Chapter Text
The forest seemed eerily quiet.
Dream wasn’t stupid--he knew he was feared. But he didn’t think the wildlife shared that sentiment. Stepping over a fallen log, Dream flinched as the sound of a twig snapping beneath his boot broke the stagnant silence.
Yes, the forest was quiet--too quiet. It was better than the constant drone of bubbling lava within his prison cell, mind you, but there wasn’t much competition in that regard.
The masked man continued on through the woods, a new netherite axe at his side and armor on his back. He felt safer now, more secure than he’d felt in months. He had his control back, his autonomy. It had been difficult to decide what to do first once he’d officially been broken out of prison--terrorizing Tommy had been first on his list, of course, but now he just needed to find a place to stay, to recuperate.
Dream hadn’t really had the chance to properly enjoy his freedom yet. He’d been on edge, hackles raised, ready to attack any intruder who hoped to drag him back to his old hell. However, he was pretty confident he wasn’t being followed, if the silence of the forest was anything to go by.
He slowed to a cautious stop, taking a quick glance at his surroundings. Other than the sound of a distant running stream, there was nothing. No birds, no wild sheep or cattle. Even the leaves of the trees above his head were still.
Pushing aside the cracked remains of his mask, Dream took a deep breath. He exhaled. The sun warmed his freckled skin, washing it in a soft yellow glow that he hadn’t realized until this moment he’d missed, more than almost anything else.
And then, he noticed something odd.
About ten feet from him and half concealed in the mossy dirt of the ground, there was an object. It was white, and partially overgrown with weeds. Dream furrowed his eyebrows, and for no reason other than pure curiosity, he stepped forward to inspect it.
As he pulled the object from the weeds, he felt his blood run cold the moment his brain registered what he was looking at.
Beyond the dirt and foliage that had grown around them, Dream could see that he was holding George’s white and black goggles. The lenses were cracked, and the temples were smudged in dirt and moss, but he could still recognize them.
This was the pair that George didn’t go anywhere without.
And upon that realization, an old memory, one from months prior, suddenly surfaced in his mind.
Sapnap stood against the pouring lava of his cell. He was a shadow against fire, empty and hollow to Dream. A ghost from his past.
“If you can talk to anyone, you can talk to me,” Sapnap had said. He’d pleaded with him, begged him to talk, to open up.
Dream did not. He’d still been angry, and hurt. It was back before he’d taught himself not to care.
And then he’d dared to ask the one question he knew would haunt him.
He scribbled it in a book and handed it over to Sapnap’s waiting hands, and he watched as Sapnap read what he’d written. The fireborn’s eyes furrowed, and then his breathing became shaky, and he swallowed hard as he lowered the book to meet Dream’s eyes.
“Dream. George is….well, he’s….”
Dream stared at him.
“He’s busy,” Sapnap finished in an exhale, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s probably why he hasn’t visited. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
Dream looked at him expectantly, and Sapnap gave him a smile--a small, strained one.
“Yeah, I’ll--I’ll tell him to stop by.”
Dream’s mouth became dry as cotton, the memory making his knees nearly buckle under him. Months had passed, and George had never come. Not once.
The glasses fell to the forest floor with barely a sound, and the next thing Dream knew, he was running, sprinting in the direction he’d found them.
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It was doomsday.
That’s what the citizens of L’Manberg were calling it, anyway. To George, it was simply another Wednesday.
Of course, when he’d begun to hear the explosions coming from L’Manberg, he’d been curious, but not afraid. He usually stayed out of conflict unless it benefited him, and he wasn’t interested in seeing whatever ridiculous squabble Tommy had started up.
He’d been in the middle of renovating his previously damaged mushroom cottage when the explosions began to escalate into screams. Pained, grief stricken screams.
George had never called himself empathetic. He didn’t really call himself anything, but other people's well-being was never really his concern. He wasn’t sure what it was that drove him towards the screams, but regardless, he found himself standing, transfixed at the sight before him when he finally arrived at what remained of L’Manberg.
Bombs fell from the sky, their source seeming to be a large obsidian structure littered with redstone and rigged with explosives. The structure loomed above the city, raining makeshift hellfire down upon its people. George scanned his surroundings frantically, trying to figure out what was going on--trying to figure out who had started it.
And then he saw him.
Standing on the precipice of one of the floating obsidian rows was Dream, and the manic grin on his face told George everything he needed to know. His mask had been pushed aside, undoubtedly in order to take in this moment in its entirety.
George felt sick.
The two of them hadn’t spoken much--not since George’s dethronement. George had been trying to do everything in his power lately to not think about his lost kingship, and that included thinking about Dream himself.
But this?
He was not prepared for this.
He thought Dream hadn’t wanted war. He’d believed Dream dethroned him to keep him safe, to prevent further conflicts from escalating.
But this seemed to imply that all of that was bullshit.
George ground his teeth together, all his repressed resentment resurfacing in one infuriating moment. Over the sound of bombs exploding, people screaming, and Techno’s war hounds snarling, George could hear him laughing. Dream was laughing, leering high above the chaos and bloodshed he’d unleashed.
George stormed forward, directly into the wreckage and rubble, directly beneath the falling explosives. He wanted to scare Dream--to put himself in harm's way as he approached him, to yell at him for being such a war hungry, bloodthirsty idiot who only cared about himself.
Unfortunately, George seemed to still have underlying faith in Dream, because he hadn’t even considered for a second that one of the falling bombs actually posed a threat to him.
Dream would never allow a bomb to fall on him.
Would he?
Before George could take another step, a block of lit TNT landed mere feet from where he stood.
He didn’t have time to run before it was set off, sending him flying into a nearby crumbling wall, his back slamming into what remained of a cottage.
George gasped, the force of the explosion ringing in his ears. He could barely catch his breath, the wind having been completely knocked out of him. The few breaths he was able to drag into his battered lungs were clouded with dust and rubble.
The world was spinning, and George’s limbs felt like they were submerged in hot, aching tar. His cracked glasses hung lopsidedly off his face as he managed to lift his head, his vision barely focusing on the figure of Dream, high above the L’Manberg crater.
He didn’t even notice.
That was the last thought George had before a second bomb went off, and darkness fell.
--------------------------------
Dream’s footsteps thundered against the forest floor, shaking the bushes near him and scaring off any unlucky animals that still happened to be in the man’s vicinity. Panic gripped him, cold and piercing like a vice, and he felt as though he couldn’t think straight.
The way Sapnap had looked at him that day--Dream should have known.
Busy? George wasn’t ever busy, and he definitely wouldn’t have been if he’d known Dream was in fucking prison.
All those months, Dream thought wildly as he ran, looking for any further sign of his best friend, all those months, and I never let myself wonder.
Dream finally fell to the ground, nauseous from running for so long. He felt bile rise in his throat, and he clawed at the dirt beneath him mindlessly as he waited for it to go down, desperate to be back on his feet, desperate to keep going. And then he raised his head.
A little distance away from him, there seemed to be a mound of grass and moss. Mushrooms and flowers tangled together in wild overgrowth, and if Dream looked closely, he thought he could see a figure lying amongst it all.
Dream scrambled to his feet, his mask slipping right off his face as he staggered forwards. He faintly heard the sound of it hitting the grass before he’d stopped dead in his tracks, ice forming in his throat.
Lying in the grass and tangled amongst vines and mushrooms, was a corpse. It seemed to be becoming one with the forest floor, and much of its flesh had been lost to decomposition and time. However, rotted fabric still clung to its skin, and Dream thought he might throw up.
Blue shirt. Blue jeans. Red and white stripe across the chest.
Oh, God.
Oh God.
“George?”
Dream’s voice came out in a hoarse, terrified whisper.
He was met with the sound of a nearby stream, and the distant singing of birds.
Dream dug his hands in his hair, his breaths coming out rapid, and choppy. He fell to his knees, and he pulled, pulled at the roots of his overgrown, tangled hair and felt it ripping. He didn’t care.
This was never supposed to happen.
He knew he couldn’t scream; though it was all he wanted to do. He felt the anguished cries burning at the back of his throat, at the top of his lungs. But he couldn’t scream. They’d find him, track him down, and in this state, he knew he wouldn’t have the strength or will to fight them off.
So, instead of screaming, Dream ripped at his hair. He dug his fingernails into his scarred arms, his wounds from prison that still hadn’t healed, because the sharp physical pain distracted him from this . This momentous grief, this horrible rage that was too big for him to carry.
“George,” he said, just to hear his name. “George. George .”
Confusion, mixed with something that could have been guilt, knotted itself in the pit of Dream’s stomach like a heavy stone, and for the first time in months, or maybe even years, Dream felt as though he could have cried.
And he didn’t, because he was Dream, and even if he had mustered up enough empathy to shed a tear, George was still dead.
Dead.
Wait.
Dream lifted his head, his heart stuttering to a nearstop in his chest.
If George was dead, then that meant Dream could revive him.
Dream nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of the realization, accompanied with the euphoric relief that shuddered through him as a result. With trembling fingers, he snatched his broken mask up off the grass and reattached it to his head. When George was revived--when Dream brought George back to life --he didn’t need to see the hideous scars slashed across Dream’s face.
He didn’t think about how long George must have been gone; he didn’t think about limbo. His mind was focused only on the objective of bringing George back to him.
--------------------------------
In the beginning--though, George no longer remembers--a divine presence materializes beside him, pulling him from the rubble of Doomsday. Tenderly brushing dark hair from his eyes, and promising him in a deafening whisper that he will never hurt you again. The voice is booming, all encompassing, and it holds him like a blanket. He can only close his eyes as God takes him away.
And then--it could have been years later, as time passes strangely when you’re asleep, or dead--George awakens in a flower forest, surrounded by lively blossoms in every color. It does not occur to him that he is able to perceive the colors in all their glory. Reds, yellows, purples, greens and blues, dancing in front of him. He reaches out, and plucks a cornflower from the grass.
Hello, George.
George turns his head, and he feels his stomach drop as his eyes drift upwards along a towering figure. DreamXD watches him carefully, and although George can’t see any face on Him besides His porcelain white mask, he can still tell that the God is looking at him.
“How did I get here?” George asks.
DreamXD doesn’t move, and He doesn’t show any physical indication that He has any sort of mouth, but George hears His voice ringing in his ears regardless.
I carried you.
George looks back down at the cornflower in his hand, the brilliant blue petals nearly making his eyes water. At this moment, George is unaware that he is dead. But as days bleed into years, he will come to find out.
For the first while, George simply wanders around and sleeps for hours at a time, as he always does. DreamXD has recreated the SMP perfectly within his mind, along with everyone in it. The only person he never sees is Dream. George does not find this unusual, and he is never given a breath of time to mourn the loss of his best friend. Everything seems normal.
Gradually, however, things become more chaotic, and nonsensical--as dreams tend to be. George finds himself in the middle of tasks or interactions, only to blink, and find himself elsewhere. People behave uncharacteristically, and speak nonsense. George often wakes up in his bed, always in a new spot in the SMP, despite him never having moved it there. Years pass this way, but George can not quite comprehend this length of time. Not yet.
And then, a day comes when he is having some sort of ridiculous escapade with BadBoyHalo and Nihachu. It is unquestionably odd when Bad holds him captive with a diamond sword to his throat, forcing him to travel to see some sort of magic egg--although in hindsight, George should have realized that such oddities would only ever happen in a dream. Regardless, he follows along with numb curiosity as Nihachu hurries after them, and eventually, DreamXD appears from the sky without a sound, killing Bad and leaving his items scattered across the ground for George to retrieve.
George hesitates to steal the items, mostly because Nihachu has been rambling on about Bad--and thus, the entirety of his inventory--being infected and under the influence of this magic egg, and so he leaves them behind. And mere minutes later, DreamXD reappears to George and Nihachu shortly after their escape.
Now, just to be clear, it isn’t often that George witnesses DreamXD’s anger. Yes, the God has a bit of a temper, but it is never directed towards George. Not until this moment, when George notices that DreamXD’s silhouette has significantly darkened, and His figure towers slightly higher than it typically does.
With more bravery than he ought to feel, George asks in a pitiful sort of whine for more riches and items--he hadn’t wanted to pick up Bad’s things because he’d feared they’d been infected, and he’d subsequently run out of netherite and diamond. And George is used to the God doting on him--giving him anything he could ever ask for, especially when he didn’t ask at all. Now, however, the God only stares at him, anger stirring above them in the clouds.
Why? He asks.
George scoffs, a sharp exhale of dry amusement leaving him. He is irritated, because he isn’t used to being told no--not by DreamXD.
“What do you mean why?”
Why have you asked me for more?
George feels an involuntary chill run up his spine, and he vaguely registers that an icy breeze has begun to pick up around them, despite it being mid-summertime. Now that he thinks of it, it feels as though it has been mid-summertime for years.
He also begins to pick up on the new dark, gravelly edge to DreamXD’s voice. It is beginning to grow louder, loud enough that it echoes around them.
“What happened to your voice?” George asks.
This question angers DreamXD, and George jumps back as a diamond sword materializes in His grasp.
You try to abuse my kindness, George? The deity seethes, beginning to rise to His natural height, cloak lifting off the ground. George stumbles backwards, a primal fear beginning to form in his gut.
I SAVE you, I give you FULL NETHERITE, and then you throw it away, and you DARE to ask me for more?!
George swallows hard, gaze locked onto the empty white void that is DreamXD’s mask. His wings, of which He has eight, are now fully extended behind Him, His rich green cloak swirling in the wind with no identifiable body to hold its shape.
George does not know what to say, but he speaks anyway.
“I…I thought it was…I thought it was fine.”
A shrill, humorless laugh rings out from the angry God, and George flinches as DreamXD cocks His head at an unnatural angle.
Oh, it’s so fine, it’s all fine, everything’s FINE. Is this all just a game to you, George?
George finally lowers his head, unable to look at the deity above him. He stares at the grass, ice in his blood as he shakily mutters a response.
“I…I don’t know if I like this, DreamXD.”
The world around him shifts.
He senses that DreamXD has landed back onto the ground, and the air around him feels warmer, and less oppressive. George stubbornly keeps his gaze locked to the ground, before he feels a hand cupping his chin, and tilting his head up.
He is met with the sight of DreamXD’s mask--no longer a plain white, but now adorning that familiar smiley face that Dream always used to wear. It makes Him feel more familiar--more human. George unconsciously leans into the touch--against his better judgment.
“Okay, George,” God says softly.
And then, He is gone.
George stands alone, shivering slightly. He hears Nihachu approaching him tentatively, and she places a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Are you sure you’re awake right now?” she asks, quiet concern lacing her voice. George feels his heart drop at her words.
“Are you dreaming again?”
Seconds later, George awakens in his bed, miles away from where he was previously standing. And this is precisely when reality begins to peel away from the wall of his mind.
--------------------------------
When Dream performed his previous revival rituals, he remembered feeling a strong, unshakable sense of power. It was as if he, and he alone, held the scythe of Death in his mortal hands, dragging the souls of the deceased through the fields of the afterlife.
And as he stood over George now, recalling the words he needed to speak from the withered pages of the Revive Book, he felt that familiar sense of power again, swelling and crashing over him like a tidal wave. Although, this time, as he dipped his hand in George’s soul, he began to struggle, more so than he had with any other person he’d reanimated before.
You see, this time, Dream felt like he was attempting to drag a body from a murky, muddy river with nothing but a thin, fraying piece of rope to pull with. It was as if there was a powerful force at the other end of George’s soul, holding it captive in the opposite direction. Dream was unnerved by this, and this fear nearly caused the ritual to fall apart. Still, he merely ground his teeth together, dug his feet into the soil below him, and closed his eyes. He focused.
--------------------------------
And all of a sudden, he finds himself in a forest.
It is a different forest than the one he previously stood in. This forest is shrouded by night, and inky white stars shine above his head in heavenly clusters. The trees are gnarled, and monstrous, with thick trunks and branches stretching and curling across the forest floor. Moss and mushrooms grow in unnatural abundance here, and Dream notices the corpses of many animals bound tightly with vines and overgrowth, their hollowed eyes and gaping mouths locked in a permanent state of terror.
Dream gingerly attempts to walk forward, but it’s nearly impossible, as the entire ground is covered with gnarled tree roots, clumps of fungi-covered moss, and god forbid, the cracked skulls of forest creatures. However, he manages to move forward slightly, and continues to survey his environment. The only sound in the woods is the low, background chirping of crickets, although these crickets sound as though they, too, are being crushed and muffled by tree roots. Dream shivers, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, and he begins to feel slightly claustrophobic.
Someone is crying softly in the distance, he then realizes.
It is a quiet sound, but it still stands out, as there are few other sounds to compete with it. Dream goes to pursue the crying noise, keeping his gaze locked on his feet to make sure he doesn’t get his leg twisted in a root or a broken skull.
Minutes pass in a constant struggle to move his body forward, sweat rolling down the back of Dream’s neck as he climbs over increasingly tangled, piled roots and bushes. The animal corpses are becoming more frequent, and more distorted, and the mushrooms around him are starting to grow taller, their colors growing more vibrant and unnatural. They are almost dreamlike in their appearance.
Finally, Dream begins to see a clearing in these horrifying woods, though he wonders if he will even be able to reach it with all the mountains of foliage and roots obstructing his limbs. The crying has become progressively louder, and as Dream finally scrambles on top of a mushroom--a mushroom that is 7 feet tall and much larger than himself--he sees him.
George is hunched over, arms wrapped around his lithe, shaking frame. He is in a small, merciful clearing in this forest of carnival horrors, but Dream quickly realizes the predicament he is in. From where George is, he is trapped within the clearing, as the foliage around him is so gnarled, and so thick in its height and width, that he would have no way to reasonably traverse it. Dream counts himself lucky that he is settled atop it all, looking down upon this forest’s prisoner, but he still knows that if he is unable to drag George from this freakish limbo, he may be equally unable to get out of it himself.
“George?” he says, voice shaking slightly from both exertion and caution. Not fear-- caution. There is little Dream is afraid of now, but this place…it is absolutely visceral, and more haunting than any limbo he has ventured through.
George freezes at the sound of Dream’s voice, his cries silencing abruptly. Enough time passes that Dream thinks he may not have even heard him, but George finally turns his head, and their eyes lock.
And George looks the worst that Dream has ever seen him.
His eyes are gaunt, and heavy dark rings circle below them--as if he hasn’t slept in decades. He wears a tattered red cape--the same one Dream gifted him when he was king--but the cape now has dark, muddy stains ruining the once soft, and luxurious fabric. A ring of red and white spotted mushrooms are scattered around him, as if he is a fae being confined within a fairy’s circle. But above all else, the thing that startles Dream more than anything is the fact that he has tear streaks soaking his cheeks, his lower lip quivering with rare vulnerability.
Dream slowly lowers his mask, in utter disbelief at what he’s seeing. George seems to be in a state of paralyzed shock at the sight of his best friend, but as soon as his face is revealed, this paralysis seems to crumple, and something that could be joy flickers across George’s face.
“Dream?” he utters in a raspy croak.
The world around them splits open with a shrieking wail.
Dream’s hands abruptly fly to either side of his head, clamping over his ears as the shrill, anguished scream fills the air around them. George seems to sense whatever is making the noise, and his eyes drift up behind Dream--only for his expression to fall in terror.
Following George’s gaze, Dream turns.
On the horizon of the gnarled forest, Dream sees a horrific, towering silhouette beginning to manifest into the dark. He knows they don’t have much time--there is an entity that has been holding George here, and it is angry.
“George,” he shouts over the deafening cry, turning back to face him,“Grab my hand!”
He extends his hand down towards the clearing as far as he can reach, mentally urging the reality around them to bend to his will. George seems paralyzed by fear, eyes locked on the figure looming behind Dream.
“I can’t reach you from here,” George utters numbly, eyes unmoving.
“This is limbo, George!” Dream yells, frustration and desperation leaking into his voice as the screaming grows louder, and louder, behind him. “It’s like a dream; it isn't real!”
Finally, George’s eyes snap in his direction, wild and bewildered with fear. Dream reaches further towards him, his fingers outstretched from above like a devout angel.
“You can do anything in a dream, George!”
George stares at Dream’s hand, like it's a poised tarantula waiting to strike. The screaming intensifies. The world bends, and wobbles around them.
Their hands brush.
And then, everything goes quiet.
--------------------------------
George gasped, air being dragged through his lungs like a current ripping through sharp reeds. He felt his body lurching forward against his own volition, his eyes rolling back. He was aware of the hands that grabbed his shoulders with a white-knuckled urgency; the arms that were steadying him so that he didn’t fall forward. However, he didn’t have the mental capacity at the moment to figure out whose arms they belonged to.
Everything felt…raw. Unfiltered. It was like the wool had been pulled from over George’s eyes--like he’d been curled under thick bed covers, and someone had lifted them and exposed him to the frigid air. His body trembled, his skin prickling with every single touch, every sensation. He felt alive.
And then, a voice split through the thick haze of his disassociation like a glass shard. It was coming from somewhere outside his left ear.
“--eorge. George. Can you hear me?!”
Or maybe it was coming from his right.
“George, I need you to look at me.”
George faintly registered a calloused hand gripping the side of his face--turning him to the side, roughly. He then realized that his eyes were open, and that he was staring right into the face of the person that had been haunting his every waking—or rather, sleeping —moment, for as long as he could remember.
“George. Say something, damn it.”
Dream was looking at him with an odd expression, hands still gripping both of his shoulders. His eyes flitted across George’s face erratically, as if he were taking in every detail of him. His expression was one George had never seen on him before. It was the look of someone who had just gone through something terrible, but was trying to pretend it didn’t phase them. His mouth was set in a firm line, but his eyes betrayed the stoic coldness of his features. There was panic there, but also undeniable relief. For a moment, he almost felt concerned.
And then, he caught sight of the familiar mask hanging from the side of Dream’s head, and the crude smiley face painted across it in smokey ink.
He screamed, pushing himself as far back from Dream as he could manage without falling flat on his back. It wasn’t so much a scream as it was a hoarse yell, as his vocal cords for some reason felt like they hadn’t been used in years. Regardless, his flight or fight response was kicking into overdrive at the sight of the mask, of that smile , and the fact that he didn’t quite know why made him even more afraid.
Dream stared at him, looking aghast with confusion, “George--”
“Stay away from me!” George heard himself shriek. His hands scrambled behind him in the dirt to support himself as he scooted back, breath coming in short and ragged. Dream looked completely lost, but still tried to reach out for him.
“George, what the hell are you--”
“Don’t touch me.”
Dream’s hand froze in midair, the two staring at one another. George swallowed, a shiver running up his spine as he caught sight of Dream’s mask again. He looked away.
“Don’t-- don’t touch me, Dream.”
A moment passed, and then another. Dream reluctantly retracted his arm, a familiar cold shutter falling behind his eyes.
“Your hair,” he mumbled. “It’s…it’s all in your eyes now.”
George was confused for a second, until he noticed it. He felt as though his vision was being obstructed, and although he attempted to push whatever was blocking his eyes out of the way, it only took him a few seconds to realize it was hair. His hair. Long enough to conceal his eyes. The brown curls fell in tangled, mossy ringlets over his face, and George was suddenly aware of just how much dirt was around him-- on him.
He looked down at his hands, and saw that they were discolored--pale, with blotches of bruises scattered here and there. His fingernails were long, and yellowed, and dirt resided both on and under them.
“What….” George was unable to find the words to form his question. Dream swallowed, looking away. He then answered George’s question before he could vocalize it.
“You died, George.”
George looked back up at Dream, face blank. They sat like that for a few moments, with nothing but tense silence between them, before George scoffed harshly.
“No, I didn’t.”
Dream let out a pained sigh, dragging a hand down his face.
“Listen, I--I don’t know how it happened. But I found you in the woods. You know, dead, and everything. So, I revived you.”
George was quiet. Very quiet, for a long time. He stared off into space, and Dream was beginning to wonder if he was in some state of shock before he scoffed again, louder this time.
“I think I would remember if I died,” he mumbled.
Dream’s eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a firm line. He took in the sight of George--long, tangled hair with frequent white streaks amongst the brown, bruised and discolored skin, sunken eyes. He gestured towards one of the silver white curls sloping down the side of George's cheek.
“How would you explain that, then?”
George frowned, refocusing his gaze to see the piece of hair in front of him. He gingerly lifted it before his eyes, examining it emotionlessly for a few seconds before dropping it back down.
That was fairly definitive evidence, unfortunately. George never would have dyed his hair white on a whim.
But this begged the question: how the fuck did George die? When did George die? What, had he just been rotting away in the middle of the woods for days before Dream had stumbled across him? And where the hell had he just been? His memories were fuzzy, and fragmented, but he remembered DreamXD, and he remembered fear.
George’s eyes drifted to the side, catching a glimpse of a few flowers by a nearby tree trunk. And his stomach sank when he realized he couldn’t see their colors in full brilliance.
He’d completely forgotten he was color-blind.
Slowly, the true realization of what George had just discovered began to weigh down on him. His breaths became rapid, and more choppy as his mind struggled to comprehend his new reality. He looked back down at his pale, bruised hands--his skin looked like it had been stretched taut across his bones, like it could split and peel back any second. Oh god. He was a walking corpse.
“George,” Dream’s careful voice ripped violently through George’s mind again like an unwarranted scream, “You need to calm down.”
“I’m not not calm,” George hissed in response. He managed to get to his feet, staggering in a limp. It seemed that, in the waking world-- the real world --his legs were bent at awkward angles. He felt an uncomfortable crick in his back, but it was a dull, lifeless type of ache that made him wonder about the rest of his undead body. Pain was now muffled, not piercing and sharp like it was when he was alive. It had become something you could forget about temporarily while you focused on something else.
“You’re going to--” Dream started, reaching out to steady George’s arm, “George , you’ll fall if you--”
“I told you not to touch me.”
Dream exhaled in mild frustration, using his extended hand to instead run through his thick hair, a stress habit. George recognized it, and he hated it.
“George, you’re--this isn’t the end of the world. We can figure this out.”
George paused, slowly turning his head to make eye contact with his former best friend. Dream, surprised at his boldness, nearly avoided his gaze. George maintained it, his composure rapidly slipping as anger, white hot anger, began clouding his thoughts. And then he laughed .
“We?” he repeated. “We can figure this out?”
Dream opened his mouth to speak, but George was already turning away from him with a sharp scoff, and limping in the opposite direction he’d entered the forest. Dream waited for him to say more, to tack on another snarky comment, but he was silent. It unnerved him. He stood, following George.
“Where are you going?”
“As far away from you as I can,” George responded dryly. He heard the taller man let out a wounded, incredulous noise from behind him, and it brought him mild satisfaction. He’d only made it a few more steps before Dream had swiftly moved in front of him, blocking his path.
“George, I fucking revived you, and you’re not even going to thank me?”
George looked at Dream. His green eyes were dark, his face twisted in rage. A familiar rage, one George had seen many times before, but never like this. This was rage dipped in hurt, and rejection. A need for validation. Dream needed George to thank him, to grovel at his feet for saving his life. George scowled as a particularly ugly thought crossed his mind: perhaps Dream had only revived him so George would praise him for it, call him a God and treat him like he was something holy.
“For all I know, you’re the reason I fucking died, Dream,” snapped George. “Now get out of my way.”
Dream said nothing, frozen in place as George shoved past him. Painful tingles shot up the side of his body where their shoulders briefly made contact, and he shuddered. George just tried to focus on the path ahead of him--although, they were in the middle of dense, unpopulated forest. There was no real path. George decided that the direction of West was his new path, and he would follow it until he knew what to do next.
“George, where the hell are you even going?” Dream’s voice floated from behind him, irritated and cold. George ignored it.
“George!”
George pressed on.
Angel. Come back home.
George stopped in his tracks. “What the hell did you say?”
Dream scoffed from behind him. “I said your name, dipshit. Where are you going? There’s nothing but woods this direction for miles, so if you’re trying to get away from me, you’re doing a pretty fucking bad job at it.”
He’s only going to kill you again, angel. Come back home to your God.
The world began to spin. Panic began flooding all of George’s senses as his fingers began to tingle, stars blinking in and out of his vision. He felt himself staggering, despite his best effort to battle through the dizziness and remain conscious.
“Not again,” he heard himself slurring, falling to his knees as his palms collided with wet grass.
That’s it. We’re going to bring you home now. Close your eyes, George.
George thought he felt a presence beside him, shaking his shoulders. He thought he heard his name being called in an incessant panic, but that could have just been his imagination. He tried to fight the exhaustion clinging to his skin like mottled paper, but it was useless.
We love you, George. Your God loves you. I love you.
George fell asleep to the sound of his own mind, screaming at him to wake up.