked out for making too much noise.

They went to a dog park, a library, and a psychic shop that reeked of herb and smoke. They made flower crowns out of daisy chains, played makeshift soccer in the street with a pebble while shrieking with laughter, as obnoxious as two giddy teenagers. George was floating on a high, his head drifting above the clouds.

Then, he got yanked back down to Earth.

“I’m really, really sorry, George, but it’s getting late. I need to go home soon,” Dream’s eyes had gone big and mournful, the plaintive apology obvious, “I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

This was it.

“Oh.”

The god’s heart slithered into his shoes, leaving a bleak void in its place. They were going to split ways and never see each other again, then George will devote the rest of forever to ruminating over the day that lasted a lifetime.

“I’m sorry,” Dream drooped.

Desperation seized his chest.

Later, he would say he did it because Dream’s eyes were filled with warm rain. Because when he spoke, it felt like wildflowers and coffee with sugar and languid cello sonatas. Because he made George feel like he could breathe easy.

“Can I come with you?”

His heart skipped a beat. What was he doing? What was he thinking?

“Huh?” The sound was immediate as if it jumped out of the human’s lungs without permission. Dream’s eyes blinked impossibly bigger.

“If you’ll have me, of course. No pressure whatsoever, it’s no big—”

“Yes,” The human interrupted, the corners of his mouth already crawling up into a smile, “Yes, of course! Yeah, I’d love to have you. Yes. Yeah.”

“Okay,” the god agreed.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They walked home. The god refused to let himself think about what he had just unleashed.

He would leave first thing in the morning. No wasting time, no more talking, no books or cafes or wax museums.

First thing in the morning.

He cooked dinner for Dream, insisting that it was the human’s remuneration for spending the entire day with him.

He assumed, as he playfully squashed down the human’s objections, that he would actually be able to cook something. That he would be able to look at the available ingredients and dig out an old recipe from the corners of his brain, then watch the human’s face light up with pleasant surprise at the first bite. He had conveniently forgotten how pitifully bland last night’s meal was. So when the god marched into the human’s kitchen, ignoring protests, he was caught off guard by the blaring dearth of… anything.

Though fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats were provided in the village’s communal, underground storage, Dream offered nothing else. His pantry and cupboards consisted of rice, a mostly empty jar of salt, and dust. No little bottles of spice, no dried herb bunches, not even any oil.

“How do you not have a single spice in this entire house?” George complained as he shuffled through bleak cupboards, “Or like… some sugar? I mean, this is almost amazing.”

Dream was quiet.

“How are you even alive? Have you just been eating plain rice this whole time?”

Silence.

George paused, glancing behind him.

He caught sight of slumped shoulders, ashamed eyes glued to the floor, and hands that gripped each other. The god froze. His stomach plummeted to the floor.

“Sorry,” Dream’s voice was soft, forlorn, “I can make something if you don’t want to cook. Or… I might be able to find… something…”

“Oh,” George shriveled into himself, hot shame flooding his lungs as he backtracked, “No, no, Dream. I didn’t mean— I wasn’t insulting you or anything. It’s okay— I’ll make it work.”

As a quick afterthought, he stammered: “I’m sorry.”

Dream nodded, giving the god a feeble smile in an attempt to reassure him. “It’s okay, George.”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” George cleared his throat, his skin hot, suppressing the urge to squirm, “I didn’t mean to, to…”

Dream nodded, his gaze stuck to the floor.

Dammit.

“I’m sorry,” the warrior filled his voice with as much sincerity as he could muster.

“It’s fine. I mean, you’re right,” Dream’s voice was wobbly and thin, “It’s not a big deal. It’s my fault. I’m just embarrassed.”

“No, really—”

“It’s usually better stocked than this, you just caught me at a bad time. No big deal.”

He looked up at the god, hazel eyes quivering, and choked out a pathetically unconvincing smile in a feeble attempt at reassurance, shoulders stiff with fear. George hated the look on his face. He hated it. He never wanted to see it again.

George responded with his own more genuine one, for the human’s sake, ignoring the uneasiness brewing in his gut.

“Okay,” The warrior’s voice was gentle, yet firm, “But I’m still cooking you the best dinner you’ve ever tasted in your entire life.”

Dream slumped as the tension drained from his shoulders, “Okay.”

Determined, the god marched over to the communal village storage, took stock, mapped out a culinary plan, and picked out the necessary ingredients. He ran into an elderly villager while balancing three lemons on top of a pile of miscellaneous vegetables, and introduced himself as a friend of Dream’s. The surprise was apparent on her face, but she covered it easily.

George noted that mindless, automatic kindness was a prevalent trait of this village as he followed the villager into her cabin to borrow some garlic, paprika, and soy sauce. She hugged him on his way out, beaming, and told him to visit later so they could get to know each other. When he got back, George told Dream he had run into a nice old lady. The farmer laughed and asked, “Which one?”

That ashamed look was still on Dream’s face, shining through his wobbly attempt at levity, and something in George’s stomach hardened.

Through preparing the meal, George told his best stories. The ones that he had spent hundreds of campfires retelling, the delivery perfected over the distant screams of soldiers and tents that reeked of sulfur. He cleaned, sliced, seasoned, mixed, and stirred while watching the horrible, horrible shame in Dream’s eyes slowly recede, giving way to George’s expertly timed quips.

Dream’s wheeze made its debut halfway through the preparation, and the weight that settled on George’s chest lifted. That laugh was ruthless in its endearment.

They ate the food directly from the pot, crouching over the still-warm fire, hands cupped under their forks. Dream’s expression as he took his first bite made a mad grin break across the god’s face, his insides turning bubbly, happily swirling around in his chest.

Dream made him laugh. The human made the god laugh so hard he choked on half-chewed food, gasping for breath, stomach aching and cheeks flushed hot. The god couldn’t remember the last time he even smiled, let alone laughed until he pitched over.

They both ate until they felt like they were going to explode. After, they curled up on the couch, blankets wrapped around their shoulders and pillows nestled on their laps, talking softly. The day finally caught up to Dream, and his eyes drooped. What was usually chatty and energetic faded into something sweet and serene. His speech was slower, and his voice rick and raspy. Every muscle in the god’s body uncoiled, his shoulders loosening and eyelids growing heavy.

They fell asleep on the couch sometime around three, mugs abandoned on the floor since they both refused to end the conversation to go to bed.

He woke up after eight hours to the smell of coffee.

George slowly peeled his eyes open to see a warm face, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the window. Dream was still in the same shirt as last night, and George could smell the minty toothpaste on his breath as he held up a steaming mug.

“Coffee?”

“Mm, you are so kind to me.”

Dream’s laugh was sweet as sugar. “Thank you, I try.”

The god sat up languidly, taking the mug from the farmer’s hand. He noted that a blanket had been tucked around his shoulders sometime during the night. A fuzzy warmth had enveloped his entire body, every cell preening.

George felt loose, weightless. It had been decades since he hadn’t woken up stiff, clutching a blade.

“Do you want to shower first, or can I?”

“You go ahead,” George hummed, “I’ll stay here. I’m comfortable.”

“Alright,” Dream stood up, disappeared into the bedroom, and emerged clutching a towel and a change of clothes. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time,” George sleepily smiled.

The god stayed, sipping coffee on the couch, until the human emerged with bright eyes and dripping, tangled hair. He stayed through breakfast, and lunch, and made dinner again, and drank tea on the couch in front of the fire.

George stayed.

He stayed for a day, then a week, then two, then four, then stopped counting after three months.

For the first time in a million billion years, George stayed.

Years passed. They felt like seconds.

Chapter Text

George woke up to screaming. 

Sounds usually couldn’t wake him, but the cry was earsplitting. It was a desperate, raw sound, air scraping against a throat. 

George tumbled out of bed with bleary eyes, tongue thick in his mouth and mind foggy. It took a second for his eyes to adjust. The room was nearing pitch-darkness, the only light from the moon filtering in through the window. George careened forward a few steps to grab at the Dream-shaped lump under the covers. His hand landed on a solid, warm limb, and George gave it a sharp shake, dragging the human awake. Dream woke with a ragged inhale, red-rimmed eyes flying open and entire body twisting into himself, the leg wrenching itself out of George’s grasp. Dream’s skin gleamed with sweat, beads of it dotting his forehead, neck, and chest, the collar of his shirt dark with moisture. The human’s chest heaved as he gasped for breath. The moonlight reflected off of the tear tracks on his face. 

“Dream?” the god murmured, his voice gentle. He moved to the front of the bed, near Dream’s head, resting a light hand on the human's shoulder.

Dream gasped helplessly, dragging in shaky inhales. A desperate hand clung onto George’s arm, heat bleeding from his palm into George’s skin. The god rested his free hand over the human’s shaking one. 

“George?” Dream croaked.

“I’m here. Are you okay?”

The human’s breaths were shallow. Tears were still streaming silently down his cheeks.

“Deep breaths. I’m here. I’m here.”

Though Dream’s eyes glazed unseeingly past him, his breaths slowed.

“Good,” the god crooned. “Again.”

Dream took another long breath, then another. The tears lessened, and the grip on George’s hand slackened. Dream looked at the god, then around.

“Are you okay?” the god tried again.

Dream took a second to respond. He was trembling. He sat up slowly, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. When he spoke, his voice was raspy.

"Yeah. Just a nightmare."

"I guessed as much." He studied the farmer's expression. "Do you want to talk about it or do you want to be quiet?"

The human sniffed, wet eyelashes batting at glassy eyes, then patted the space next to him. 

The god complied, climbing onto the bed, feeling heat radiate off the human’s limbs as he huddled closer. He glanced at the sweat that was clotting over Dream's face, then leaned over and pulled open one of the nightstand drawers, yanking out a clean shirt. He wordlessly offered it to the human. 

At Dream's confused expression, George slipped a hand onto the back of the human’s neck to steady him, and leaned closer and wiped his forehead. He felt the water seep through the linen at the first stroke.

"You sweat a lot," George's voice broke the mellow silence, and Dream chuckled. The farmer’s shaky hand grasped the shirt, then dragged it roughly across his face. 

George watched. He studied the eyes that gleamed with refilled tears, studied the trembling fingers that clutched the shirt, the quivering lip.

“Come here,” George sighed, arms opening. 

Dream lunged into him with a whimper. He pulled the human into a light embrace, wrapping his arms around him. Dream exhaled, then melted into the hug, burying himself closer.

When George pulled away, the tears were gone.

"I'm sorry," George said.

"It’s okay."

"Is there anything I could do? Do you want some tea? Or a snack?"

Dream sniffed, wiping at his cheek with a trembling hand. "Some tea sounds good. I don't think I can sleep after that."

"Do you want to go back to sleep?" 

"Huh?" 

"I could put you to sleep."

"Oh yeah," Dream chuckled mutedly, "I keep forgetting about that. No, thanks. I think if I fall asleep again, I'll have another nightmare."

“Okay.”

They only lit one candle as George brewed tea, long shadows arching over every surface, the whites of Dream’s eyes catching the orange light. George caught sight of faint goosebumps on his human’s arms, and fetched a blanket from their room, wrapping it around Dream’s shoulders.

“I can do it myself,” Dream mumbled, making no move to help.

“I know.” George tucked it tighter around Dream’s shoulder’s.

When the tea was ready, they drank in comfortable silence, knees brushing. They pressed their fingers to their mugs in an effort to fight the late-night chill.

When the god was swallowing the last drops of tea, Dream dropped his head onto George’s shoulder. The god tilted his head to rest his cheek against the farmer’s silky hair. It smelled like sugarcane and the fresh soap he used. They stayed there until dawn broke, relaxing in each other’s company. Soft conversation started and stopped like rolling hills, neither of them rushing to fill the quiet.

The god offered to make breakfast, and by the time they were eating, Dream’s eyes were crinkled at the corners with a soft grin, the nightmare long forgotten.

George’s sword was shoved in the back of a storage closet outside, and his traveling bag was lost under the bed somewhere. He had a space for his toothbrush next to the sink, and a nightstand full of clothes. Dream rearranged his bedroom to fit two beds, one pushed against a wall and one in the middle, so George didn’t have to keep sleeping on the couch. George always yelled at Dream for leaving his dirty plates in the sink, snapping something along the lines of Are you waiting for someone else to clean them up?, to which Dream would respond with Yes. You. If you loved me, you would do it. Acts of service, hm? Ever heard of love, George? Hm??, and then George would yell back and Dream would yell back and George would end up doing the dishes, because life wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. A million billion years of war, and now he’s doing someone else’s gods-damned dishes. Ridiculous.

Almost every night before they fell asleep, George and Dream would both lie awake, stare at the ceiling, and talk. Sometimes, they fell asleep mid-sentence, smiles still scrawled on their features. Sometimes, they talked the entire night. They never realized how much time passed until one of them pointed out that the ceiling was growing brighter and the sun was peeking through the window, their eyes burning with exhaustion and their minds foggy. 

A few times, they fell asleep after dawn and woke up late in the afternoon. Once, to make up for all the time they missed, they tried to work on their farm in the dark by lamp-light. They set a small bush on fire.

A cold snap had sunk its icy claws into the land. Sharp, freezing rain pelted the ground like stones, the mud patches that swarmed the land half-frozen with chunks of ice. Biting wind whipped through the trees, whistling eerily while they huddled in their cabins, buffeting the farmers as they worked, creeping under folds of clothing to nip at delicate skin. The more tender shoots of sugarcane withered to the frost that crept over every inch of the land, clouding windows and freezing anything too fragile. George and Dream spent every moment off the field crouched around the fireplace, hands cupped around steaming mugs.

On one of the coldest nights, a soft, heavy something slammed into George’s face, pulling him out of his slumber. He could barely feel his toes, despite wearing thick socks around them.

“Wha…?” He groaned, nudging the pillow off of his head and onto the floor. “Excuse you?”

“It’s freezing,” Dream moaned, shifting under his blanket. “The fire blew out.”

“I noticed.”

“I woke up because I was so cold. I put on a sweater and I’m still shaking.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“If I have to lie awake and shiver, so do you.”

“Wow. I can feel the love, babe.”

“S-shut up,” Dream hissed, stuttering as a harsh spasm shot through his body. The god heard his limbs jerk as it happened.

George’s playful mood cooled. He lifted his head, frowning.

“Are you okay?” 

“Just not used to this. I’ve lived here my entire life. I’m used to balmy winters. Not whatever the hell this is. This stupid cabin was built to cool people off, not keep warmth in.” Dream’s squirmed under his blank, his teeth chattering as he spoke.

As George listened closer, he could hear the faint tremor in Dream’s voice. George was no stranger to ice and snow, but a lifetime of being spoiled with mild temperatures must have left Dream more sensitive than he realized.

“Are you really that cold?”

The god’s voice was careful, lacking its previous teasing tone. Dream heard the shift. The human paused before he spoke.

“Oh. I mean…” the human trailed off, searching. Outside, the window rattled as the winds of another storm tossed the air, an occasional twig clattering against the glass. “It’s not that bad. I mean… y’know?” Dream forced out a breath of laughter in an effort to lighten his sentence. 

George rolled his eyes. 

Gods knew that Dream would rather freeze himself half-to-death than admit that he was uncomfortable, because that would mean other people would actually try to help him, and he couldn't have that. The damn human was selfless to a damn fault.

The god stood up, wincing as cold air shot under his hot blanket, nipping at his skin. He scrambled across the distance between their beds on tippie-toes to avoid the freezing floor. He crawled next to Dream, burrowing under the covers as quickly as he could. The human jolted next to him.

“What are you doing?”

“We can share the covers,” George grunted as he hauled his blankets over Dream’s shaking body, “and cuddle for warmth.”

“You hate cuddling.”

“I do. I hate cuddling. Gods, I hate cuddling. If you even try to touch me with your icy hands, I will dump you into a river. But our body heat will be shared even if we just lie next to each other.”

George couldn’t make out much in the dark room, the moon the only light. He dimly saw Dream blink a few times, studying the god with a tender expression.

“Really?”

“If you touch me: the river.”

His eyebrows softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Even in the dark, George could see his teeth glimmering in a smile.

“George…”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Thank you.”

George glanced up to meet his human’s gaze. He couldn’t make out the splashes of freckles that dotted the human’s head and shoulders, or the healthy bronze that had settled on his skin as the summer drifted in, but he did let his gaze wander over the frizzy hairs that stuck out in every direction, over the dip of his neck and the outward slope of his broad shoulders, at the shirt that bunched in loose fistfuls over Dream’s frame. George reached up and brushed a lock of hair from Dream’s forehead.

“This is really kind, George.”

“I despise your presence. Pisshat.”

“Prick.” Dream grinned sleepily, his eyes already drooping.

“You’re ugly,” George snapped.

“Okay.”

“You smell weird.”

“Love you too.”

George flipped over so his back faced Dream. He closed his eyes, muscles already uncoiling and preening in the heat that seeped off the human. Dream let out a happy sigh, his breath evening and slowing down. 

They both slept soundly. The cold broke a few days later.

A few months into his stay, George was hit with the fact that he was happy. Not just the superficial happy that one gets while eating a good meal or reading a funny book, but an actual, bone-deep, completely encompassing happy. The idea filled him with awe.

Over dinner one day, George was filled with the need to tell Dream this. It was strangely mortifying to look him in the eye and say, “You make me happy.” Maybe because it was acknowledgement that their relationship had grown past just a shallow friendship, and instead was something deep and emotional and important. The god felt the need for Dream to know this, to know how significant he was. To know how different his life was outside the farm.

“I wasn’t happy before this,” George puffed out, taking a sip of water to avoid Dream’s gaze. “I really wasn’t happy.”

Dream got quiet, a tender look on his face.

“I was miserable for so, so long,” George grunted, locking his jaw, stomach twisting and gaze glued to the table. "I, uh... I never thought I’d be happy again.”

“Oh, George.”

George rushed forward before Dream could offer some sort of comfort that would just end up embarrassing them both.

“I don’t know. I just wanted you to know. You’re really special. It’s not like this with other people.”

No one had ever made George laugh like Dream did. Not just polite chuckles, the real, belly-deep kind of laugh. The painful ones, where he went completely silent, struggling for air, clutching his stomach, tears blurring his vision, curling into himself to find some relief. The shrieking, delighted, near-scream kind of laugh.

Of course he had laughed like that before, but they were far and few between. Once every few months, someone would crack a good joke in a good conversation in a good setting at a good time that would elicit that laugh from him. It was rare. 

But with Dream… Together, they both laughed like that a few times each hour. It was so easy. As natural as breathing.

Once, late at night, drunk on each other, Dream sweetly sighed: “You make me a loud person.”

George fell quiet immediately, the laughter calming to make way of the reverence that crept into him. He didn’t dare make a sound, hoping Dream would elaborate. He did.

“I never thought I could be so loud. I never thought I could laugh like this.”

“Dream,” George breathed out, awed. He was flooded with a sense of deep, deep respect. He felt speechless. His words suddenly felt weak, too thin. His mind had gone blank. “Dream. Gods, that’s the best thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Dream giggled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Oh my gods! Dream!” George gasped, grinning madly.

“Really?”

“I’m gonna write that down.”

Dream let out a loud laugh, bright and joyous. He cackled even louder when George actually stood up and started hunting for a pen and paper.

“Where’s your accent from?” Dream had asked one afternoon.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

George shrugged, not looking up from the fleck of dirt under his fingernail he was picking at. “I forgot.”

“Wouldn’t you be wandering around somewhere, hear someone talk, then be like ‘O-M-G, we have the same accent, let’s be besties?’” Dream’s voice sloped up in a harsh, high squeal.

“That has never happened.”

“Lame.”

“You’re lame.”

“Your accent’s lame.”

“Your mom’s lame.”

“Say schedule.”

“Schedule.”

Dream dissolved into giggles.

“Can gods die?” Dream asked during one of their late-night conversations. George was lying on his back, eyes drooping with sleep, the ceiling blurring in front of him. In an instant, he was wide awake, any whisps of sleep fleeing. The pleasant fog that had clouded his brain melted, leaving everything sharp and crystal-clear. He swallowed. His heart picked up, but his muscles stayed relaxed. He took a deep breath, steadying him. He felt the fat pillow beneath his neck, the worn sheets under his body, the thick blankets draped over him. The air was clean and smelled of wood, earth, and, of course, sugarcane.

“‘Course we can die.” The god’s voice was airy.

“How?”

“Any way a human can.” George shrugged. “It just takes a bit more. A blade through any one of the more important organs, no food or water for too long…” He trailed off. The god didn’t dare look over at the other bed, in fear of meeting the human’s gaze. He breathed in slowly, steeling himself. “Or, we can give it up.” 

There was a lull. Crickets sang from the forest, musical chirps that swirled through the clean night air like static, filling up any empty space. As a gentle breeze sloped by, the great trees swayed, their branches jostling and bumping into each other, leaves and twigs tangling together and whisking apart. A wolf let out a single, piercing howl, the sound ringing out from the ambiance. Dream once mentioned that one of their local wolves always called out in an A-flat. George wondered if it was the same one.

“Give it up?” Hesitance marked Dream’s voice.

“Yeah. Give up our godhood.” George swallowed, unease beginning to prick at his stomach. “Give up our strength and power and immortality and everything that makes us special.”

The human was silent for a long time.

“That’s…” Dream marveled. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never heard of that before.”

“It can be a taboo subject.”

“Have you ever thought of doing it?” Dream asked, careful and tentative. 

“Of course,” George sighed. “Of course I have. A million times over. It’s always been a little voice in my head. The last resort, y’know? The way out.”

The distance between their beds suddenly felt insurmountable. Like a chasm had opened up and pushed the two farmers far away from each other. The god studied the ceiling. The spring air was pleasantly cool. Cold moonlight filtered in through the little window in the room.

“It’s surreal,” George continued. “The thought. That I could just… let it go. Let my godhood slip between my fingers. Become human.”

“That is surreal,” Dream breathed. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. Poof.”

“How does it work?”

“I can’t explain it. It’s like explaining what having an arm feels like. There’s just… something extra tethered to me. I draw my power from it. And if I concentrate, I know I can just let it… float away.”

Dream let out a breath of wonder.

“Do you want to do it?”

“Now?” George hesitated. An honest answer would have been I don’t know, I don’t like thinking about it. What he said was, “No.”

The silence returned, wrapping around them. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was an easy quiet, both of them thinking. The forest rustled in the background, wolves calling to each other, owls hooting, the never-ending chirp of crickets swimming through the air.

Dream’s bed rustled as the human adjusted his position. George glanced over to see the human facing him, his cheek on the pillow, knees bent, hands curled near his chin. In the watery darkness, George could barely make out the fond grin on his face.

“Do you remember the day we first met?” The human’s voice was sweet as sugar.

“Of course.” A smile already peeked over George’s lips.

“I said that you didn’t seem like a god.”

“I remember.” George rolled so he faced Dream, their positions mirrored. George had been impressed that the human relaxed around him so quickly. When the awe faded after the first few weeks, there was never any trace of hostility or tension.

“You still don’t seem like one. Not at all. Half the time I forget about it. And I know you’re not faking it, obviously, you’ve put me to sleep a million times.”

George nodded wordlessly. The human continued after a pause.

“I guess… I would expect… It’s like when you hang out with someone way cooler and more popular than you. They dwarf you. They make you feel small, insufficient, and they fill you with this desperation to prove yourself worthy of their attention. It’s humiliating.”

George swallowed.

“And I never did that?”

“You did the opposite.” Dream’s voice wavered, full of wonder. “You make me feel big. George, you make me feel significant. Living in this tiny village, I’ve been a wallflower all my life.” There was a beat of quiet. Dream let out a trembling breath. “And you make me feel like the centerpiece.”

Dream sat up and met George’s misty gaze. The human smiled a watery smile. The night felt infinite, private, like this moment wasn’t taking place on Earth, but rather on a faraway planet where nothing was real. Where they could be raw and unafraid.

“Everything makes sense when I’m around you,” George confessed. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to do that.”

“I think that’s you,” Dream grinned. “You've had centuries to figure stuff out.”

George chuckled lightly. “Nah. I haven’t spent it well. I’ve just… Just been wasting time.”

“Hmm.”

They were quiet for a pause, letting the crickets take over the conversation. Things felt impossibly tender, almost embarrassing in their rawness.

“I’m so happy I met you.” The human’s voice shook. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

George’s chest ached. “I guess you’re alright too.”

Dream claims he’s not much of a poet. But once, deep in a murky night while they were giggling under covers, faces smushed into pillows, sleep slowing their tongues, he mumbled, “You feel like Liszt. And Chopin. And fortissimo and pianissimo and con fuoco. And like largo and La Campanella. And like Tchaikovsky’s canons. And like coming home.”

Sometimes, when the wind moved right, George could catch a whiff of himself. The god didn’t know when he stopped smelling of copper and iron, and started smelling like sugarcane and sunsets.

The world ended on a Thursday.

They were wandering along one of the many hiking trails that branched out around the village, an endless stream of prattle filling up the peaceful silence. The blazing sun fought any hints of the approaching winter, the weather perfect as a result. The trees rustled, the birds chattered to each other, and the god kicked at the loose pebbles that dotted the path.

Dream had been hounding George on his ideal place to sleep if he planned to not wake up. The morbidity of the question was lost in Dream’s awful jokes and the fact that the farmer consistently laughed at them.

“How’s this for a cave to run away to?” Dream kicked a stick into the entrance of the gaping hole under a burly tree as the pair came to a halt. The black entrance was wide enough for George to crawl in if he crammed himself in.

“A solid cave.”

“Yeah, what else would it be? A liquid?”

The human dissolved into giggles. George glared at him as he punted a fist-sized stone into the cave.

“I cannot believe you just laughed at that. That was not funny at all.”

“It was kinda funny.”

“No, no it was not. Not even a little bit.”

“Be objective,” Dream nudged.

“You are not funny.”

The human pouted. “You’re so mean to me, Georgie.”

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Why not?”

“It’s disgusting! We’ve been over this.”

Dream lugged a heavy arm around the god’s neck, squeezing as he attempted to squirm out of the grip.

“I think it’s cute!”

“Let go of me, you prick!” George cried.

“Why won’t you let me love you?”

“Die!” 

Dream opened his mouth, took a small breath, then froze. They both did. The happy expression melted off of his face. 

A soft rumbling filled the silence. 

It was coming from the cave.

The god was suddenly hyper-aware of a musky smell that hung in the air.

His heart halted in his chest. Dream was rooted to the spot, previously warm hazel eyes growing wide and glassy. George instinctively reached for his right hip, his fingers grasping for a  sword that wasn’t there. When had he stopped bringing his sword with him?

His heart kicked up a rapid tempo, and his brain started to buzz. A flash of movement drew his eyes to the thick darkness of the cave. There was a swish of fur.

“George,” Dream whimpered, half-sob, half-plea.

“I see it.”

A huge, silvery she-wolf stalked into the light, her yellow eyes a shock against the black that lined them. Layers of muscles wrapped the broad shoulders of the behemothic creature. Her hackles raised, ears flat against her skull, lips peeled back to reveal wicked, gleaming teeth.

Dream let out an audible gasp, an unconscious hand shooting up to grip the front of George’s shirt.

“George.”

Dream was looking to him for what to do. Because he was a warrior. Because he has been alive for a million billion years, so surely the cotton clouding his brain will clear and he will come up with a perfect solution and they will escape effortlessly and never ever think of this day again.

They couldn’t run. He knew that. If they ran, she would catch up in one leap and tear Dream’s neck right out.

His brain wouldn’t work. He blinked. Dream’s bloody corpse was plastered on the backs of his eyelids. The wolf’s eyes dug into him, stripping him to the bone.

The wolf took a step forward, and his previously deathly-silent head exploded with noise. Blood roared in his ears.

“Back away slowly,” George commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, “Do you have a weapon?”

“I-I-I—”

“Dream. Don’t you dare panic. Do you have a weapon?” 

She took another step forward, and another. 

The human fumbled with the bag that was slung over his shoulder. His hands were shaking.

“Back away!” The god hissed, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking both of them back a step.

The human stumbled, shuffling back with tiny, butterfly steps until he bumped into George. He produced a cane machete from his bag. It was a thin, flat blade, half the length of George’s arm, usually used for slicing sugarcane. 

It was shaking. Or rather, Dream was.

George snatched it, his fingers wrapped around the hilt so tightly they turned white. The god grabbed his human and shoved him behind himself.

“Dream, I need you to go.”

“What?”

“Go. Back away slowly. When you get far enough, run. Run, please.”

George anchored his feet and distributed his weight evenly. He raised his left hand, angling it in front of his torso. He inhaled, long and shaky. His heart thudded in his ears. 

“George—”

She leapt. 

“Go!" 

George pushed Dream back as hard as he could, and lunged to the side, dodging her outstretched claws and snapping teeth. The wolf twisted mid-air, and let out a thunderous growl. The earth tilted as she pounced on where he stood a second ago, dirt spraying from her claws as she shot towards him.

George charged away from her, the knife clutched in his palm.

The wolf caught him in one bound. Her claws sliced his side, streaks of fiery, white-hot agony racing up his torso. 

The god let out a cry, his legs buckling as he crashed into the ground, cheek scraping against the earth, biting down so hard he feared his teeth would crack under the pressure. He flipped onto his back quickly enough to see the wolf lurch over him, head descending to deliver a killing blow. 

With every cell in his body on fire, every inch of his body screaming out, George acted. His movements were pure instinct. The hand that gripped the knife lifted, his arm curling back, then flying forward to send the blade soaring. 

The roaring in his ears quieted as George watched the knife sail through the air. Even after so long, his aim was still true.

The blade found its mark in the beast’s left eye.

She reared back in shock, letting out a piercing howl. The knife fell next to George’s head. It was coated in blood. Something warm scattered on his cheek.

The wolf stumbled back one, two steps, shaking her head and crying out.

The god didn’t waste a second. He leapt to his feet, muscles so rubbery and knees so weak they could barely support him, and scrambled for Dream. The human had frozen a few steps away, pallid and teary, eyes blown wide. George snatched at him, and dashed for their village, legs eating up ground. He was clutching Dream’s hand so tightly it must have been painful, but he couldn’t figure out how to loosen his grip. They didn’t stop running until they got to the house. 

George collapsed against the floor, locking the door for good measure. His adrenaline was kicking so hard he was dizzy. He could hardly feel his wound. He was going to be sick

Dream was crying.

The second they got inside, the human scrambled for the sink, the wet sound of vomit pattering against metal ringing out shortly. A putrid smell followed. George hauled himself on unsteady feet, lurching over to him, rubbing a trembling hand over Dream’s convulsing back as he emptied his stomach. 

Dream’s hands clutched the edge of the sink, his knees knocking into the cabinets below, horrible retching sounds filling the air.

The human wiped his mouth with the rag they used to dry dishes with when the vomiting ceased. They sank into a pile, huddled on the floor, dragging in ragged inhales. Dream’s sobs punctuated the air. George wanted to cry too. He might be crying already. Something warm and wet was tickling his cheeks and splattering on the floor. He was shaking so hard. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

They could have died. Dream could have died. Dream could have died.

What if George had missed? 

George was trembling, his entire body alight. Dream cried and cried and cried. George was sure he was crying by now too.

“That was…” the farmer mumbled into George’s shirt, “the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Oh gods,” His voice broke at the last word.

George was going to be sick. He was going to be sick. He inhaled, trying to ground himself. The rancid smell of vomit stung his nostrils.

“You could have died,” George whispered. He tried to bring a hand up to cradle Dream’s face, but it couldn’t make contact. It stayed hovering next to the skin, quivering. “You could have died, and I would have been useless. I could be walking home from that forest dragging your corpse. I-I…”

Dream looked up, meeting the god’s eyes. The usually-porcelain whites of his eyes were stained red.

George let out an involuntary, miserable whimper. It was a pathetic sound. Helplessness surged through him, so sharply that tears burst from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks. His heart was pounding, slamming against his chest as if the wolf was still looming over him. George’s head dropped into his hands, and he fisted his hair, yanking hard.

“You could have died.” George’s voice was feeble, wretched, barely above a whisper. “You could have died.”

George felt a hand brush against his shoulder, gently running along his neck to swirl in his hair, prying his own hands off. The hand was warm.

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going to die.”

Grief filled his lungs, choking out the air.

George sat up and hugged his human to his chest, eyes squeezed shut, nose buried into his hair, trying to memorize every detail about Dream as he could at the moment. His smell, the brush of his hair against George’s cheek, the soft fabric of his shirt under George’s hands as they ran up and down and up his back.

Dream’s body was warm, and solid, alive under George’s hands. His limbs had messily wrapped around the god, his weight holding George to the ground. George could feel the blood rushing under Dream’s skin, the life in his body, pumping steadily. It was fragile. This life, in his palms, was so fragile. 

And right there, right then, George realized that if he lost Dream, he would surely die.

“You’re still bleeding,” Dream hushed. George peeled open his heavy eyes to stare at the rip in his shirt and the blood that lazily leaked out of the wound. There were smears of drying scarlet on his arm, his pants, and on Dream.

“I forgot about that,” the god murmured distantly.

He untangled himself from the human. He rooted out some pink string and a needle. Dream cried as he gave himself stitches, curled on the kitchen floor, hands shaking. It was the worst set of stitches George had given himself in the last hundred years. He had stabbed himself with the needle repeatedly, deep and far off. It was a good thing, George supposed, that he couldn’t feel his body. Couldn’t feel his hands. Couldn’t feel anything except his heart pumping, fast as a jackrabbit. 

George blinked and saw the wolf on his eyelids.

He couldn't breathe.

They ate dinner in silence for the first time. The food sank to the bottom of George’s stomach.

They went to bed without looking at each other.

They woke up, and did it over again.

The days following were quiet torture. They were both terrified to go outside, though they refused to admit it to each other. They walked outside the house two days later, both shaking, both fighting against heart palpitations, both trying to steady their breathing so the other didn’t hear.

George drifted through his hours in a trance. Everything felt fuzzy and too sharp, too in-focus. Too present. Dream tentatively had tried to reach out, but George snapped at him each time, feeling progressively worse and worse.

“Are you okay, George?” Dream asked a few days after, his hazel eyes muddy with concern, his big hands twisting around each other, “I mean, since the…” 

Dream never mentioned the incident by name, as if he feared that simply the word wolf or attack would send George spiraling into a fit.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You can talk to m—”

“I know. I’m fine.”

George hated himself, hated the way he couldn’t help but snap at the human whenever he expressed his concern. Hated the look that crawled its way onto Dream’s face whenever he did. Hated that the care plastered so obviously over Dream’s face made his chest tighten.

Dream wilted.

“Okay, sorry. Sorry.”

Vicious shame snaked around his lungs, making it hard to breathe. George hated himself, and he couldn’t figure out how to stop.

He was still clutching the knife. Still gripping that cane machete as hard as possible, still staring down the wolf with his feet in a fighting position. Still in front of that cave, his breathing the only sound in the world. Still standing between her and Dream because he’d rather let the wolf rip him to pieces than allow her to touch a hair on Dream’s head.

He didn’t even realize what he had done until a few hours after. The decision was immediate. Visceral.

He was ready to sacrifice his life to save Dream. 

He was ready to die for Dream. 

Because if Dream died the world would end. The sun wouldn’t shine and the birds would stop singing and fall out of their trees and the maggots would eat everything and there would be nothing left. George would have nothing left.

He was still clutching the knife. He was still bracing himself for death, just to give Dream a few extra seconds to run.

It was getting harder to fall asleep every night.

George would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the beams that made up their roof and counting the minutes that passed. Every time his eyelids closed, a pair of yellow eyes stared back at him. Once, he got up to check if Dream was still breathing.

George couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t breathe. Every time he looked at the human, some black, desperate thing squirmed in his chest.

Dream was mortal. 

He was mortal. 

One day, no matter what George did, no matter how many wolves he fought, Dream was going to die. And George was going to be alone again.

George was forever. That had always been a given. He was here, and he was always going to be here. And Dream wasn’t. And one day, George was going to live in a world where Dream didn’t exist.

Dream chased after George enough, asking if he was okay, asking if he needed anything, that finally, after a week, George caved. Embarrassingly, he blurted every thought on his mind. He told Dream everything through wretched sobs. 

“I love you, and I’m sorry you will suffer through that one day,” Dream had said after some thought, sliding along the couch to sit closer to George, nestling his head on the god’s shoulder. “But that day is not today. And it will not come for many, many decades. It is not a burden that we must bear now. Please.”

The clamp that circled George’s lungs squeezed. Something dark and stormy swirled in his throat. He looked away from Dream, trying not to heave.

“You’re not going to suffer through this alone,” Dream urged on. “We’ll figure something out. Together, yeah? I promise.”

The god’s lashes lowered once again, a final tear sliding out of his eye and hitting the floor. He felt his stomach fall, fall, fall into the depths of the night.

“Of course. Together.”

They didn’t figure it out together. 

They didn’t figure it out together. They didn’t have the chance to, because that night, George had a dream. 

Or more accurately, he had a nightmare. 

Dream died. He died over, and over, and over again. 

Sometimes, George would find his rotting corpse in front of that cave, dirt staining his shirt, worms squirming in his mouth, mud smearing over his skin as crows picked at his flesh. Flies buzzing around glassy eyes, formerly olive skin a deathly, blueish white. A rotting, fruity scent clogged the air, swelling in George’s throat. He would dive to his knees, peel Dream’s stiffening, cold corpse off the ground, and hug it to his chest, screaming his voice raw, hands pressed against the human’s cheeks as he tried to will the life back into him.

Sometimes, George watched it happen. He watched Dream’s terrified eyes gleam with tears, watched blood pour out of his mouth and stain his teeth scarlet. Watched Dream beg for George's help, pleading for the god to save him as teeth and claws tore him to pieces, as bone crunched and splintered, as flesh squelched and tore, strawberry jam painting his clothes crimson. The entire time, George was frozen. His legs were cemented into place, his muscles still as stone, refusing to obey his desperate commands.

No one came to help.

Dream died over and over and over again.

Dream woke him in the midst of the worst one with a harsh shake on the shoulder. George's eyes flung open with a ragged gasp, his hands clutching his sheets.

“George?” was his desperate whisper. “Are you okay? You were calling my name.”

It took a few minutes for his mind to calm down and process the words. He was drenched in sweat, tears had soaked his pillow and were still streaming down his cheeks. His throat was raw from yelling out. He was shaking like mad.

“I’m okay.” He finally pulled together the strength to choke out. It didn’t sound convincing at all, even to his ears. His voice was raspy and unsteady, and he was still crying. “Just a nightmare.”

“I thought you didn’t get dreams.”

“They’re rare for me.”

Dream sat down next to George, and the god was flooded with the urge to push him off the bed, to scream and scare him far, far away. His heart beat faster and faster until the god was convinced that it would explode from the effort. 

Bile rose in his throat. George swallowed thickly, pushing it down.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” George gasped. His chest was tight. He opened his mouth wider, trying to take a deep breath. “Why don’t you go back to sleep. It’s late.”

“I’ll sleep when you’ve calmed down. You look jittery.”

Yellow eyes. Musty, silver fur. Teeth stained scarlet. Rotting flesh.

George couldn’t breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m calm.”

“No, you’re not. Do you want some tea? We can move to the living room if it helps.”

George shut his eyes as another wave of misery hit him, and he felt fat tears spill out of his eyes. Grief stung his gut, rising in his throat, threatening to vomit over his clean sheets.

“George? Are you oka—” Dream’s voice died as George reached a hand up to touch the human’s temple, sending him into a deep sleep. He knew the human would be pissed at him in the morning, but he was too tired and miserable to care right now. Dream slumped awkwardly onto him, a deadweight. 

George hauled him off of his bed and dropped him on his own, arranging his limbs into what he hoped was a comfortable position.

He stormed out to the living room, made himself a mug of tea, and didn’t drink a sip. Every time he blinked, he saw worms and mud and claws. He was going to be sick.

Dream was going to die.

George would lower him into a grave and watch him rot to dirt.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He didn’t know how to stop his heart from pounding. 

Dream’s death hung like a ghost in his mind, like a feeling he couldn’t shake, casting a chilly shadow over every part of his day. No matter how many shallow gasps he took, no air would entire his lungs.

George was sure the world was ending.

They never figured it out together, because while George was slicing off the new shoots and leaves of a sugarcane plant, an idea weeded its way into his mind.

It was simple and completely cruel. But it was a way out. It did what George was searching for.

With each passing second, the idea sank deeper into his head, the certainty of what he needed to do growing.

He was good with daggers and swords. He was good at blocking arrows and parrying blows, good with sweat and bloodstained blades. He was a warrior. A god. An immortal, famed, neverending, relentless force. Not a friend. Not someone gentle. Not whatever Dream thought he was.

He would break the news over dinner.

They ate too fast in a silence that was too loud.

“I’ve actually got something to tell you,” the god choked out after everything was cleaned up, his heart going into overdrive as soon as the words were out of his mouth. 

“Yeah?” Dream’s voice was soft, his big eyes swirling with concern.

George’s mind was far away from his body. He wasn’t actually doing this, he was simply hovering a few feet away from his head, watching someone else do this. 

A way out. This was a way out. It was simple self-preservation.

“I’m leaving.”

“Where?” Dream didn’t understand. He didn’t understand. “It’s pretty dark outside already. Can it wait for tomorrow?”

“No, you don’t get it. I’m leaving.”

Something dark flickered over Dream’s face.

“What do you mean?” The human’s voice was controlled, but George heard it through the forced nonchalance. That note of dread.

“I’m leaving this town. Moving somewhere else.”

Instantly, Dream’s eyes filled with tears. George’s stomach hit the ground.

“What?” Dream’s voice cracked, blond eyelashes fluttering rapidly as water swelled over his lash line. “What do you mean you’re leaving? What? I-I don’t understand…”

George steeled himself against the tears threatening to flood his eyes.

“I’m going. Moving onto… a different part of my life.”

Dream blinked, his mouth opening and closing.

“What?”

“I’m a god, Dream. I have no business settling down in some… village, farming sugarcane all day. I’ve got things to do—”

“What?” the human sobbed. “What, what are you talking about?”

George’s mouth opened to say something, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

“George?” Dream pleaded. “George, what’s going on?”

“I’m leaving,” the god repeated dumbly. “Going somewhere else.”

“Why?” Tears spilled over Dream’s cheeks, dripping in his mouth. “Why?”

George’s mouth was dry. His brain was moving too slowly. This wasn’t actually happening.

“I-I can’t stay here, playing some domestic role. I need to move on.” The words tumbled out of his mouth without his permission. It wasn’t how they were supposed to sound.

“But, but, I thought you…” Tears were streaming down Dream’s cheeks. “I thought you weren’t… I thought you were happy.”

George tried to swallow. His mouth was dry.

He felt his throat bob as he groped for words. Desperation clutched his chest. He needed to leave. He needed to leave right now.

“I was happy, Dream. Of, of course, I was. And I will treasure the time we have spent together. I just… This isn't who I am, Dream. I’m—I’m a warrior, not some… farmer.” George spat the last word with more force than he meant to. Something faltered in his chest when Dream flinched.

“Why now? What changed?”

“Nothing, I just… feel like I have to go.”

“That’s not an answer. I, I…”

The words dried on Dream’s tongue.

“Did…” Dream began, his voice wavering a dangerous amount, eyes shiny. He turned his head to the right as if bracing himself for the news, already flinching away from it. “Did I do something?”

“No!” the god urged, panic pushing all the air out of his chest. “No, of course not. It’s just… I-I…”

He needed a justification, a reason that would spare Dream’s feelings, but his mind was still empty. His mouth opened like a fish as he tried to force out words, an apology, something.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. George wasn’t actually doing this.

“Sorry.” 

The word couldn’t sound more hollow.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight. Now.”

“What?” The human’s eyes went wide. All the blood drained from his face. “No! Not tonight. Please, I, I… Not tonight.”

“I’m sorry.” George was crying.

“Please, not tonight.” 

“I have to go.”

“Please.” Dream reached for his hand, clutching it like a lifeline. The god looked away, his breathing ragged. “Whatever I did, I promise I can fix it. I’ll be better—”

“You didn’t do anything—”

“I’ll fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix.”

Dream fell silent, defeat rising in his eyes, choking out the last shred of desperation, of hope.

George squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, the words unable to leave his trembling lips. He pulled his hand out of Dream’s gasp. 

“I’m sorry, Dream. I’m so sorry. I wish everything were different.”

Horror seeped over his human’s face, spilling like ink over paper. His face twisted with grief.

“George.” Dream scrambled to his feet, his hands reaching to clutch at the front of George’s shirt, his voice wretched. “George. George, please listen. You can’t go. You can’t. I’ll do anything for you to stay. Anything—”

“Dream, stop.”

“Anything. I promise. I’ll be better—”

“Stop.”

“You can’t leave. I can’t do this without you. I need you here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please—”

And George couldn’t take it. He couldn’t listen to another second of this. Of Dream’s begging.

He acted. 

He reached a hand up, touched Dream’s temple, and clawed together the energy to slam the human into a deep sleep.

Dream’s face slacked, his iron grip on the god’s shirt went limp. One eyebrow furrowed, as he figured something was wrong. He swayed, a heavy foot shuffling as he started to stumble. The god caught him before he could fully collapse to the ground.

The human was heavy. The god dragged him to the couch. Dream kept tilting over when the god propped him against the armrest and cushions, so he arranged him flat on his back. The god’s head was fuzzy. His vision was swimming.

This wasn’t happening.

This wasn’t actually happening.

The god stood up. There were leftover tears still sliding over Dream’s cheeks. He looked small.

The god couldn’t breathe. He picked up his bag. He attached his sword to his hip. He looked back to the couch.

Dream was beautiful, the god noticed distantly. He was beautiful. He was beautiful in the way that marble status and overgrown gardens were beautiful. Beautiful, because that’s who he was. A centerpiece. 

The god squeezed his eyes shut, and let himself feel all the memories they could have made slip through his fingers like minnows in a rushing creek, like the wisps of a dream he’s already forgotten.

Someone had taken a dagger, sawed his chest open, and ripped out everything inside. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

He opened his eyes. He gripped his bag tighter.

The god turned around.

There was a soft click as a door closed behind him.

He walked to the town.

He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

It took him a week to find a fight.

Three towns and dozens of miles away from the village, the god finally caught whispers of war, some small skirmish between two spoiled lords with silver spoons in their mouths and too much free time.

He marched over in a daze. He didn’t remember making the journey. His sword swinging from his hip, the god cleared the ridge, and was washed with the sight of battle.

Masses of moving bodies writhed and slashed. A cacophony of battle roars, pained screaming, iron against steel, and the neighing of horses buzzed around him. Blades crashed and rang against armor and flesh. From where George stood, it looked like a sea of ants moving along the ground.

It was devastatingly familiar. Like every piece of the puzzle slotted back into place. Like he finally returned home. Something heavy settled in his gut, anchoring him in place.

Standing there, on that hill, George suddenly felt his age. A million billion years of blood and rot and shame rushed into his body. 

He could let go of the knife now. There was no wolf. There was no Dream. He was not going to die. He was free.

He felt empty.

He fought. The weight of the sword familiar in his grip, the weight of his armor familiar on his body. The weight of it all was familiar. Everything was familiar, something that had been etched under his skin over and over again. Maybe that was the most heartbreaking part of it. That the war felt safe. That being soft and boring was foreign.

The days were long. The nights were longer.

It was getting harder to fall asleep. Waking up was worse. His limbs were too heavy, his head hurt, and something biting thrummed in his chest, all day, every day, like a vital organ had been ripped out.

The days blurred together. There was blood on his clothes, on his face, under his nails. His muscles ached. All he could taste was ash.

Empty.

She found him on the fifth day.

“George!” A jubilant cry rang above the noise. 

George hesitated on his next swing, allowing the feeble soldier that was under him to scamper away. He turned, scanning the throng of men around him, the scattered trail of bodies slumped on the ground, until he caught sight of her. She was drenched in mud and blood, skin glistening with sweat, chest heaving, scarlet smearing her armor, her skin, and dripping off of her sword.

Olivia Guerrero.

The god of… something. She never told him. Brown skin, coffee-colored eyes, dark hair that was a different style and length anytime he saw her, juxtaposing the mop of hair he had kept in the same style and cut for centuries. She was tall, unbelievably muscular, and draped in all kinds of decorative leather straps, spikes, and armor plates. Her nails were painted pink. All he really knew about her was that she was bored, good with her blades, and they kept meeting on and off throughout the years.

“Olivia!” George called, trying to inject some pep into his voice. He ambled over to greet her.

“Old friend!” She cheered, clapping him on the shoulder.

“We meet again.”

“I almost forgot what your ugly face looked like!” A thick arm draped over his shoulder, and she bumped his hip with hers.

“Aww, what are you talking about?” George mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “I’m unforgettable.”

“Denial isn’t a good look on you,” she quipped. Eyes sparkling. Easy smile. George could do easy smiles. He could plaster on an easy smile.

“What are you talking ‘bout? I look good in everything.”

“Sure. Ugh! It’s so good to see you. I missed you!” She reached out a rough hand to cradle his face, and he slapped it away.

“I didn’t.” George tried to give her an affectionate shove. She didn’t budge.

“Liar.”

“Idiot.”

Banter. Light, easy banter. Light, easy smile. They’ve done this a million times before. George could do it again.

“You’re so stupid,” Olivia rolled her eyes.

“I could destroy you.” 

“Could: hypothetical. I destroyed your mom: fact.”

“You have the maturity of an 8-year-old.”

“And you have the height of one,” Olivia quipped back.

George blinked. “Well… I…”

“Damn, can’t believe I just destroyed you like that.” Olivia studied her nails, eyebrows arched and lips pursed.

“I’m going to smash your skull open with a blunt object.”

“That’s kinda hot.”

“You give me a headache.”

“I tend to have that effect on men.” 

George rolled his eyes and brushed past her, walking away.

“George!” was her indignant cry as she scampered after him. “Don’t run from me!” 

A heavy body pitched onto his back and muscular arms wrapped around his neck, making him stumble. “Come back to my tent. Let’s catch up!”

George tilted to the side in an attempt to throw her off, nearly toppling off his feet.

“Get off!”

“I’m trying to spend time with you!”

“I’ll come to your tent! Get off me!”

She dropped like a dead body and somehow landed on her feet as light as a cat while George righted himself.

“I missed you!” A new tattoo peeked out of the collar of her shirt, climbing up her neck. A strange dullness crawled up George’s throat. To his horror, he felt the prick of tears well in his eyes. He blinked, clearing it away.

“Yeah, whatever.”

They wandered back to her tent, pulled their armor off, and settled in front of a puny fire that was more ember than flame. The amount of grime covering Olivia’s skin made it safe for George to assume that she had been here for a while.

Olivia thrived off of it: the battle, the chaos, the lawlessness. She was the best warrior George had ever met, and still managed to be the most light-hearted one. Her eyes were bright, she made crude jokes, she laughed easily. She was completely deranged, not that George minded.

“This tastes like paper.” George wrinkled his nose as he took a sip of the tea she shoved into his hands.

“You’re such a baby,” she snorted, chugging her cup and slamming it down onto the ground like it were a beer.  She proceeded to let out a full-throated belch. George grieved the fact that he was so used to them that hearing one no longer caused any sort of reaction from him.

“Yeesh! That was a meaty one. So,” she clapped and grinned, “give me a summary! Where’ve you been? What have you been up to?”

George’s heart skipped a beat. Light, easy smile.

“Oh, nothing much.”

“Did you just wake up?”

His stomach dropped. George didn’t want to think about the village. He didn’t want to think about sunsets and creamy piano keys and dimples. He didn’t want to think about anything related to it, so he should have answered yes. It would have prevented any follow up questions, any room for suspicion.

Instead, he froze.

“Um…” He stammered out.

“Is that a no?” Olivia snorted, picking at a hole in her pants.

George flinched, swallowing.

“I woke up a couple years ago.” His voice was slow and careful. “So, no.”

“Years?” Her eyes flickered up for a split second, “Where’ve you been all this time?”

“Uhhh…” George stalled.

Olivia looked up when the silence stretched.

“Just… at this village,” the god winced.

Olivia brow cocked.

“Village?” She repeated, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah?”

She jerked her chin forward, cuing him to continue.

“Um, with someone.”

Oh, good gods, he was stupid. Why did George say that?

“Someone? Who?” Her voice went sharp, a knife-life smile unfurling on her lips. She leaned forward, the patch of fabric she was fiddling with forgotten.

George hated himself sometimes. So much for easy. He floundered for an innocuous answer.

“A farmer.”

“A farmer?” Olivia repeated. “You were at a village, with a farmer, for a few years?” She threw her head back in a booming laugh, one full of muscle and teeth. Hot embarrassment flushed George’s skin.

“Well, don’t be a tease, tell me more!” Her smile was vicious.

“There’s nothing to tell.” George awkwardly avoided her gaze.

“Tell me about the farmer.”

“Uhh, there’s— It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m curious!” She pushed, a lazy grin on her lips. “Amuse me, please.”

“There’s noth—”

Olivia was a warrior, both on the battlefield and off. If she wanted something, she would get it.

“George.”

“What?”

“Tell me.” Her voice didn’t pitch up to form a question. This was a command, her voice deadly, low, and unshakable. George rolled his eyes.

“You know I’m not scared of y—”

“What are you hiding from me?” she snapped.

“Nothing!” 

“Then give me a description. Damn!”

“It doesn’t matter. Why do you care?” George scrambled.

“I’m curious.”

“So you’re going to latch onto this—”

“Just tell me.”

“Why does it matter?!” George roared, then snapped his jaw shut, realizing his mistake. He bit back a curse, sinking into the collar of his shirt.

Olivia tilted her head coolly, lips pulling back in a wicked smile.

“Oh, George!” She purred, leaning forward, “Why so defensive? What are you hiding?”

“Nothing,” George protested weakly, all the fight draining out of him.

“George,” she crooned.

A bone-deep weariness swelled in him. 

George was tired. Drop-dead tired. The irritation that welled at her persistence was quickly faltering to apathy and exhaustion. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be far, far away. He exhaled, long and slow, grappling for the strength to continue fighting what he knew was a fruitless battle. His eyes were heavy. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. 

He had the urge to cry again. He swallowed it.

“Please,” he mewled, eyes sliding shut, burying his face into his palms. A sob was building in his throat. His exhaustion overpowered the shame of his lack of dignity. “Please, Olivia. Just… just leave it. I… I can’t do this right now.”

He was begging. Actually begging. For the first time ever. George was a god! A legend of muscle and steel. He didn’t beg. He didn’t do this.

He risked a peak at her as he dropped his hands. Olivia’s eyes were wide and incisive. The last of the embers in the fire pit faded from a glowing orange to black soot. George’s throat tightened.

He was met with silence, the gears visibly turning in Olivia’s head. She finally seemed to notice that something was off. Really off. The inner corners of her eyebrows sunk, pitching towards each other, her lips tightening, a shadow draping itself across her face. 

“Hm.” It was supposed to be a nonchalant hum, but George heard the note of tension behind it.

Something softened in her coffee-colored eyes. Her brawly expression melted. She studied his face, her eyes tracing his features, searching. George resisted the urge to shift in his seat. The silence stretched for an uncomfortable amount of time while Olivia turned his words over in his head.

“Whatever,” she growled. “I’m going to bed. Be less weird tomorrow.” She stood up, brushed off the back of her pants, then sighed again and looked at him. “Night, George. It’s nice to see you again.”

She left, not waiting for his goodbye.

“Goodnight, Olivia,” George said to empty air.

Empty.

“Wake up, George!”

The god jolted, nearly tumbling off of his tiny cot, a stray hand smacking Olivia’s stone-hard arm as she held him still. The darkness was watery, diluted by the cold light of the moon. His scratchy, flax blanket had been pushed off the bed in all his thrashing, and the night air chilly against his flushed skin.

“You were screaming.” She leaned back, allowing him to sit up and gasp for air, nonchalant. “Did you have a dream?”

The copper tang of blood was still in his nostrils. He felt the ghost of hot, thick breath on his cheek. He blinked and saw a tattered body on the backs of his eyelids. Yellow eyes peered into his. George’s mouth was dry. He groped for the tin cup that was placed somewhere on the ground near his bed, but his hand grasped at air. He was shaking

“Yeah.”

George’s heart was racing, pounding so hard he felt it in his throat. Olivia’s brow furrowed. He was panting like he had run a mile.

“I thought you didn’t get dreams.”

“I do now.” George found the cup. He brought it to lips before realizing it was empty and bone-dry. He licked his mouth.

“You were calling out in your sleep.”

“Was I?” George dropped the cup back onto the ground. He didn’t look at Olivia. He tried to take a deep breath, but no air entered his lungs.

“Yeah. ‘Dream! Dream! Please, Dream!’” Her voice pitched up as she parroted his cries.

“Hmm.”

“Who’s Dream?”

George didn’t reply. The cicadas that seemed deafening while he was tossing and turning last night were suddenly muted. He felt sweat break out of every pore in his body. The collar of his nightshirt pressed against his throat, choking him.

“He’s your farmer, isn’t he?”

George winced, cursing the gods and himself and everything else he could think of. Olivia always seemed to be clueless and thick when things mattered and wickedly sharp when it was most inconvenient. Whatever stirred up more drama at the moment, George supposed. 

“I’m, I’m sorry I woke you,” George coughed up, “but I’m tired, and I think I should try and get more—”

“What happened in that village?”

George fell silent, shocked, staring up at her and watching her stare back at him with an unflinching gaze. She met his gaze unblinkingly. The branches of nearby trees creaked. Distantly, there was a clash of iron against steel, the scream of soldiers. His shirt was growing tighter. The mattresses creaked, the rusty springs crying out in protest, as he shifted in an attempt to get more comfortable.

George shook his head, straining for something to say that would make her drop the topic forever.

“What’s going on with you? What was that nightmare about? Who is this farmer?”

George shut his eyes, shaking his head.

“I’m really tired, and I need to get more rest—”

“Don’t try that,” Olivia snapped.

“Just leave it—”

“Don’t hide, don’t try to avoid this conversation” She seemed to grow taller, her hands slashing through the air to emphasize her point. “We’re friends. We tell each other things. All of this has been—”

“No!” George half-snarled half-sobbed, whipping around to face her. Tears stung the back of his eyes, a devastatingly familiar feeling. He hoped his rapid blinking was as subtle as he played it off to be. “I don’t want to talk about it! I don’t want to think about it! And I don’t understand why you can’t shut your mouth for once in your life and respect that decision!”

She leaned back, her gaze going flinty. A scarred lip curled up into a vicious sneer. 

“What are you trying to do? Hurt me?” She loomed over him, her voice was ice-cold. “Lashing out so I drop the topic? You think I'm that fragile?”

George shook his head, looking down, shame clogging his chest. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “No— I… I didn’t mean to snap—”

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I don’t like it,” she barreled on. “Don’t think I’m going to let you slink around and pretend everything’s normal. Something’s up with you. Tell me what happened.”

A heavy pause followed her words. 

George knew better than to try and deny it. He didn’t have the energy left for a fight, especially with someone as infuriatingly stubborn as Olivia.

The night was quiet, all sounds distant. The acrid smell of smoke and iron wafted into the tent on a gentle breeze. 

“We don’t have to talk about the nightmare.” Her voice was quiet, but stone-cold, a disconcerting juxtaposition from the words. “But you have to give me something, George. Tell me about the last few years. Tell me about the village. Tell me anything! Talk to me. This is so… strange for you.” There was a heavy pause, Olivia licking her lip before pushing out, “I’m starting to get worried.”

Olivia’s eyes were alight with force, but behind her stone wall there was a trace of concern, nestled deep inside her eyes. Long shadows cloaked the valleys of her face.

At her words, a dull exhaustion welled in George. His bones suddenly felt heavy, his limps unwieldy, his head full of lead. Something savage sunk its wicked fangs into his delicate heart.

He couldn’t breathe.

When he finally spoke, his voice was defeated, his chest tight, laced with affection gone acrid with grief.

“Okay. That’s fair.”

Empty, empty, empty.

George brought a hand to rub at the corners of his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady and full of grief, thick with tears.

“I… He’s the one who woke me up. He found me in the woods. He offered me some food and a shower. I didn’t mean to stay so long. I didn’t mean to.”

Olivia nodded. George kept his gaze to the ground and pretended like she couldn’t see the tears that silently slipped down his cheeks.

“He does sound kind,” she encouraged. George let out a shuddering breath, trying to abate the surge of lack that swelled in his throat. 

“He is.”

The words felt like dirt tumbling into a grave.

The stone that was lodged in George’s throat grew bigger. He shook his head, his lashes batting at the tears that swelled in his eyes, his lips parting and forming shapes, trying to force the words out of his throat.

“I-I don’t know what you want to hear.”

“Tell me anything.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Tell me about Dream.”

“I…” George tried, the words drying in his throat. “He, um…” 

The god cut himself off to try and swallow the ever-growing stone in his thickening throat.

Olivia watched him, coffee eyes trained on him like an eagle. Dream’s eyes were much lighter than her’s, hues of green mixed with traces of honey-brown. They reminded George of the woods.

Olivia’s brown skin was unmarked. Dream had freckles that dotted his cheeks, his forehead, his arms and neck and shoulders and practically every inch of him. Side-effects of farming under an equatorial sun that never eased, George supposed. The human always had mud under his nails, on his clothes, smears of it on his face. He could never quite scrub the smell of sugarcane from his skin. 

George’s favorite smile of Dream’s, one full of gleaming teeth and crinkled eyes and laugh lines, made Dream seem like he was glowing. They had spent years in that yellow honeymoon, burning through the time like they would never die. 

“He was good to me. He— He’s…” George warbled, tearing streaming down his cheeks, the ache in his chest corrosive, biting him to the bone. “Yeah. He was really good to me.”

The air darkened as the moon slipped behind the clouds. Something cooled in Olivia’s eyes. The line of her mouth hardened.

When she spoke, her voice was full of something that wasn’t quite dread. Defeat, possibly. 

“You love him, don’t you?”

George flinched as he had been doused with ice water, squeezing his eyes shut as his chest sunk. 

George shook his head and whispered, “No. No, I don’t. No.”

Olivia didn’t respond. She cocked her head, jaw locked and eyes dark.

George shook his head again, letting his eyes fall shut, his voice cracking. “Stop assuming things. I’m tired. I’m going back to sleep.”

Olivia’s jaw twitched.

Before she could fight, George turned so his back faced her and arranged himself under his blanket. He squeezed his eyes, feeling warm tears slid out, the air cooling his wet cheeks. 

He felt like he was dying. Like the Earth had crumbled into itself the day he left, and all the days that followed weren’t real. They were just fillers, consisting of waiting until things were made right again. This wasn’t real. None of this was real.

Olivia waited, then stood up and sighed loudly when it was clear he wasn’t going to allow the conversation to continue. She walked away after a minute.

Empty, empty, empty.

He fought. The days drained by. His sword grew bloodier, his clothes sullied beyond recognition. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t fall asleep. It hurt to breathe.

George’s and Dream’s separation was brutal in its haste. He had fled the village in a mad rush, not allowing himself to process what had happened. A single swift conversation, and it was over. One day, Dream was there, and the next day he wasn’t.

Some vital part of him, hacked off and left in the dust. As the days passed, the pure lack became more and more apparent, making its presence stubbornly known throughout every day, every moment. Random things would remind George of him. Every mundane thing would somehow connect back to the human. George would think of a funny phrase, someone said something strange, he heard an unusual sound, and George would already be looking around for him, mouth curled in a smile, ready to retell it to his farmer, before he’d remember.

He’d remember that his human was away, gone, out of his life. That no one was listening. That no one would respond. The story would stay inside him, clogging his throat and pressing against his chest, all the humor sucked out of it.

Weeks drained by. He didn’t keep track of them.

I’ll feel better after some time.

That’s what George told himself the first day in the war. This feeling in his chest would fade with time. After a few weeks of stilted conversation with Olivia and picking at the blood under his nails, the lack would abate. After a few weeks, George would be thinking of other things than muddy jeans and light Chopin waltzes.

I’ll feel better after some time.

This will fade. This feeling will fade. I will think of other things than the village. I will learn to live without him.

But George couldn’t. He’d watched enough sunrises to know that it had been at least a few weeks. A long time. Enough time that he should be moving on. Enough time that the lack would have faded, even just a little bit.

He woke up cold, regardless of temperature. He wasn’t ever hungry. Things felt far away. Everything led back to Dream.

George had to do this forever.

He couldn’t do this forever.

Forever. What a horrible concept.

George was tired. More tired than he could ever remember being.

He was good with daggers and swords. He was good at blocking arrows and parrying blows, good with sweat and bloodstained blades. He was a warrior. He was a god. An immortal, famed, never-ending, relentless force. That’s how it had always been, that’s how it would stay.

He was forever, and his pain was infinite.

He was forever.

That never felt as heavy as it did today.

Wake up late, fight, eat when Olivia snaps at him to, sleep late.

Even his fighting was worse. He had gotten a nasty slash on his palm the other day. He was slower. He stumbled, he hesitated. 

Every once in a while, a macho soldier with an inflated ego would march up to George and give a belting speech raving over how magnificent they were, about how they were here to best the god, that they would defeat him with ease. Usually, George took delight in embarrassing people like that. Now, George would walk away in the middle of the speech. He was too tired to deal with it.

Wake up late, fight, eat when Olivia snaps at him to, sleep late.

George felt every single year weighing on his shoulders. A million billion trillion years of rot and shame and filth. Piling up and up and up.

Wake up late, fight, eat when Olivia snaps at him to, sleep late.

Wake up.

“George?” Olivia called as the god shuffled towards his tent. He halted, biting back a curse and letting out a muted sigh.

“Yeah?” He turned his head as she walked up to him in his peripheral vision.

“Can we talk?”

Gods, please no.  

George had no energy for a conversation like this. His eyes fluttered shut for a second.

“About?”

“You. Your nightmares. Everything.”

“Actually, there’s this—”

“No. I’m not listening to another excuse. It’s been weeks. Sit down. We’re doing this now.”

Olivia’s jaw was locked. Her eyes were immovable.

George let out another sigh as he sank onto the dusty tree stump that Olivia gestured to. She settled on the stripped log opposite of his, elbows in her knees and brown eyes digging into his skin.

George considered letting his eyes slip shut, letting himself snatch a few seconds of relief from the aching brightness of the sun, but decided against it. Olivia’s lips were pursed as she inspected him. Her eyes were big, honest. 

“Are you okay, George?” she finally asked in a quieter voice.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She let out a light scoff. Silky eyelashes fanned her cheeks as she blinked. A scarred hand ran over her mouth, rubbing at her chin.

There was never dead air around Olivia. She was loud. She took up room. She commented on everything, always found some gateway to launch into a story that was probably fake, to tell a joke she definitely stole, to drag the other people into discussions and arguments and debates.

But sitting on those stumps, the watery morning sun glaring at them from behind thick clouds, she was still.

“Because you’re zoning out more.” Her voice was full of sorrow. “And you’re eating less, and you’re quieter. You’re having nightmares. And you get this… this look on your face anytime I mention the village, or that farmer. You’re lost in your head.”

She takes a breath, one full of care, full of worry.

“What’s going on?”

George barely had time to process her words before fat, hot tears burst from his eyes and streaked down his cheeks. He heard Olivia let out a gasp of surprise as he whipped his head around, hands wiping at the tears, about to stand up and flee before the other god jumped to her feet.

“Oh. Oh, George,” Olivia hushed, crossing the gap between them, leaning over as if she were about to engulf him in a hug. George stuck a hand out, blocking her while shaking his head, gaze pinned to the floor.

“No, no, don’t… Just give me a second.” His voice was wobbly with tears.

She got the message, but hovered over him for a few long seconds, as if she feared he would bolt. As the cloud of tears slowed he waved a hand at her, gesturing for her to sit back down.

Olivia sunk onto the edge of the stump, hands wringing together.

“George,” She hushed in a voice full of pity, “Oh, George.”

“Don’t,” He bubbled through tears.

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Give me a second.”

“What happened?” Olivia pressed after a beat.

“Nothing.”

Her bottom lip tightened, pressing against her teeth as she studied him. George wiped at his drying cheeks, praying that his face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.

“Please tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

To George’s mortification, the tears kept flowing. He tried to take a steady breath, but it broke off in a loud sob.

“Why are you crying?”

“No reason!” he shrieked, loud enough that he saw other soldiers pause to stare at him in his peripheral vision. He jumped to his feet. 

He hadn’t taken a single step before Olivia was in front of him, a rough palm on his shoulder and steady eyes trained on him.

“Don’t run.” Her voice was a breath, barely above a whisper and full of care. “Please, George.”

Another heavy hand dropped onto his other shoulder. She sighed, gently steering him back down onto his seat. If it were any other day, George would marvel at the fact that Olivia looked tender as she studied him, lip tucked close to her teeth and eyebrows sloping towards each other.

She sat down opposite him, hands clasped together, and let out a long sigh. They sat in silence for a few stretching seconds, both lost in thought. Tenacious tears slipped down George’s wet cheeks. Coffee eyes met his. They were full of worry.

When Olivia spoke, her voice was made up of the softest tone imaginable, trembling with raw, unfiltered care.

“Why did you leave that village, George?”

The silence roared. Soldiers screamed in the distance. The wind rustled the bare branches of a nearby tree. George’s eyes slithered shut. His nose burned with tears, his throat bobbed. A gaping maw gobbled up any last scraps of strength, leaving his chest empty. The pain was deep, drilled straight to his core, festering there. It was unlike anything George had felt in centuries.

Empty.

Empty.

Gods, George was so tired.

He was tired of fighting, tired of nightmares, tired of dodging Olivia’s searching stares. And maybe, maybe, George missed Dream. Missed the village. Missed that lavish, bone-deep serenity. More than he thought he could. More than he thought was possible.

He caved. Any fight, any leftover strength buckled and collapsed and crumbled inside him.

He let her in.

“Because I can’t watch him die.” 

He said it like a plea.

George stared at a pebble near his foot, tears dropping like rain. When he snatched a glance upwards, he was met with widened eyes searching his. The silence stretched out for miles, the words settling into the dirt, anchoring themselves in the two gods. Olivia’s head tilted, her thick fingers wrapping around her chin, covering her mouth. Her eyebrows sunk closer to her eyes, sending shadows across her eye sockets. Her coffee eyes gleamed, darting in the milky space as she absorbed his words.

Steadily, realization dawned over her face like the sun breaking the horizon. The hand dropped from her chin to dangle over the ground. She sat back, her shoulders sinking and her head straightening itself upright. Her eyebrows lifted, letting the sunlight hit her eyes.

“Oh.” she sighed. “Oh.”

The silence stretched. Gray, rain-heavy storm clouds crept over the sky. George’s head was buzzing too much for him to try and parse the meaning from her remark. He sat, still as a statue, grinding his teeth, hands wrapped around each other, his fingers pressing at each other as if digging for something in hard earth. His heart was pumping. He felt alone.

“Oh, George,” Olivia groaned, suddenly annoyed, a thumb pushing at the bridge of her nose.

George blinked, looking up.

“You thick-headed coward—”

“What?!”

“You’re MISERABLE,” Olivia roared, lunging to her feet to snarl it in his face, so suddenly that it shocked George to silence.

George felt his eyes go big as he groped for a response. His mouth opened, but no words came out. His mind drew a blank.

Someone screamed on the battlefield.

What?

Olivia’s lips were curled up in a vicious sneer. Whatever tenderness, gentleness that had possessed her a second ago was also long gone, leaving the Olivia he was more familiar with behind. Wicked smiles, bruised knuckles, and teeth stained scarlet with blood. Caring, but immovable.

Olivia took a step back, inspecting George.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you.”

“What?”

“Gods, George. This is a new low.”

“Wh—What are you talking about—”

“You panicked, right? You spent all that time soaking up sun in a cute little village with a cute little boy, and then…” She let out a dry chuckle, void of any humor.

George scrambled for words, mouth dry. He couldn’t think.

What?

He should respond, snap at her, protest, shut her down. But his tongue was glued to the bottom of his mouth. His mind was moving too slow.

“And then!” Olivia crooned, saccharine and wicked. “And then you realize that it’s not going to last forever. And you? You, George, oh, you’re used to forever. You seek refuge in forever. And little Dream over here doesn’t have that. He’s barely got a few decades left. And so you panic.” She snarled the last word.

His heart was beating. The tent behind him flapped in the wind. A chunk of charcoal shifted in the blackened fire pit.

George tried to swallow. There was no spit in his mouth.

Olivia’s voice slowed and dropped, rumbling through the dry air like thunder.

“So, you run. You run before it can happen. And now you’re here with me, alone and miserable.”

George’s breathing was heavy. His mind was blank. He couldn’t think. Gods, he couldn’t think. He latched onto the last thing she said.

“I’m… I’m not alone,” George choked out. “You’re here.”

Olivia laughed, bitter, full of venom. She didn’t even bother responding to the protest.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” George tried.

She grinned, the words sliding off her like water on duck feathers.

“I-I… You…” George’s chest heaved. “Gods.”

He curled over himself, burying his face into clenched palms, sobs tearing out of his chest, loud and ugly. Any scraps of dignity, of self-control blew away. His fingers curled into his hair, chest heaving as wails tumbled over his lips.

“Gods, Olivia, you’re such a dick.”

Olivia sat back down, lips pressed together. She sighed. 

After a pause she spoke, her voice softer, but still stony. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Why, why… You couldn’t just… Let me be? Let me wallow in peace?”

“This isn’t peace.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care.” George gasped, tears pouring down his cheeks so wildly he didn’t bother to wipe them anymore. His voice was desperate, wobbling, near-crazed. “I don’t want to talk about this. I never wanted to talk about this. And you, you just… latch onto these things and push people until—”

“I’m not done.”

“Of course you’re not done. Of course you have more. You always—”

“Do you think it’s going to hurt any less?”

George spared a glance upwards. Olivia swam through a blur of acrid tears.

“What?”

“When he dies. Do you think it’s going to hurt less?”

“I-I…”

“Because he will die, that’s unavoidable. He will die, and the pain will be so indescribably horrible, you’ll do anything to get relief. It will never fade. It will never go away. That relief will never come. And the world will be colder and quieter, and you will never feel full again. And sometimes, you’ll wish you died instead of him. Do you think it’s going to hurt any less now that you’re a million miles away from him?”

“We’ll… we’ll, we’ll be apart…” George tried.

“Will you love him any less?”

George’s nostrils were flared. He was shaking his head, tears dripping into his gaping mouth.

“He’s going to die. There is nothing you can do to stop it. Do you think it’ll hurt any less?! When he’s gone cold? Will you still love him?”

Time acted funny around gods. Sixty years could last a lifetime, or it could pass in the silence between heartbeats.

Olivia’s coffee eyes were stone-cold. Merciless. A warrior, on and off the battlefield.

She was blunt. That was apparent from their first conversation.  Olivia could never grasp the concept of letting someone down slowly. She didn’t beat around the bush. She was honest to a fault. She loved her friends, but gods did she show it in a nasty way.

George was sobbing. Ugly sounds. Mouth salty, nose dripping, hands wet, chest tight.

“You couldn’t just let me fester?” George whimpered.

“That’s not what friends do,” Olivia replied.

“Is he worth it, George?”

George looked up.

Her voice was soft.

“Because he will die. That’s certain. Is he worth the grief that follows?”

George fell quiet again.

“I love you, George, but sometimes you’re really damn stupid.”

Olivia said something else he couldn’t hear. She put a rough hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Her voice rumbled in his chest. She walked away after a few minutes. She left him there, crying on the stump, chest ripped out.

All his walls were down. Everything shattered. The pieces scattered like stars.

Whatever greater power that ruled this world was a merciful one. They gave the smaller gods a way out.

George could let it go. Give it up. Be stripped bare, stripped to nothing.

He thought about it so many times, it felt like a brand on his brain. Every time he dismissed it. Kept fighting and shelved it for another day.

And George was exhausted.

Completely, utterly exhausted. Every cell in his body, every pore on his skin, every hair on his head. Dead tired. Right down to the marrow of his bones.

Olivia was cruel. But she certainly knew how to make a stupid god shut up, sit down, and think about the things that mattered.

George shut up. He sat down. He thought about the things that mattered.

He thought about everything. He wept, he wiped his tears, he remembered how lovely Dream had looked while playing one of Mozart’s pieces.

And then, George made a decision.

It was terrifying. But he was sure of it. Completely, utterly, unconditionally sure. 

He was good with daggers and swords. He was good at blocking arrows and parrying blows, good with sweat and bloodstained blades. 

But maybe that’s not all he could be good at. Maybe he could be something more.

He told Olivia the news. Through her eyes, he watched her heart break. She embraced him. She kissed his cheek. She whispered, “You know. You know. I can see it. I’m not going to protest. I’m so proud of you, George. I’m so proud of you. I love you. I love you so much. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I hope you're happy. I hope he makes you happy.”

They held each other and wept. Not sad tears. It wasn’t a sad moment.

A muscular arm draped over his shoulder, she pressed her forehead to his and sobbed, “I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. We’ve spent lifetimes together.”

He sobbed back, “I’m sorry.”

“No. No. Don’t be sorry. I can tell you’ve been tired. You’ve been tired for centuries. I suspected this conversation was coming. I never said anything. This is okay. I’ll be okay. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to sleep.”

They talked through the night. They reminisced over a hundred lifetimes worth of shared memories. Over slayed monsters and conquered kingdoms and loud laughter through the night. It wasn’t a sad goodbye. Not completely, at least.

Then, George went home.

Chapter Text

All the crops were dead.

The surrounding trees too. Towering oaks whose broad, dark-green leaves used to stretch across the sky and blot out any hints of blue had lost all their leaves. The foliage that used to swarm every inch of their forest hung in pathetic, gray-brown clumps. Brittle, withered leaves dangled like claws on their dead branches, the slightest bump sending them tumbling to the ground. The air was dusty and reeked of rot. With every footstep, George crunched shriveled husks of plant life under his shoes. 

The creeks were gushing, the dirt was dark with moisture, the air was so humid George could drink from it, and all the plants had shriveled to dust.

George had noticed something was off yesterday. Yellow leaves and rattling branches started to show themselves, and the usual murmur of hidden critters had faded into unnerving quiet, but he had pushed down his unease and carried on walking. The closer he got to the village, the worse the damage was. The forest that used to team with life had turned into a graveyard, like some killing storm had swept through the area in one terrible gust. 

George broke the treeline to the village and felt his heart drop.

Rows and rows of neat sugarcane had withered to yellowed husks. Previous lush, green leaves shriveled into dry, crunching scraps. Mournful piles of unearthed stalks clumped around the edges of fields like funeral pyres. The entire world had lost its color, fading into monochrome. Farmers moved in and out of their dead fields, and even from a distance, it was clear to see the devastation written over their bodies. The setting sun made the edges of the field glow a blood-red.

Dead.

All their crops were dead.

Something buzzed in the back of George’s head. His heart pumped a steadily-faster beat, roaring louder in his eyes as he tried to take a deep breath. He was rooted still for a few stretching seconds before snapping back to the present. On numb feet, he stumbled towards the village, panic mounting with each step. His shoes slithered in squelching mud. All the water in the world, and their crops were dead.

He stumbled towards the village in a daze. 

The crops were dead. The crops were dead.

He was among the fields now, sprinting by the piles of dead sugarcane. Cane that used to smell like watery, floral sugar now reeked of sour rot. The stalks were streaked with red and brown and were cracking down the middle to reveal dry insides. George couldn’t take a full breath.

The sun had already set, so Dream was probably at his cabin. George didn’t bother checking his field. He ran. He had forgotten to eat properly the last few days, and his knees nearly buckled from weakness and hunger. He ran faster.

He passed a few late-working farmers but didn’t acknowledge them, even when they called his name in shock.

The cabin came into sight. It looked just as before: unpainted wood walls, sloping roof with rotting branches and leaves that had never been cleaned off spilling over the sides, knobby ivy blanketing its tough vines and glossy green leaves over the left side. 

Light seeped from the windows. A fire had been set in the living room. An explosion of butterflies swarmed through George’s body. The buzzing grew louder.

The thump of his footsteps was impossibly loud, every second stretching further and further apart. His mouth was dry, his limbs felt too long, and his heart fluttered in his throat. George swallowed thickly, trying to take a deep breath, his muscles turning rubbery from the increasing pound of his heart.

He was here. This was happening.

Even muffled by soft, mud-slicked leaves, his footsteps seemed to boom in his ears. His throat tightened and his stomach flipped, air rasping as it was dragged in and out of his lungs. 

Breathe , he hissed at himself. Gods, please breathe. 

He was dizzy from a wild frenzy of anticipation, fear, shame, and nerves.

Breathe.

He walked to the front door. It seemed to take centuries. Time had always acted funny around Dream.

He raised a hand. He knocked.

The door swung open.

The door swung open, and hazel eyes met his.

The door swung open, and hazel eyes met his. George felt his mouth fall open. He drank in the details like a man dying of thirst. Shaggy hair that hung in loose waves, hands rough with callouses, freckles splashed across his cheeks.

Every word that George had prepared dried on his tongue, and all he could do was stare at the other human. His heart was going so fast, that he thought he might be sick. Dream’s neutral expression slipped into one of absolute disbelief. 

The world held its breath as the two stared at each other.

“George?” Dream finally whispered, so quietly that the god almost didn’t hear him. 

George couldn’t respond. He couldn't move. He couldn’t feel his toes. His fingers were tingly. His stomach was wildly flipping around somewhere near his gut.

“George?” The human’s voice wobbled dangerously. His eyes were glassy. His lips had parted, his eyes blown open wide with shock. He was gripping the door. “George?” 

Without thinking, George lunged forward, snatching the human up in a hug.

And then all the blood in his body went hot and cold and hot and cold and there were fistfuls of Dream’s shirt in his hands and tears rolling down his cheeks and words leaving his mouth that he didn’t hear. He was saying something. The blood roaring in his ears drowned it out. The only thing he could process was that he was here. Dream was here. George was here. They were here.

Dream was here. In his arms. Alive and warm.

George squeezed Dream tight enough to crunch his bones. Dream squeezed back tighter. Dream’s hair was feather-soft against his cheek. He smelled like sweat and mud and sunsets. George buried his nose into the crook of the human’s neck, clinging on for dear life. They stumbled backward into the house. His body was on fire. He was shaking. Dream was here. Dream was here. Dream was here.

George wanted to stay like this forever. Feet stumbling together, hands gripping shirts, pressed together so tightly George could hear Dream’s heartbeat. This was the only thing that had never mattered. This was everything. Everything.

Dream started to pull away. George clung on for a few more seconds before conceding and slipping out of the human’s grasp. He placed a hand on Dream’s warm cheek.

“George,” Dream gasped, eyelashes fluttering. 

“Dream,” he responded with a whimper.

“Oh, George.” The human had a claw-like grip on his shoulder, his eyes darting all over George’s face, drinking in every last detail. 

“Dream, Dream,” George gasped, his fingers tracing meaningless circles on the human’s face. Dream was the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, George decided wildly. The most beautiful boy that had ever walked the face of the Earth. George felt alive. He was out of breath, gasping like he had run a mile. He was here.

He was finally home.

“Dream, I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry,” George wept, his free hand jumping up to clutch Dream’s shirt. “Please, please. I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid. I’m sorry for leaving. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

George gasped as if it finally dawned on him.

“I love you I love you I love you I love you,” he babbled, tears shaking his voice. “Oh, Dream, I love you. I love you so much.”

“You’re back,” Dream choked out, a hand unconsciously snaking up to grip George’s arm. “You’re…”

“I’m back,” George whispered through a blur of tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m not going to leave again. I promise. It was a stupid mistake—”

“You’re back.” The human’s voice wobbled and cracked. His cheeks were gleaming with tears, his pupils dilated and flush creeping into his face. He had a smear of mud on his cheek. He had gotten more freckles in the time they were apart. He was a bit taller and broader. George didn’t think he could ever look away. “You’re really here.” The grip on George’s arm tightened.

“I’m here.”

George never felt more alive. He felt tangible. Real. His heartbeat sang in his ears. He was feather-light, weightless, floating high above the ground. George felt alive.

Dream shook his head slightly, mouth opening as he grasped for something to say. His eyes were darting everywhere. George dropped his hand from the human’s cheek to the crook of his shoulder, the movement quick and jerky, as if Dream would poof out of existence if George let go for a second too long.

“I…” the human heaved, “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I’m here.”

The human’s gaze dragged over every inch of George, soaking in every insignificant detail and committing it to memory. His lips parted, but no words left his mouth. George’s brain had frozen on a loop, a continuous cycle of the feel of Dream’s dusty skin under his palm, the heat that warmed the other hand that was loosely gripping the bottom of the human’s rib cage, and the smell of sugarcane. They stood still for a while, gobbling up all the little features and quirks that had faded from memory over the time they were apart. 

Eventually, Dream whimpered a weak “Oh, George,” and pulled him back into another hug. 

This one was less desperate. It was safe, dry, and warm, something akin to gentle summer nights and bows pulling on thick cello strings. Their bodies slotted together delightfully, Dream’s muscle-wrapped arms swaddled snugly around George’s shoulders, pulling him close against his chest. There wasn’t an inch between them. 

Dream’s nose was pressed against the base of George’s neck, sending puffs of warm breath over his skin. When he spoke, his lips tickled George’s shoulder.

“You’re here.”

The words were desperate, nearly silent, more a breath than a sentence. George wouldn’t have heard it at all if his ear wasn’t so close. He shuddered, pulling Dream impossibly closer as an answer, as a silent plea.

I’m here.

They stood there for centuries. Or maybe it was just minutes. It didn’t matter. It was the entire world. There was not a single thing beyond the feel of Dream pressing against him, the faint pulse of his heartbeat, the warmth of his hair as George raked his fingers through it.

This was it. This was everything.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Dream whispered. George burrowed his face into the hollow of the human’s shoulder blade against the steady drip of guilt that was filling his lungs.

“Where did you go?” The human’s hands wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“A war. Trying to forget you. It didn’t work,” George gasped out, face pressed flush against the human. 

Dream didn’t respond, soaking up the words. They stood in silence for a few seconds, the pressure on George’s chest increasing with every passing second, growing unbearable. 

“I’m so sorry for leaving you,” George finally caved and whimpered. “Dream, you have to believe me when I say it was a mistake. It was a stupid mistake. I’m so sorry.”

Dream didn’t answer. He was still, muscles locked and frame rigid. After a few excruciating seconds, he separated the hug. 

For a brief second, George considered clinging on tightly and not letting Dream go. It took all his strength to let Dream slip out of his embrace, unease prickling in his stiff throat. Without Dream’s warmth, George’s skin was immediately cold, his clothes dangling helplessly off of his frame.

Silent tears streamed down the human’s face. He didn’t wipe them. Glassy pearls were rolling down his cheeks, dripping down his neck, leaving gleaming snail trails behind. He wasn’t sniffling, wasn’t sobbing. The tears were the only indication Dream was crying at all. 

Dream was a big guy. He was tall— almost a full head taller than George— well-built, and fit, with arms wrapped in muscle from a lifetime of grueling farm work. But at that moment, he looked small. No more than a boy. 

His hands still encircled George’s upper arms, but he was holding him at a distance that seemed insurmountable. His gentle hands outstretched, not allowing George to get any closer. George could see the slight tremor of Dream’s chest as the tears poured down his face. Rancid shame boiled deep in George’s gut. 

In some desperate attempt to prevent the conversation from continuing in the direction George knew it was headed, he went in for another hug. Dream blocked him with a flat palm against his chest. His breathing was audible, his nostrils flared, face twisted with unspeakable grief. His searching eyes landed on George’s.

“Why?”

His voice was pitiful. Weak, trembling, and raw. George finally realized, with a dangerous lurch in his stomach, that the bags under Dream’s eyes were a sick purple, his eyes sunk deep into his skull. His cheeks were hollow and his skin seemed to droop off of his face. There was a sour note of body odor that wafted through the air and his hair sat in an uncombed, frizzy, greasy mop on top of his head. George felt his expression falter.

Dream was a big guy. He shouldn’t look like he would fold into himself at the slightest breeze.

George’s lips moved without him realizing it.

“Why what?”

The entire scramble back to the village, George ate himself alive with horror scenarios of how Dream would react when he got back. Scenes of screaming and door-slamming and spit flying off of lips twisted in a yell. Dream had every right to be mad. George had been horrible. Absolutely horrible. He deserved all that was coming for him. Dream deserved to get mad. To scream, to slam some doors.

Big, sad, watery eyes stared into his. 

“Why did you leave?”

George had braced himself for anger. Not grief.

“I…” George started, reaching out a hand for the human, but pulling back at the last second, “I got scared.”

“That I would die?”  Dream’s voice was barely over a whisper, each word an arrow into George’s flesh. George flinched, his chest clenching.

“Um. Yeah. I-I know, that’s it’s stupid. And irrational. I know.” A stone started to form in George’s throat. His nose burned, his eyes watering in response. Desperation lurked in the base of his throat, waiting for the perfect moment to snatch him up. “I was just… I’m not used to… I thought it would hurt less if I slit my own throat, rather than let you do it.”

“And now?”

“I’m ready to die with you.”

Honey-hazel eyes bore into his. Parted lips, glassy eyes, a hurricane of emotion barely concealed twisted on Dream’s face. “I, um… yeah,” George mumbled.

Dream stared at him. Wide eyes dug into every pore on George’s skin, burrowing under his skin.

“This…” the human mumbled, a hand moving to grip George’s bicep. A surge of tears filled his eyes, trickling down his cheeks like raindrops rolling over a marble statue. “This doesn’t feel real.”

For lack of anything to say,  George nodded again. 

“You were gone…” the control that the human had had over his voice was starting to waver, the raw emotion peeking through. “You were gone for so long.”

Acrid tears closed George’s throat. He nodded, feeling hot shame flood his body.

“I know. I’m so sorry—”

“I thought you were gone for good.” Though Dream’s voice was growing louder, it was still as shaky as a branch flung around by storm winds. He looked small. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I know, I know,” George nodded, trying to swallow the stone in his throat. He reached for something to say, something to justify everything that happened, so they could go back to being happy and pretend like the last few months never happened. “But I’m back now. And I’m not going to leave. You have to believe me.”

Honey-hazel eyes stared into his. Honey-hazel eyes that looked like the forest. Honey-hazel eyes that George used to wake up to, fall asleep to. 

George had always been infinite. Untouchable. But Dream made him feel small. 

Every inch of him wanted to bury his head into the human’s arms, squeeze his eyes shut, and cry until everything was okay. But Dream was looking at him in a way that he never had before, and part of George’s mind was screaming that they were never going to be okay again, so he held himself back. Their arms were grasping each other, locked in place, but there was a yawning distance between their bodies. Dream was holding them still, not letting George get further or closer.

“Are you…” George shriveled into himself. The words were dangling on the tip of his tongue, ready to be released. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ask it. Because Dream might respond, and he might respond in the worst way, and he might tear George’s heart right in half. 

“Are you happy I’m back?”

Dream blinked. His eyes refilled with tears. They dripped down his cheeks slowly, almost carefully.

“Of course, I am, George. Of course. I love you.”

His nostrils flared, and he leaned forward into their arm-grip embrace, his head dipping down. His hair had gotten long, a few blond locks brushing George’s arm. George should cut it soon. “I’ve done nothing but fantasize about this moment for the last few months. You’ve never left my head.”

George tilted his head closer to Dream’s, their foreheads separated by a few inches.

“You never left mine either.”

The human’s eyes were blocked by his hair. 

Dream didn’t say anything. Silence yawned like the gaping jaws of a shark, chewing up the pause into bleak nothingness. 

Dream was happy George was back. 

But he wasn’t completely happy, was he? 

They ate dinner together for the first time in months. 

The shock of being near each other hadn’t quite faded, and there were moments where George would zone out, staring at Dream with childlike wonder, heart quivering desperately in his chest. His hands were a little shaky, his heart beating a bit too fast. The idea that after so long, George was finally back in the village, finally next to Dream was unbelievable. He was home, the puzzle piece slotted right back into place. George stared and stared, drinking in the details over and over again.

There were moments where George would catch Dream doing the same, a mix of indescribable euphoria and painful stiffness painted over his features. 

Not completely happy.

Something was off with Dream— the tears, the wooden movements, the bleak stares, but everything was so tender and the embarrassment that was stewing in his gut was so hot and sharp that George kept his mouth shut, shelving the conversation for another day. In the meantime, he dragged them through dry small-talk. When their limited supply of safe topics ran dry, they ate in silence.

George’s heart thudded in his chest, and his breath rasped against the walls of his throat. He barred himself from thinking of the silence or how Dream was just across the little table, an arm-lengths away, or the sharp awkwardness that hung in the air. Every bit of focus went into maneuvering bites of food into his mouth. 

It was quiet. Each clink of cutlery tapping their plates seemed to boom through the air. When George cleared his throat, Dream jumped, the sound booming like thunder. George’s breathing was so loud that he was convinced that Dream could hear it. He tried to breathe slowly in an attempt to be quieter, pulling the air steadily through his nose. His skin felt hot. 

When there were only a few bites left on the plate, as George was arranging and poking at them with his fork, his gaze glued to his plate, he finally registered how his hands were smeared brown and black with dirt. 

Dried blood crusted over his skin and clothes, layers of grime wrapped almost every inch of him, and his shirt was ripped in places where stray blades had snagged. His hair sat in a greasy tangle on top of his hair, matted beyond hope. He reeked of copper and iron. The entire time they were apart, George wasn’t sure he had showered once. 

“Oh, gods,” George murmured in horror, his fork stilling, a hand covering his mouth. Dream looked up. Sharp humiliation began to burn in his gut. “I probably smell so bad.”

Dream blinked, eyes running up and down George’s form, finally clocking his appearance. Another rush of embarrassment swept George, heating his neck as he resisted the urge to duck his head and run out of the room to clean himself.

Dream’s big eyes turned a bit mournful. He reached a hand to touch his own tangled hair. “Don’t worry, George. I can’t judge. I haven’t showered in… some time.”

George’s head was quiet for a second. Then it was filled with noise. 

Although words struck George like a blow, he took it into stride, putting care into keeping his expression neutral. Dream never had any sort of issue with hygiene or self-care while they were together. While he was covered in a reasonable amount of sweat, grime, and dirt for a farmer, he kept his face and hands clean, showered regularly, and kept his house organized. His piano was possibly the cleanest object within a 10-mile radius. George could only assume that their separation didn’t treat Dream very kindly, and in his grief, he had let things… slip. If George dwindled over the thought too much, he started to grow dizzy with shame.

So that’s where they stood, two people’s stink clouding a room as they refused to meet each other’s gaze.

“We’re not good at functioning apart, huh?” George attempted a light joke. It fell flat. Dream’s face morphed into something sad, his gentle brow sloping up, lip tucked near his teeth, eyes big and full of grief. He let out a forced, shallow huff and looked down at his food again, his fork picking at leftover bites, appetite gone. It felt like a blade sunk directly into George’s heart. He needed to do something, say something, anything, to fix the situation, but his mouth was dry and his mind was blank. The silence strung outwards as George groped for words. He turned up dry. His neck was hot, his throat thick.

George was tempted to blurt something along the lines of well, it's good I'll never leave! but it sounded weird and clingy, and the air was as hard and brittle as china, so he kept his mouth shut. They finished dinner in silence.

When they were getting ready for bed, George unpacking his tattered traveling bag and Dream fiddling with something on the other end of the room, Dream cleared his throat. George looked up, and the human immediately looked back down, dodging his gaze. He coughed out a hesitant, quiet sentence. “Um, if you don’t… want to sleep in the same room… I, I can take the couch—”

“What?” George breathed, voice bare, standing up straight, his bag forgotten. His fingers suddenly felt cold, his heart beating quick again, gut-churning. He wanted to take a few steps towards Dream, but his feet were rooted in place. “What, what are you talking about? Why wouldn’t I want to sleep in this room?” He blinked as realization struck. His stomach dropped to the earth. Quiet dread snuck through him. “Unless you don’t want to sleep in the same room?” he backtracked. “Which is— which is fine! I, um—”

“No, no.” Dream avoided his gaze. “I don’t mind.”

Muted, not-quite relief broke across George’s body. “Oh. Okay. I don’t mind either.”

“Okay.” Dream swallowed. Softly, he added, “Sorry I brought it up.”

“No, don’t… um, don’t worry. Yeah.”

“Alright. Sorry.”

George woke up in his own bed. Dream’s bed was empty, the sheets mused, and covers crumpled near the corner. The human was nowhere to be found, probably downstairs fixing up breakfast or doing some menial chores. The room felt cold. For a split second, George felt a rush of panic fill him, his mind conjuring up the idea that Dream had left in the middle of the night, and that George was alone in this house, alone in this village, and he was never going to see Dream ever again. George swallowed it. He dressed in clean clothes, walked into the kitchen, and saw Dream sitting at a table empty except for a single, half-full glass of water. 

As George opened his mouth to say good morning and ask what their plan was for breakfast, his eyes flickered around the room, brushing over the window. He saw brown leaves and dead sugarcane stalks that clattered against each other, dry and lifeless, and entire fields ruined. 

Everything went silent.

Everything slowed down.

And then everything hit George in one horrible rush. 

“Oh my gods, Dream,” George whimpered, rushing forward to the window, stomach churning. “I can’t believe I forgot last night— I was so caught up… The fields— what happened!? ” He spun around to look at the human, voice barely more than a whisper. 

Dream was as reactant as ice-cold clay. He didn’t look up at George, his gaze remaining fixed on the glass of water, a finger poking at the table. His face was layered with some mix of misery and apathy, eyes drowning in the gray exhaustion. 

He looked tired. He looked really tired. His eye bags were as purple as bruises, his hair uncombed, his clothes the same as they were from yesterday. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all last night. Maybe for longer than that.

“Dream?” George tried again. Icy dread spread in his gut. His head was pounding. “What’s going on? Why are the fields…” He trailed off. His mouth couldn’t wrap around the words. They were too bitter, souring his tongue.

Dream let out a humorless huff, face unreadable and eyes dark. His voice was hoarse. He looked tired. And older. And breakable. His eyes were shiny, fixed on the table in front of him.

“The sugarcane’s dead.”

George took a step closer to the human, heart pressing against the front of his chest. He reached out a hand to rest on Dream’s shoulder, to press his palm over his skin, but he reeled himself back at the last second, letting his hand dangle before dropping it. Worry twisted itself into a knot in his stomach. 

“What the hell happened?”

Dream was still facing away from him. He didn’t look up from the table, didn’t look at him. Every muscle in his body looked locked in place, ridged with tension, ready to burst into motion.

“It’s the Wilt.” Dream’s voice was light.

Dream’s shoulders were slumped, weighed down by a burden George didn’t understand yet. The room was grayer, the wood walls leeched of all their life, the kitchen barren with its empty countertops. Sometime in the few months George had been away, the warmth of the room was sucked out, leaving something desolate behind. 

“What’s, what’s that?” George pressed as his gut churned and churned. 

And Dream blended right in. Right into the desolation. Slumped back, dull eyes that wouldn’t meet his gaze, skin bleached colorless. His lip trembled so finely that George only noticed it as he studied his face. 

Dream’s eyes flickered up. They retreated back to the table quickly. His throat bobbed, but his voice was steady and emotionless as he spoke. “Every farmer is raised on horror stories of it. It’s a disease. Completely unstoppable, too quick to cure. By the time you notice the symptoms, it’s already too late.” He waved a hand through the air. “Entire fields, gone. Just like that.”

Just like that.

George was quiet. What could he say? 

He turned back to face the window. He looked out, looked at their dead fields, at the ravaged lines of brown cane, at the yellow trees. The fields were empty, with not a farmer in sight. Everyone was shielded away in their homes, mourning. The entire world colorless. Brown as far as the eye could see. 

It was spring. It should have been a time of growth. A hopeful time. 

“Can you replant?” George’s voice was weak. 

“No. Not for a month or so, until the Wilt has cleared out of the soil.”

“Will you be able to harvest in the fall?” George’s voice was thin, lined with shallow hope. Thick, soupy dread sloshed in the pit of his stomach, clogging his veins with tar. His stomach twisted and twisted, wringing itself out like a kitchen rag. His heart was beating like a jackrabbit.

Dream didn’t move. His shoulders were lined with tension, fingers clenched into fists. 

“No.”

George already knew that. Perhaps it was cruel to ask. It took more than a year for sugarcane to fully mature. Long past the fall, long past any time Dream could sell it. Long past any time Dream could make a profit.

“What does that mean?” 

George already knew the answer. And it was cruel to ask. But he clung onto the very last strand of hope. Tightened his grip, clenched his jaw, and prayed for some greater god to perform a miracle, to grant his human some kindness.

“Means I don’t make any money this year.”

But there was no such thing as gods.

George almost asked What does this mean? again. He bit it back at the last second. He couldn’t ask it. He knew the answer already.

It meant that for the next year, until the sugarcane grows and until the next harvest, Dream was going to live off of what he had saved. And George knew that that was barely anything. Just crusts and scraps. Farming sugarcane in drop-dead nowhere wasn’t exactly the most lucrative business. If there was been any money left over after food and piano lessons, it was saved away, which was another way to say they had nothing saved at all. 

Dream valued a simple life. Farming had been enough for them. Money had never been a huge issue. George had had to take up his own section of field so they had enough to go around, but it was never a problem. He’d rather work along Dream than sit in an empty house and wait for him to come home every day. They never had a reason to worry about having, or rather lacking, the insurance of spare cash.

But now they did. Because there were no such things as gods.

“I’ve done the math,” Dream rasped. “If I sell everything in this house, and if I live off bread and water for the next few months, I might make it to next fall.” He looked up in a sudden panic, eyes glazed and voice breaking. “And that’s not even considering you! I—With you, it’s—” He cut himself off, hands curling into fists.

The floor was falling away from George’s feet. His head had detached from his body and was floating around somewhere near the ceiling. This wasn’t fair. This could have happened to anyone, anyone else in the whole world, and it happened to Dream. It was such an unexpected wound, a blow from the dark, a blow from a place they never had to look out for before. Because farming was safe. Farming was consistent, boring. Things like this didn’t happen. Things like this didn’t happen to people like Dream. This shouldn’t be happening. George should have prevented this. Dream should have never had to carry this weight. This wasn’t fair.

Dream looked up at George, his honey eyes bottomless. Aching with grief. Unspeakable, undoing, all-consuming grief.

“I have to sell the piano.”

And then everything collided together. Everything went cold and sharp. And George’s head exploded with noise. White, prickly panic. A roar of blood rushed into his ears like a flash flood. George burst into motion, rushing forward until he was in front of Dream, a hand gripping his shoulder.

“No.”

Dream looked away, his nose red, lip shaking now, tears spilling down his cheeks. George didn’t notice when he started crying. Everything went far away and much too close. This shouldn’t be happening.

“George—”

“No, no. You can’t sell that piano.” This couldn’t happen. Not to Dream. To anyone but him. George would figure something out. He would be clever, and he would make a plan and he would fix everything and Dream would be happy and never be sad and never hurt. George was shaking. His adrenaline had spiked so suddenly that his vision went blurry in the edges, that his muscles were clenched and weak and his heart was pumping like it never had before.

“I have no choice,” the human whimpered, eyelashes wet. He looked small. Like a lost child. Years of being big and brave and sure were stripped away in a second.

“No! I don’t care! I’m not letting you sell it.”

“We’ll starve if I don’t.”

“I don’t care. We’ll figure something out. There’s always another choice. I’ll leave, for the next few months—”

“Even if it’s just me, I have too. That piano can’t feed you. I’ll have to figure something else out.”

Dream looked at George. Cruel and broken at the same time. A look that told George that this was the last resort. A look that told George if there was another option, he would have thought of it by now. He looked small.

George reeled back like he had been struck. His ribs were tightening around his lungs and heart, clenching and pushing.

“No, no. Dream, you can’t, ” George pleaded. 

“We’ll starve,” Dream repeated, voice thin and aching. “I’m serious. I have two months worth of food saved. We have to stretch it to 16. That piano can feed me for months.”

“But— But—” George exploded, blindly groping for the words that could properly package the bite in his chest. “There had to be another option. We can ask another villager—”

“Who? Everyone lost everything. It wasn’t just my fields that died.”

“We’ll ration the food—”

“We’ll be dead by summer if we try.”

“I’ll find something. I’ll go to town, and… and… There are places to get food… We, we can—”

“Do you have money?”

George had riches at some point. Centuries ago, George ate grapes and mangos, slept on silk, and lived in a house the size of a mountain. He had gotten bored and fell asleep covered in gold. The rest of the money had slipped away when he awoke, and he never thought of it again. 

“I… I can go and talk to someone—”

Dream scoffed, his head turning away from George, tears stinging his eyes. 

“We can do something. I’ll fix it.” 

“Do you have money?”

“I-I… There are other things— Let’s go down and talk to the bank. We can reason with them. We’ll take out a loan.

“No, George.” Dream shook his head, and shrugged George’s hand off his shoulder. He turned further away from George. “I take out a loan and it’s over. I’ll be paying that back for the next 20 years.”

“Then let’s—”

“There’s nothing we can do!”

“But I can’t just let you sell it!”

“There’s no choice, George. It’s over.”

“But… but it’s your piano.”

“What do you want me to say?”

George paused. His heart sank. He reached for something to say, groped for an idea to come to mind, anything that would save them, that would spare Dream. But he turned up blank, and his mouth filled with ash. And then it settled into his bones like a sun silently breaking the horizon after a war was won. Final, heavy, and ruthless. 

They had no choice. Because nothing was ever really fair. 

It was a heavy, quiet realization. George numbly reached for the chair at the table he had eaten dinner at every night for almost three years. He sat down, the weight of a boulder on his shoulders. 

He felt cold. His head was far away from his body. His breath rattled in his chest.

They were going to have to sell the piano to be able to eat. Nothing was ever fair. Dream didn’t deserve this. 

And then George realized that Dream had started to grieve the loss of his piano alone. That Dream had to write out all the numbers, do all the math, and come to the conclusion alone. He was bearing the weight alone. A pain pierced through George’s gut, so sharp and sudden it was physical, at the thought of Dream suffering quietly and alone. The whole point of it was that both of them wouldn’t ever be alone again. Wasn’t that the point of love? 

“I should have been there. When you made that decision.”

Dream looked surprised. It faded after a heartbeat. Replaced with indescribable grief. 

“Yeah. You should have.”

It was too much for one conversation. It was all too much. Too big and too heavy. Dream walked away. George let him go. He was weighed down to the chair. He sat in silence and tried to remember which way was up.

Despite Dream’s dull protests, George went to the bank. He talked with a man there for three hours, reasoning all he could. But George didn’t have a last name he remembered, and the man couldn’t match him to any accounts, despite George’s pleading. The man asked him to leave as the sun started to set.

The movers came two days later.

George had met them in town. Given Dream the last stretch of time with his piano. He walked to the farm as slowly as he could bear. He asked them to wait outside and slipped into the house. The room was dark, despite the sun glaring outside. Dream was sitting silently on the piano stool, his hands in his lap, head low. It was as quiet as death.

George turned to the piano. To the weathered, rich wood. To the milky, waxy keys. He turned to Dream, watching his face blur as tears filled his eyes.

“Can you play me something?” George asked. His voice wobbled and cracked. Tears rolled down Dream’s face. Dream nodded.

Dream’s hands lifted onto the keys. He played Debussy’s Arabesque No. 2. He played it badly. His fingers were shaking, clipping the edges of other keys, sliding off the right ones, misjudging the jumps, his hands too weak to press the louder notes properly. He stopped halfway. He tried again with Mozart’s Sonata No. 4. He couldn’t make it past the first movement. He wept, and George wrapped his arms around him from behind, Dream’s back pressed to his stomach, his nose buried in Dream’s hair, and wept with him. 

The three men with broad shoulders and greasy shirts walked into their house and took the piano away. 

The house was quiet after that.

Spring passed in a blur. They sold everything in the house. They sold their clothes and shoes, their silverware, and their books. They sold the rug and the flax, overstuffed couch that used to sit on top of the rug. They sold their jewelry and their dresser and watered down their soap to make it last longer. 

George got a trashy publishing job in the town. The pay was awful, but enough to cover food for him. It was an hour walk into town, which he made twice a day. He wore through his shoes in less than a month. They couldn’t afford another pair, so he tied them with string, stuffed leaves through the holes, and made sure Dream never saw them. Dream took over care of his field while he was away. They were both working twice as hard as they used to, both working thirteen hour days with no food.

They bought seeds and replanted. They worked, they ignored their hunger, ignored the feel of their filthy clothes on their back. They filled their heaving bellies with water, nibbling on tough bits of bread instead of lunch. George watched Dream get thinner and duller, and he cursed his own needs as he watched Dream split their food between them. George tried to give Dream as much food as he could, and when the human refused, George figured out ways to sneak it in. 

George was dizzy when he stood up, he had no energy to work, but he mustered it from somewhere and kept plowing through. He lay awake at night and writhed from the pain in his belly, harsh tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he twisted on the mats on the floor, as they had sold their mattresses and blankets. He groped for relief in sleep, but when it came, it was short, fitful, and he always seemed to wake hungrier and dizzier in the morning. He chewed on grass and drank water until his stomach sloshed with it to ease the pain and kept working. He gave Dream most of his food. George had lived far too long, he had dealt with worse pain than this.

They didn’t talk to each other. They didn’t look at each other. Dream didn’t smile as much. Laughing was hard when your house was quiet and your stomach empty. George tried, though. He tried really hard, cracking jokes at any possible thing he could, making quips at the mundane, trying to simulate any sort of reaction out of Dream. Maybe it was the hunger that dulled the human. But maybe it was something else. 

Summer was better than spring. They adjusted to the hunger, which had faded to a dull, ever-present ache. Dream no longer looked at George like he might flint away at the drop of a hat. Things didn’t get better, but they didn’t get worse. They were stuck as they were. Stuck in limbo.

Their lives were slower, grayer. They still didn’t laugh, though George was starting to suspect, with a horrible, creeping feeling of dread, that the piano and the hunger weren’t the sole reason for it. Sometimes, when Dream seemed to forget himself, he did laugh at George’s jokes. He let George drag him into a conversation, and they burned through hours as they used to when they were 21 and everything was new. But always, always, at some point, Dream’s face would cool, and his shoulders stiffened and his eyes hardened and he closed up like a clam, a wall rising to separate him from George.

George didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand why, seemingly, Dream refused to let himself be happy with George. Dream refused to let George talk to him properly. Why he closed himself off, responded to questions with one-word answers, didn’t make jokes, didn’t laugh at George’s bad ones, didn’t let their conversations play out. George didn’t understand why Dream was shutting him out. 

He didn’t want to address it at first. He reasoned that it was simply an adjustment, that George was away for so long that it was going to take some time to settle back into what they had. But they made no progress, and every day seemed to be worse than the last. Dream closed off more and more. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t even talk. 

And George couldn’t take it. Over a silent dinner, he snapped.

“What’s going on with you?” 

Dream’s head lifted slowly, the hand that gripped his fork stilling. His plaster-like expression shifted as he locked his jaw.

“About what?” His voice was silted, a painful attempt at brushing George off.

George felt a flare of fury burst in his chest, but it quickly hardened to frustration. He took a breath, setting his fork down and pushing his plate aside.

“You’re pushing me away.” It was less an accusation and more a statement.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dream voice was decidedly blank and stiff, the words thick. George’s anger returned, burning in his chest. He swallowed it down, making sure his voice was as steady and non-confrontational as possible.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” he enunciated through his clenched jaw. “You’re not letting me get close. You’re holding me at an arms-length. You cut off every conversation, you answer every question with one word. We don’t spend time together, we just circle each other. You—”

“I’m going through something.” Dream cut him off, voice heavy and expression stormy. A scowl was starting to paint his features. He adjusted his death grip on the fork. “Are you seriously complaining that I’m not as happy as I was?”

“No,” George sighed, rubbing his eye, “no, of course not. Your happiness level isn’t the problem.”

“That what is?”

“You’re pushing me away. I understand if you’re struggling, and I want to help. I want to help so bad. I want to be there for you, but you’re not letting me.”

Dream stammered, opening his mouth to say something, but halting, closing his mouth, then trying again in a soft, more dismissive tone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dream,” George sighed, feeling the skin between his eyebrows crinkling. “Don’t do this. Can’t we talk?”

“No, because I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dream forced out between grinded teeth. The farmer’s hands had tightened to fists. George felt another wave of frustration sweep through him, clenching his chest. He sighed, opening to mouth to speak, but before the words could form, Dream leapt to his feet. His body hit the table, causing all the plates and cutlery to jump, clattering harshly against each other. George barely suppressed his flinch, blinking and tilting his head back to watch the careful, expressionless mask melt off of Dream’s face.

Dream was the very definition of mild-mannered. He was sweet, sensitive, and hopelessly kind. George didn’t think he had ever seen the farmer angry.

A snarl curled Dream’s lip, it lifting upwards slightly to reveal the dark glint of teeth beneath. His nostrils were flared like a rhinoceros, puffing out sharp, staccato breaths, and the bridge of his nose was clustered into precise lines. His gentle freckles folded into each other as wrinkles spilled across the plains of his face, his skin twisting itself into a caricature of fury. Harsh lines had jumped out in his forehead, and the ropes of his neck bulged outwards. His strong jaw was clenched, protruding outwards as his teeth ground together as if preparing for the opportunity to snap. His lips were stretched thin as his jaw worked. 

George silently rose to his feet. 

“Dream,” he exhaled, voice breathy and weak, no strength backing the word. It was a plea. “Dream, please. Let’s talk.” 

The word met silence, Dream fuming silently at them, his glare fiery. Desperate, George begged, “Please. I love you.”

Dream visibly stiffened at those words. He froze, blinked, then seemed to grow taller, his expression darkening, shoulders rising, hands balled into fists so tight, his knuckles were turning white.

When Dream spoke, it was icy, deadly.

“What do you want me to say to that?”

George recoiled, stammering. Dream barreled onwards.

“What do you want me to say that?!” he repeated, taking slow steps around the table, stalking towards George. “We’re never going to be like before.”

“Dream—”

“Is that what you want to hear?!”

“Why not?” George pleaded, keeping his voice as gentle as he could in the hope that Dream would soften his face to match. It didn’t work, and Dream’s face seemed to grow even darker, even more closed off. Panic started to seep into George as he watched Dream slowly disappear, leaving a shadow behind. “I understand that I might have, have—”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“So help me understand!” George seized forward. “Make me understand. Talk to me.”

His words hung in the fragile quiet for a second before Dream blinked, slowly shaking his head, starting to turn away.

“Why not?” George begged, scrambling the distance between them to grab Dream’s hand. His skin was warm against George’s, his hand big and dry and as gentle as George remembered.

The farmer abruptly looked down at their intertwined hands. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. The dark look on his face started to slip. Something lonely peeked out. The knot between his eyebrows untangled, leaving smooth skin behind. George blinked, leaning an inch closer, mouth parting in question, though no words left his tongue. 

“Because…” he started, the sentence fizzling to silence. George stayed quiet, prompting Dream to continue.

George’s stomach swooped in horror when he realized that tears were filling Dream’s eyes. The last traces of anger fell away as quickly as they had come. The human was always an easy crier, but it had never been so apparent as in the last few months. 

“Dream,” George breathed, stepping closer so he was directly in front of him, his grip on the human’s hands sliding up so he was grasping the farmer’s wrist. Dream looked to the side, his eyes batting rapidly, sniffling. George’s other hand reached up, initially to rest on Dream’s cheek, but he chickened out at the last second, and let it drop on the human’s shoulder. “Dream. Please, talk to me.”

Wryly, George realized that this is what Olivia must have gone through during his months at the camp. The pleading, the gentle, incessant nudges, the frustration turned sour with worry.  

Dream sniffed, shaking his head slightly, his gaze crawling from the wall to the floor in front of him.

“It was humiliating.” Dream’s voice cracked. He was blinking back tears. His hands had curled into fists, his shoulders squared upwards, every muscle rigid with tension. He looked small. “The night you left. What happened. That was absolutely humiliating.”

George flinched like he had been struck. Thick, hot shame crawled into his mouth, searing every inch of his skin, crawling up to his neck. The hand that rested hotly on Dream’s shoulder dropped. He tried to swallow, but the stone that was lodged in his throat blocked him.

His gut twisted, and his heart beat at a fast, anxious pace. George suddenly felt bare, uncertain. Something in his stomach uncoiled. Some of the smoke lifted, and suddenly things were clear.

Oh.

Before George could suffer over the words more, Dream continued.

“I should be angry,” Dream gasped, shaking his head as if discovering something. His eyes were gleaming with unshed tears. All remaining tension unfurled, draining out of him. He looked fragile, vulnerable. His voice was mournful. 

“I should be angry at you.” His wandering eyes finally met George’s. “I should scream and pound my fists and slam doors. But I’m not angry. I just feel this… hollowness. This sense of inevitability. Because you’re going to leave again. Of course you are.”

George lifted his head, taking a half step forward. He opened his mouth, but Dream continued, his voice soft enough that George could have easily talked over it, cracking every other word.

“You’re going to get scared, or bored, or you’re gonna panic again, and then you’re gonna be sprinting out that door.” A tear slid down his cheek. His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I’m going to be alone again.”

George should say something. He should protest, say something perfect to fix everything, but panic and mortification and hot, hot shame sat on his tongue, weighing it down, freezing him in place. He felt dumb, stuck in place, completely see-through.

He tilted his head up to meet Dream’s gaze. True to his word, there was no anger on his face, not resentment. Just grief. Love turned poisonous.

“We were together for years, George.” Dream’s voice grew desperate. “We lived together, we worked together, we spent all our time together for years. And it took one week for you to leave. One. It took one week, one conversation. And you were gone.”

Dream’s eyes shone. The honey-hazel color had grown duller, lost some of its warmth. George felt far away from his body.

“I’m not angry. I’m just sad. Because I don’t know if I can ever fully trust you again. All those I love you s and all those sweet moments. I’ll enjoy them. Because a little part of me is whispering that it’s going to end. That you’re going to leave. And that I should savor the good days while they last. It’s a savage thought. And I should be so angry.”

Dream’s words were shaky, but there was a hardness behind them, bleeding through into the syllables.

George reached a hand, feeling for the back of his chair. He sat down, shoulders heavy with the words, his tongue tied and useless in his mouth. He clasped his hands together in his lap. He felt his eyes fill with tears.

They sat in silence for a while, George soaking up the words, pulling out all the meaning, committing them to memory. Dream shuffled in place, shifting his weight from one foot to another. His hands fiddled with each other, and he sniffled occasionally. 

After a while, Dream continued, voice raw and the strength that bolstered his previous words gone, leaving something delicate and vulnerable behind.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever really loved. You make me feel so special, so big. You mean so much to me, and you’re… you. So, obviously, it’s not as reciprocated. There’s this voice in my head whispering that I love you too much. And that I need to back off. Because this doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to me. And by throwing every bit of myself into this again, I’m just going to get my heart broken. Again.”

George lifted his head in horror, a sense of helplessness and desperation sweeping him. He needed to say something to make Dream realize how untrue every he just said was. He wished Dream could feel the care and passion that nestled deep in George’s chest. Dream pushed onward.

“I've never had anything like you. Never. So when you snatched it away, it… Of course I'm not readily baring my neck for you to slash open again—”

“Dream.” George finally figured out how to use his mouth, and he rushed through the words. They came out choppy, brimming with desperation. “Dream, no. I’m, I’m…” 

“What?” Dream brokenly snarled, his face twisted, filled with more grief than hostility. “You’re going to move into my house and pretend it never happened? Pretend those few months weren’t a thing? That you didn’t leave? Because I look at you, and all I see is an empty bed, an empty chair, an unweeded field, eating dinner alone. I look at you, and all I see is the empty place you left behind.”

There wasn’t much George could say to that. They both were quiet for a beat, George bowing his head, trying to wrap his mind around the enormity of the statement.

“I hear you,” he whispered. “I hear what you’re saying.”

George climbed to his feet, stumbling close to the human.

“I betrayed your trust,” George acknowledged. His shoulders were squared, filled with muscle and strength, immoveable. He stood tall, steeled with a deep determination, saturated in every inch of him, down to his bones. Distantly, he noted that his chest was heaving, that peering up into Dream’s eyes, the human must see the wild desperation on his face. “And I’m going to earn it back. I’m going to stay and earn it all back.” He enunciated each word carefully, pouring as much conviction into each syllable as he could. “I don’t care if it’s not like before. I don’t need perfection. I just want you.”

Dream recoiled backward and started to shake his head. George marched even closer, so their chests were practically brushing, shoving his face into the human’s. He forced the human to meet his gaze, to look at the grim determination in his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Dream. I’m sorry for leaving. I was scared. That’s not an excuse. I hope you understand. I was scared because I care about you. I care about you so much.” 

George paused, taking a breath and licking his lips, searching for the words.

“I’ve been alive for so long. I’ve done everything you can imagine. I’ve fallen in love a thousand times. And you make it feel brand new.”

Dream’s lips parted. The skin around his eyes tightened. His shoulders fell as the tension drained out of him. Something gentle started to creep onto his face, as if he were daring to let himself hope. George prayed he was.

“I love you. I’m going to fix this.”

For the first time in a million billion years, everything felt clear.

George would stay. He would love Dream. The rest would follow.

He reached up his hands, cupping Dream’s face with tentative palms. He tilted the taller man’s head forward, so their foreheads rested against each other. Dream’s eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing unsteady. George felt a sense of awe descend upon him, marveling at the feel of Dream’s skin against his hands, at how delicate and gentle the human was. His thumb rubbed mellow circles into his skin.

“You have to believe me,” George whispered, their breath mingling. “You have to believe me when I say I love you. I love you so much. I know I ruined what we had, I know I fractured your trust. But, Dream, I’m going to stay. I’m going to earn everything back.”

Any last bit of a brave face that Dream put on was melting off. Deep wrinkles had creased his forehead, his nostrils flaring, water collecting in his eyelashes, his trembling lips pulled down in a deep frown as he fought against sobs. 

“George,” Dream breathed. Conflict was apparent in his ridged muscles. It seemed that part of him wanted to push George away and break out of the embrace, and the other part wanted to pull him impossibly closer and never let go. His eyes fluttered open, letting George drink in the gentle hazel color. “Say you’re telling the truth. Promise it. You can’t play with me—”

“No, no. I would never,” George pleaded. “Everything I’ve said I mean, I promise.”

Dream’s face contorted, split with childish hope and piercing agony. He lifted his head so their foreheads no longer touched, though neither of them stepped apart. Dream looked to the side, eyelashes fluttering. “I— I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” George soothed, letting his hands slide down from Dream’s face to his shoulders, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to say anything, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll prove everything I said to you.”

Dream’s face broke. He inhaled and was cut off with a loud sob. George plowed forward, wrapping the human into an encompassing hug. To his relief, Dream squeezed back after a second, burying his face into George’s neck. 

“You’re the centerpiece,” George whispered into the human’s skin. “You’ve always been the centerpiece. It’s always been you.”

The words were full of weight. They landed lightly.

Chapter Text

Things didn’t fix themselves immediately. They were still hungry, their sugarcane still not ready to harvest, they didn’t laugh very loud. They were still healing. But things started to get better.

They talked more. Dream start to smile at his jokes, start to continue conversations, started to tell jokes of his own. Things started to thaw between them.

Nothing else really changed. Despite their conversation being so big, life carried on as normal. Half of George was expecting some external to also drastically change, to reflect what happened with them, but, obviously, nothing happened. They still ate dinner, still went to bed, still spent most of their at the farms, working. The life had slowly began to bleed back into their fields and the forest around them. Smears of green peeked from underneath brown leaves. The oldest, toughest trees started to unfurl soft, green leaves again, the last of the dead leaves dropping off in the wind. The youngest, weaker trees started to crash to the floor, and fungi greedily worked at the dead wood, melting the trunks into the forest floor. Life sprang in its place. The sugarcane was a few weeks old, tiny, watery stalks reaching shy stalks up to the sky. 

Heavy summer rains had unleashed their fury on them for the last week, and the villagers had spent most of their free time patching the million holes in their roofs that appeared. Dream and George had crawled onto their roof and flattened wide, waxy banana leaves onto their roof, cementing it there with handfuls of wet mud and clay. The ivy that swarmed the entire left side of the house turned out to be useful, blocking out the worst of the rain.

George woke up on a wet Sunday morning to the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. He wandered in still wearing his sleepwear, a shirt stolen from Dream, wrinkled and hanging over his frame, his hair an impressive mess on his hair, his breath reeking and face unwashed. Dream was crouched on the ground, a hand on the floor to stable himself, the other one wiping at their oak floorboards with a sponge.

“Mm, what’s happening?” he asked blearily. 

Dream looked up, pausing. “The ants are back.”

“No! What? I thought we got rid of them.”

“Well, they’re back, because someone leaves crumbs everywhere and dirty dishes in the sink, so for some reason, the ants keep finding food.”

George gasped as he rooted around for a towel, wetting it and starting to wipe at the counters, speckled with crawling black dots. “Are you actually trying to accuse me? The—”

“I’m not accusing, I’m stating—”

“The dishes are literally you!” George flicked at ant with a finger to where Dream was, wiping at the black trail on the ground.

“You’re literally lying—”

“You’re delusional—”

“You take forever to do them—”

“And you never do them!”

They bickered back and forth, voices light and easy, smacking at the clumps of ants that dotted their counters. George took out the trash and Dream swept through the kitchen, making sure there were no leftover crumbs. George complained about how he always did the dishes, and Dream complained about how much George complained. They split an apple for breakfast and headed for the fields afterwords, losing themselves in mindless work.

That night, they ate a meager dinner and discussed a poet they had both read, George liked her and Dream hated her, and played card games on on the dining room table. As the night weathered on, and they grew more tired, they switched to a sleepy game of solitaire, both their chairs squeezed on one side of the table, their arms pressed together, quietly playing the game. 

“I think we’re stuck,” Dream eventually murmured after a silent few minutes staring at the cards, searching for a way forward.

George chuckled softly, turning his head to admire Dream’s face. “Yeah, I think we are.”

“It’s hard being dumb sometimes.”

“Stop,” George grinned, moving his head to press his cheek against Dream’s shoulder, the skin warm through the thin shirt. “You’re not dumb.”

“Oh?” Dream grinned. “Then what am I?”

“Well, you’re a genius, duh. The mind of our generation.”

Dream leaned back, smug. “I like that.”

“Yeah?”

“But I think you mean the mind of all history. The greatest mind to ever exist.”

“Well, of course.” George’s voice was serious.

“Of course.” Dream nodded with equal sobriety, eyebrows lowered and expression schooled.

“Hey, Dream?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Alright.”

“I like you.”

Dream gasped softly. “Are you confessing your undying love for me right now?”

“And what if I was?” George tilted his head so he was looking at the human through his eyelashes.

“Then we’d passionately kiss.”

“Can we do the sex too?”

Dream laughed at that, warm and rumbling. He wrapped a heavy, grounding arm around George’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “Yeah, we can do the sex.”

They spent a few minutes like that, snuggled together, half-paying attention to their doomed solitaire game as the night crept on. Crickets started to call to each other from the woods, and the stars started to twinkle against the deep blue sky. They still had a window cracked, and the muggy summer air started to cool, though it was still thick and hot. The last remnants of daylight disappeared from the horizon. The night was quiet and gentle.

George was filled with the urge to say something romantic. Something close to a confession, how Dream was special. Something artistic, like no one has ever known me like you do. With a twinge of bittersweetness, George realized he couldn’t. At least, not truthfully.

The reality was George was old. Very, very old. He had run out of firsts centuries ago. He had fallen in love thousands of time. He had loved fiercely, tragically. He had loved humans, he had loved other gods. He still remembered past lovers, bursts of passion, snatches of peace and domesticity. The reality was, Dream wasn’t the first at anything. He didn’t have anything unique. That wasn’t an insult. George was at the point where no one had anything unique. Humans were societal creatures. They mimicked each other, they favored the same traits. That didn’t mean George didn’t love Dream with every scrap of himself, it didn’t diminish the enormity of his love. It was just a fact. It wasn’t anything bad. 

The catchy, passionate quips were the privilege of kids, teenagers. Young people, who didn’t know what it meant to be alive yet. 

So, George tucked his head deeper into the crook of Dream’s neck, and he whispered, “I love you.”

He felt Dream still. The crickets sang on. The night was windless, the world impossibly motionless. Their candle flickered, swaying in the slight breezes they couldn’t feel.

“How much do you love me?” It was partly a joke, partly a challenge, a dare.

George thought for a bit. 

He rolled his head to flash Dream a cheeky smile, through his words were ladened with raw honesty.

“Like music loves silence.”

The words were full, impactful. Dream sat up straighter and drew his arm away from George, letting it drop next to his body. He felt colder without it’s weight. George sat up, studying the human’s face. He looked young, vulnerable. 

“Dream?”

The human refused to meet his gaze, keeping his eyes stuck to the cards in front of them. 

“I’ve never had anyone like you, George.”

George swallowed, sitting up straighter. Dream didn’t seem like a particularly naive person, and so, sometimes, George forgot his youth, his inexperience with most things. Growing up in such an isolated place didn’t help.

Dream took his time with the words, speaking them clearly and slowly. “You mean so much to me. You could hurt me so easily. You already have. It’s so scary.”

He took a breath, his hands fiddling in his lap. Dream snatched a second-long glance over to George, his eyes wide. George leaned in, coaxing the human forward.

Dream was nervous, his hands gripping each other, his leg bouncing, eyes avoiding his. George reached out a hand, putting it on Dream’s knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. It seemed to steady Dream, and he continued. His voice was shaky, but determined.

 “I’ve… I’ve been alone my entire life.” He glanced at George again, catching his eye for a second before looking away. His face was hesitant. “I’m a simple man. I tend my farm, I play my piano. I’m happy with this life. I don’t want anything else.”

The human licked his lip, swallowing, taking another slow breath.

“But I was lonely. For a long time. The other two kids my age were closer with each other. My parents were never around. After my grandfather’s passing, I was really alone. Empty house. No one listening to my playing.”

George took it in stride, struggling to keep his face calm.

He cleared his throat, already wincing. “Are your parents…”

“Dead?” Dream asked nonchalantly. “No. Maybe it would be sweeter if they were. They never wanted a kid, didn’t have money to spare for an abortion. They had dreams to get to, so they dropped me off with Grandpa and pranced off into the woods.”

George sighed. “Dream, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t, it’s okay.” Dream cracked a small, bittersweet smile. “I’ve never met them. I don’t really want to. Despite raising myself, I think I turned out okay.” He cracked a dry smile. “Aside from not being able to cook. The point is… I knew that I was going to be a little bit lonely for the rest of my life. I knew my life would be small.”

He turned and finally met George’s gaze.

“And then you came along. And you make me feel big and brave and important. And now everything is different. You’re… brilliant. With you, I feel infinite.”

George turned his body so he fully faced Dream. He placed his other hand on the table, halfway between them.

“I make you feel big?”

Dream blinked, studying the wood table in front of him. “Yeah. You make me feel real.”

“That’s a bit funny,” George started, suddenly struggling to speak through the stone lodged in his chest. “That’s a bit funny, because you make me feel small.”

Dream looked up, a question on his lips.

“No, no,” George pushed forward, “that’s not a bad thing. Making me feel small. That’s a good thing.”

The human studied him for a beat, before asking, “What do you mean?”

George thought for a moment, turning everything over in his head. When he spoke, his voice was heavy and lumbering, grinding under a crushing weight. “I’ve spent my entire life in crowded rooms.”

His heart was pumping. He felt naked.

“Being a god… everyone knowing my name. Being important. It was so exhausting. I’m exhausted. I’m so exhausted.” George’s voice broke with the last word.

“I’ve tried to do other things. The last few centuries, I’ve spent fighting. I spent the time before that painting. And before that, I was a badminton player. I tried anything. I’ve tried everything. I’m still tired. I’m still important.”

Dream was quiet, his eyes big. His long fingers were still curled in his lap. George’s chair was swaying under him. His palm that rested on the table started to sweat.

“I’m so tired. And with you… it… I’m not sure how to put it into words. It’s peaceful. I’m still tired, but it’s, it’s a restful kind of tired. It’s gentle, satisfied. It’s happy.”

A droplet of water splattered onto George’s hand. He looked up at the leak in the roof, another water drop falling onto the table. He glanced outside to see rain falling lightly to the earth, illuminated by the light from inside. Dream followed his gaze. Together, they watched the rain fall in silence.

The rain fell, thick and heavy, drenching the earth. The triangular, waxy leaves of ivy that were visible from the window bounced and bobbed with the rain, gleaming with water. Straight, thin streams of water poured from the roof. The drops that leaked through the ceiling and into the house increased as the rain fell harder. The fat gray clouds covered the entire sky, blotting out the moon and stars, and a thick fog had rolled over the valley.

“Something’s different. Something’s different about you,” Dream whispered. George looked away from the window, turning his head to face the human. His hazel eyes were piercing, studying every inch of him, rooting for an answer. “I… I started to suspect something when you came back, but I didn’t want to say anything. I thought I was paranoid. Or we had been apart long enough that being together felt weird. But… something has changed. Right?”

George expected fear, or panic. For his stomach to twist, and his heart to speed up. But nothing happened. He nodded, calm. He felt at ease. Everything felt okay.

“You know me too well,” he grinned.

Dream’s eyebrows furrowed, his lips tugging downwards into a frown.

George turned away, looking at the table in front of him. He swept the cards to their failed solitaire game into a pile, shuffling them and returning them to the little box they stored cards in. He straightened his shirt, ran a hand through his hair. He took a breath. He held it. He released it. Things were going to be okay.

“I did it.”

Dream swallowed. “Did what?”

George met his gaze. His head was buzzing. He was scared. He was sure. 

“I let it go,” the human said.

It took Dream a second to parse the meaning. When he did, his eyes flew open, comically big. He let out a gasp. He grabbed George’s hand, pulling it towards him, squeezing it.

“What?”

George’s smile widened. He nodded.

“George? Are you— what? I mean—” Dream stammered. He stopped, his free hand rubbing at his forehead. “What?”

“Yeah,” George smiled tearily. 

“What?” Dream cried, “No, I mean… So you’re…”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Can, can you… take it back?”

George blinked slowly, his face tightening. “The whole point is that I can’t. This is it.”

Dream searched his face. He was breathing hard. “But, then that means…”

George nodded again.

“You’re gonna die,” Dream finished.

“Yeah.”

“George.” Dream pulled their hands to his head. He bowed his head. “Oh my gods. I… Oh my gods.”

George let a disbelieving giggle slip from his lips. “Yeah, it’s crazy, right?”

Dream gaped at George in a silent answer, eyes bulging and mouth hanging open. George smiled back, giddy, babbling on. “It’s so weird. It’s crazy. It blows my mind. I haven’t really thought about it much.”

“Why… why did you tell me sooner? Oh my gods, we’ve been dealing with my tiny emotional breakdown—”

“Hey, no.” George interrupted, placing a hand on Dream’s shoulder. “It’s not tiny. It’s important. We needed to talk about it. And now you’ve shared your struggles with me, now we’re closer, and I can talk about this.”

Dream peered deep into his eyes, face twisted with emotion. He climbed to his feet, placing his warm palms on either side of George’s face, cradling it closer to him. His thumb swirled a gentle circle into his skin, right on his cheekbones. A strand of sun-bleached hair fell into the farmer’s face as he leaned forward. George reached a hand up and held it against his fingers. “You’re getting split ends,” he whispered.

“Shut up. We’re not talking about that now,” Dream whispered back. George cracked a wide smile. 

“Okay,” he grinned back. 

George should be feeling panic, should feel the weight of his decision, should be processing like Dream was. But he wasn’t. He felt okay. He felt light, sure. Small. Everything felt slow and gentle. He was buoyant with hope, happiness, anticipation for their life. 

George had run out of first centuries ago. Except for one. He had one more left.

“Why?” Dream’s jaw worked. “Why?”

The answer came easy to George. 

“Because I’m ready.” George looked up to meet Dream’s gaze, the human still standing between his legs, his hands warm against his face. 

Dream shook his head, eyes shiny. “Gods, George.”

The human laughed in response. “I know. I know.”

There was a lull. George rubbed a hand over his mouth. A feeling that had spent centuries lurking in his head, waiting to come together, waiting to solidify into words danced onto the tip of his tongue. He was speaking before he could even think about it.

“It’s an irreversible decision. And so for a million billion trillion years, I’ve convinced myself that I shouldn’t. Just in case. Just in case at 70 years old, I realize I want to keep living.” 

George swallowed, looking to the side. “How could I give up the only constant I’ve ever had? My immortality has always been my rock, the only thing that kept me grounded.”

Dream shook his head, mouth opening as he tried to force the words out. “What changed?”

When George spoke, his voice wavered. 

“I found a new rock. And he’s a lot kinder to me.”

They took their time through the conversation. It rose and fell with long lulls of silence between sentences, the two humans picking their way through the remains.

“So no more powers?” They had shifted so Dream wrapped his arms around George's neck, and George was still sitting down, with his head nestled against Dream’s chest.

“No more powers.” George could hear Dream’s heart beat from inside his chest and the faint rush of blood. “Is that a deal-breaker?” he giggled. “Be honest, were you only with me for my very cool and practical superpower?”

“How did you figure it out?”

“I’m just intellectual like that.”

“Wow, George.”

George’s name had been said a million billion times before. He had heard all kinds of people say it, in all kinds of contexts. Hateful, loving, angry, tender, happy, devastated. But the way Dream said it was new. Even when they were just joking around. He said it purposefully. The way he said it was warm, rich, full of weight. He said the syllables with care, shaping his mouth around each letter fully, extracting all the sound he could from it. It felt like fresh-baked bread, riding bikes through summer forest trails, bunches of lavender, napping in the sugarcane fields, watching the sun set on top of an ivy-covered roof.

“You’re special,” George mumbled into Dream’s shirt.

“No,” the farmer sighed. “I don’t think you could have found a more ordinary boy.”

“No. You’re special.”

“You’re dumb.”

“Do you want me to say something generically romantic? Oh baby, you’re my soulmate, you’re the best thing that ever, ever happened—”

“Stop it,” Dream laughed, whacking him on the back of head, light enough that it was barely a pat. “You’re such a idiot.”

The two humans were holding each other, swaying in their kitchen illuminated by firelight, the night dark and rainy outside. 

“You make me feel like the war’s over.” George’s voice was deceivingly nonchalant. Or maybe it was perfectly nonchalant. Maybe all that was left was the way things were. Maybe they didn’t need to complicate their lives with trivial things such as importance. Everything was important. Nothing was important. 

He was awake. Everything was clear and present and he was here. He was alive. He was human. He was going to die. “You make me feel like I can rest. You are the rest. You are my peace, my reward, my epilogue.” George distantly noticed that there were gentle tears rolling down his cheeks. He was tumbling, soaring, free-falling. He was going to be okay.

“It’s done. I’m done. The war’s over. It’s all over. I can sleep. I’m going to grow old and soft and gentle and I’m going to die in the woods with the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met.”

He reached a hand, cupping Dream’s cheek. The human leaned into the touch, his eyes gleaming with tears. When George spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“My epilogue.” 

Dream’s eyes slid shut.

“I think,” the human grinned, young and gentle and in love, “that’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

George laughed. They smiled at each other.

The phrase falling in love was usually only used at the beginning of a relationship, when everything was new and the pair was starting to discover what loving each other meant. Two people meet, they fall in love, then they spend the rest of their lives navigating around it until they die or fall out of love and grow to hate each other.

George disagreed. Over the years, he learned that in a proper relationship, you never stop falling in love. Every day, each morning, you fall in love again. You fall deeper and harder and more completely. You do things together, you spend time together, you discover new things, and you fall in love all over again.

And many, many years down the road, once you’ve learned every groove and crease of the person, once the honeymoon’s through, once you’ve ran out of things to discover, then you fall in love with the old things all over again. It’s a process. It never stops. You don’t fall in love with someone once, and then stay stuck in love. You wake up and choose to love again. 

“So, what’s next?” Dream asked.

“Not sure,” George responded. “We go to bed. We get married. We grow old, die within a week of each other, and get buried next to each other in the forest.”

The wallpaper and the centerpiece.

Dream was quiet, lost in thought, an achingly tender expression decorating his features. After a few seconds of silence, he murmured, “And you do my laundry forever?”

“Ha!” the human barked. “You’re funny.”

George stayed. Years passed. They felt like seconds. 

Time had always acted funny around Dream.

The sugarcane grew, matured, and was ready for harvest. George had taken up a small publishing job at the city that ate up most of his free time, but he promised to quit it once they were comfortably on their feet again. They ate a proper meal for the first time in months together. They sang piano pieces wildly out of key, Dream ghosting the notes on an air keyboard, dancing in the kitchen light, holding each other and stumbling around, shrieking with joy, lighting the entire village up with noise. 

The house filled up. With stuff, with laughter, with food. They bought back all the things they had sold to feed themselves. Dream stopped giving George that mournful look when he thought he wasn’t looking, a look that said he was bracing himself for when George left again. Dream started to relax again. George earned back his forgiveness, his trust. They laughed louder. They made more noise. They were happier. Things were getting better.

Three years and seven months after their sold Dream’s piano, George and Dream walked into town, into a music shop. Dream tried their pianos. Unsatisfied, they walked across town to the other music store. Dream tried the second shop’s pianos. He fell in love with a midnight Steinway, it’s keys rich and milky, it’s sound luxurious. It arrived at their house three days later.

Dream was on a high for weeks. He played for five hours every day for the first two weeks they had the piano. He couldn’t get enough. He relearned all his old pieces, started lessons up again, bought huge collections of sheet music that George knew he was never going to get around to learning. 

George listened to Dream play, wide smile scrawled across both their faces. A few of their neighbors dropped by to listen as well, everyone beaming at the return of their village’s resident musician. George was happy. He was tired, but joyful. He had hope for the future. They were going to be okay. 

They were going to grow old together. Two crazy, small-town farmers that reeked of sugarcane, wrinkled with sun, alienating everyone else with a lifetime of inside jokes.

George was good with daggers and swords. He was good at blocking arrows and parrying blows, good with sweat and bloodstained blades. But he was better at making dinner and doing laundry and falling in love.

A lonely god met a lonely human. They became friends. They will leave no impact when they die.

But maybe that’s not true. 

They will leave no impact on anyone around them, but they laughed loudly in public and they were hopeful. And maybe there’s no legacy grander than being remembered for being happy. Happy despite everything. Maybe there’s something important in two farmers in the middle of drop-dead nowhere growing old together. Maybe that means something. Maybe to love simply, despite all complications, is a feat worthy of being written about.