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George wakes up groggily, which isn’t particularly uncommon. He’s a heavy sleeper, something that Dream has teased him for numerous times. It sometimes took ages to fall asleep but once he was unconscious, it would take an earthquake to wake him. It takes him a while to actually wake up, there’s always a few minutes of sluggish dazed confusion before everything loads up. A few minutes of morning buffering before all internal processors were up and running.
It meant that all throughout his working life he needed to set his alarm a little bit earlier than some people. And it meant that he absolutely adored lounging around sleepily in the comforting state of not-quite-awake.
That of course required him to be in an environment in which he would normally be comfortable. Waking up in a bed that was not his was decidedly not an environment in which he was comfortable.
At first, George noticed that his blanket was irritatingly hot and scratchy. Both were attributes he did not like. He enjoyed oversized blankets, but not the kind to feel like a literal furnace over him. It wasn’t even comfortable, somewhat abrasive against his arms and already enough to put him into a poor mood.
The next thing he noticed was that he was in a cabin. He was positive he hadn’t gone off on a strange alpine retreat, mostly because he didn’t know how to ski and had gone to bed in his flat. He knew that blanket and bed far too well, as well as the sight of his ceiling and walls. This room was vaguely scenic in an odd rustic way. He expected there to be an animal head mounted to the wall, or a faux bear rug thrown across the floor.
The air wasn’t necessarily cold, but it was more frigid than he kept the thermostat. The wood walls looked oddly hewn with strips of thin bark peeling away in the smallest cracks. It reminded him faintly of various videos online of people constructing homes with primitive tools.
Sunshine flickered through a shutter made of literal sticks bound together with rope. It was bright enough for George to fear it was sometime in the afternoon, or maybe even later. He didn’t remember what he was doing here, but that wasn’t particularly new. Knowing himself, he either had been roped into a very peculiar vlog or was trapped in hazy jetlag still.
He got out of bed, wincing a bit and stretching. His back throbbing oddly as if he had overdone it at a gym, his legs screaming with the signs of a heavy workout. George knew that was peculiar, he didn’t recall going to a gym or carrying excessive weight (not after the first failed video).
“Where am I?” he muttered quietly, squinting about the small room. The floor was somewhat rough, scuffing against his bare feet. He had gone to bed with socks on out of habit. Alas, there were no socks to be seen.
He was fairly positive that if he had been kidnapped, it wouldn’t be in a small little cabin straight out of an old historical fiction movie. It had even gone so far as to throw in a literal wool blanket in a faded shade of blue. The only shoes in the room were an odd pair of leather boots looking closer to something an actor would wear in a movie. Even the shirt he was wearing he didn’t recognize, although it felt much softer than the itchy thick blanket.
George thought of several possibilities. Maybe he had been kidnapped (which was more unsettling considering he was wearing clothes that didn’t belong to him). Maybe he had a concussion or some sort of brain injury and woke up without his memory of wherever he was. Maybe it was a very elaborate prank from Tommy, who broke into his house somehow.
George recognized the starting sensation of panic, anxiety thrumming in his neck. He didn’t even go outside that often, and now he was in a creepy cabin in the middle of nowhere?
You don’t know it’s in the middle of nowhere, he thought a tad hysterically. Maybe it’s just a creepy cabin in a city!
“Screw it,” he muttered, shifting weight frantically from one foot to the other. He crammed the boots on his feet (and they fit him perfectly, how fucked up was that?) and stomped his way to the door. It flung open, unbarred and smacked rather spectacularly on the wooden wall. Rattling slightly, George poked his head out of the room…and eyed a rather unimpressive kitchen area. In fact, it looked mediocre at best. He didn’t see a fridge or a sink, only something fitting of a historical recreation, or a renaissance fair. He did spot a few apples sitting on the wooden counter, undisturbed and rather round.
More important, he spotted the front door, bracketed in with thicker vertical logs instead of the horizontal eyesore that created the walls. There were no locks or bolts keeping him inside, and no person stomping around with a big ax.
George bolted across the room, his shoes giving a little thwap-thwap-thwap before he slammed into the door and yanked it open as quickly as he could.
And…saw absolutely nothing. Well, that wasn’t quite true. He saw an enormous forest, larger than anything he had ever seen before. Bigger than any parks within walking distance from his flat- it looked like a nature documentary just outside the threshold. Little mushrooms popped out of small stumps bracketing in a stomped path across the moss. The trees towered large, thicker than any species he knew off the top of his head. The flowers he faintly spotted were no species he knew, although he wasn’t quite certain of the colour.
“Where am I?” he asked, blatantly horrified. There were no buildings on what horizon he could see, no skyscrapers or hint of people. No, just large trees and large puffy clouds.
George could react like a normal person, which likely entailed a lot of screaming and hysteria. However, George was not a normal person. His life consisted of playing videogames and sitting in his room for hours at a time, screaming at faceless people across the world. If he were indeed normal, he’d likely be close to a panic attack. George however, simply blinked a few times and wondered somewhat dazed how on earth he was supposed to send dumb pictures to his friends now.
The outside world was quite beautiful, bright and chipper in a way London never was. There was a fragrant smell in the air that reminded him distantly of a botanical garden, suggesting exotic flowers or different plants to the ones he knew. Either way, he was certainly not home.
Well, may as well check out the rest of the cabin.
The main door was just as creaky going in as it was going out. George winced, blinking frantically as blindness struck him savagely. He knew somewhere from a documentary that it took almost two minutes for night vision to accumulate due to something weird in his eyes. He didn’t have the patience for that, and instead fumbled along the wall for any feeling of a light switch or weird candelabra. There was a lantern, extinguished and slightly oily, although no matches nearby. A small metal device reminiscent of school chemistry class made him balk, struggling to remember how on earth it worked.
After a few seconds of fumbling in the dark, he grunted irritably and left it on its little hook. He could deal with it later, right now he had a mission to explore. The cabin had a few other rooms, the main hallway he had bolted down only one feature. On the other side an additional short hallway stood out, squeezed between a lumpy pile of blankets disguising a potential couch or reading nook.
A collection of bookshelves stuck out against the wall, only a few books on the shelves and the rest absolutely barren. A small clay pot with a sad looking flower rested near the window, blocked by thin drapes no better than the flower. Overall, the cabin was rather pathetic and miserable although there was some sort of attempt in making it look pretty. George had a suspicion the drapes were one small wind away from falling to the ground entirely.
His kidnapper, if it was a kidnapper, was a pretty cruddy carpenter.
He walked around, eyes finally adjusting. The floors were a different colour to the low walls, slightly lighter although not that pretty. The walls were sturdy, likely warm although nothing compared to normal air conditioning. There was a carpet on the floor, thick and slightly scratchy on George’s feet. He suspected it was a dark green, but wasn’t entirely certain. Windows were installed with clay securing the edges. Little water stains decorated the table surface, indicating the presence of a lazy owner or a lack of coasters. George couldn’t judge, if it wasn’t for how insulated his water bottle was and the ridiculous size of his mousepad, his desk would look similar.
“Hello?” he asked, calling out. His voice didn’t echo so much, but it did ring oddly off the wooden walls. “Is there a creepy stalker in here with me? Hello?”
On the other side of a nondescript wooden door, something thumped loudly. George paused, feeling his pulse increase. It fluttered anxiously, his hands opening and closing nervously as he became aware of his lack of defense. At home, he had a metal baseball bat within easy reach of his desk. Here, he was fumbling around and only found a terracotta vase holding a few exotic flowers. He dumped out the blossoms, holding the vase tightly between both hands. It wouldn’t be enough to fight off a giant, but maybe if it broke he could use a sharp edge.
“Hello?” George asked, knowing that there was someone in the building with him. On the other side of the door in fact, mirroring where he had first woken up. “You there?”
George didn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe a squeak or more shuffling, or maybe even an antagonistic threat. He inched closer to the door, focusing hard to hear any movement. His heart pounded heavily, pulsing in his neck all the way to his fingertips.
He inched closer, bracing his shoulder against the wood. He pressed gently, shifting it just enough to catch on a sturdy metal lock, rattling in the hinge. On the other side of the door, George heard a muffled inhale hurriedly choked out.
Fear and nerves died in the presence of confused wariness. George didn’t want to presume, but the noise sounded tentatively scared. Hesitantly, George reached out and knocked clumsily three times. Quietly, he asked: “hello? Is there someone there?”
“Hello?” Someone asked from the other side, sounding not at all like a stalker and instead like a very confused terrified person.
George blinked, considered his terracotta vase once more, and rattled the odd knob of the door. It was more of a latch that required him to lift- but it stilled instantly from an internal lock. George shifted his weird, awkwardly rattling on the door again. “Uh, hi. I can’t come in or anything so…”
“Yeah It’s locked.”
George blinked quickly, feeling very at a loss. “Uh, I know? Can you unlock it and let me in?”
A pause stretched out. George shifted on his feet, growing impatient. Finally, after a long pause, the mysterious disembodied voice muttered something quietly.
George banged his head against the door, pressing his ear against the wood. “What? Can you say that like, any quieter?”
“I said, no.”
“ No?” George echoed, dumbfounded. “What- why not? I woke up in this weird place, who the heck are you? How did you even- where am I?”
The voice on the other side muttered something quieter, sounding once more in a panic. “Look I- I don’t know, I…Go away.”
“Rude,” George muttered. He wrinkled his face, previous nerves melting away in light of emerging irritation. He elevated his voice, calling through the door: “fine! Be that way!”
George didn’t need some random person’s help anyways.
George knew a few things, one of which was that regardless of how terrified you were, being hungry made it all much worse. He of course resolved this by looking inside rustic barrels filled with preserved vegetables and fruits in little jars- tasting oddly like apple pie. He didn’t want to touch the stovetop, equipped with yet another odd little flint-lock lighter. There was a wood-fueled heater in the corner of the cabin, thankfully simple enough to operate and toss in more small chunks of wood.
George grabbed the oddly scratchy blanket, curled himself in the small windowed couch area and decided to wait. He was a rather impatient person, but he could wait long enough.
Hours ticked by, the faint crescent of the moon rising above the treeline and throwing silvery shadows. He had figured out how to light one of the lanterns with brutal sacrifice of a long candle after he hurriedly jammed the thing inside the burning wood stove, yanking it out as the entire body began to ooze. He was not tempted to repeat the process again.
Time progressed slowly. The little cabin creaked with occasional little winds. The house was almost comfortable, lulling him into a state of false comfort. Far too easily, George found himself reclining against the log wall and burrowing into the blanket.
The wooden door creaked loudly, the heavy metal lever lifting as slowly the lock receded. George had been in the bleary states between absolute sleep and comfortable confusion. The noise startled him awake, curiosity and small anxiety thrumming hotly. The main room of the cabin was large with long shadows, it wasn’t that inconceivable that George could remain silent in his little corner and never be spotted by his mysterious flatmate.
The door opened and a tall ambiguous figure stumbled out. They were covered in a similar blanket, draping it across their head and shoulders almost like a silly ghost costume. George could spot faint flashes of pale skin suggesting they wore no socks or shoes. He wasn’t sure if they had been stomping in mud, had weird leg tattoos, or had been attacked by a dog at some point and now bore enormous bruises.
George withheld the urge to call out, watching silently as his flatmate stumbled about the room, throwing out his arms oddly as if unable to stand upright. They struggled around, grabbing onto iron rods mounting unlit lanterns from the wall and sometimes the logs themselves. Struggling into the kitchen area filled with odd barrels, they banged into the corner with a quiet muffled curse.
George realized suddenly that the voice was distinctly male, American, and very tall. They loomed about almost as large as Wilbur stood, perhaps slightly shorter. George squinted, trying to find more details as they cursed again, clumsily attempting to open one of the boxes.
“It opens on the side,” George called out, his voice crackling from hours of nonuse. “I opened the one to the right, there's some cans in there. Hope you like apples.”
They cursed, attempting to spin and instead falling quite clearly onto their rear end. The blanket didn’t so much as tangle as the man just… fell over. George slowly shuffled to his feet, snatching the lantern from the table.
“Are you like…okay?” George asked warily, approaching slowly.
His unknown guest stuttered through nonsensical words, voice increasing in pitch with anxiety. George identified the splotches as actual bruises, some swollen and distorting the shape of thin legs. Some toes were missing which felt immeasurably wrong to George, instilling faint nausea. The blanket covered the rest of him, although George did see a peak of one kneecap looking vacuum-sealed against a roundish bone.
“Wha- who are you?” they asked, squeaking the words with mounting panic.
George equally panicked. “Me? But- who are you? You kidnapped me-.”
“What? What?” They asked, voice turning shrill in open confusion. “No, you fucking kidnapped me!”
George stared, and very slowly his nausea grew. There was something horrible dawning on him, manifesting in the worst sort of clarity. He blinked hastily, attempting to see and discern any sort of identifying features from the heavy shadows and blanket.
“You you- you’re a weird fucking- fan or or-,” they continued to stutter. Hands opening and closing anxiously, curling into the blanket. Sprawled on the ground, George had a better guess of the absolute size of the man across from him, his hands dwarfing George’s without even needing to compare side by side.
“You’re a giant,” George stated, somewhat stunned.
They spluttered, more odd sounds emerging. “Yeah well, fuck off. You’re tiny or- or something.”
And then, it clicked. The location had briefly distorted George’s memory, clouding the familiarity. With no face to watch (because of a blanket) there was only a few things for George to latch onto. Either the words or the cadence of speech, little remained to block George’s brain from making the accurate connections. He felt dizzy, thoughts sluggish and very overwhelming. Then, they quieted almost instantaneously as if he were drunk.
“Dream?” George asked, voice keening as even his words sounded incorrect in his ears. Something felt strange, odd and too much. Blinking felt difficult, sticking to his eyes.
“Wha- George?” they asked, voice pitching high in that anxious treble George had fallen asleep to. “What? How?”
“I- I don’t…” George stuttered, blinking frantically. “I feel…weird. I dunno…”
“You how- where are we-.”
And George quite unimpressively passed out.
George woke up to the sounds of soft glass and dull thwacking. He groaned, grumbling a bit as his brain took time to restart. He sluggishly forced himself to sit up, noticing he wasn’t quite…on a bed, more thrown across clumsily. One leg overhanging awkwardly, his toes brushing the floor.
He stared at a log wall for a few minutes, slowly recalling the situation. He was in a log cabin, in the middle of nowhere. With Dream.
George leapt to his feet, nearly rolling an ankle. Catching himself clumsily, he hurriedly darted to the door and slammed his shoulder into it bodily. The wood creaked, the little metal latch clanking loudly in its slot. George yelped, knocked aside onto the floor bodily.
On the other side of the door, the little sound cut off abruptly with a loud worried: George?
“Stupid door,” George grumbled. He crawled, reorienting himself before he stood. He reached with one hand, lifting the latch before attempting to pull it. “Stupid old weird cabin thing-.”
The door hastily slammed shut, yanked from the other side. George stared dumbly at the door, attempting to process.
Then, irritation set in.
“Dude. Let me out,” George protested, yanking on the door. The door was closed swiftly, yanked in the other direction.
“Dream,” George complained, banging his hand a few times on the wooden slats. “Dream, let me out!”
“No just- just wait a second-.” Dream stuttered, hastily throwing his entire body weight against the door to ensure it remained closed.
“No! Let me out!” George yowled hellishly, ramming his shoulder against it adamantly. “I’m sick of your stupid little room! It- it smells of uh, of cat piss or something-.”
“There’s no cat here!”
“Well then you did something-.”
“George!” Dream interrupted, cutting him off abruptly. The two breathed heavily, staring at a wall between them. Quieter, Dream stated with open hesitation: “Just…Just give me a second okay? I- I’m freaking out so bad.”
George scoffed. “Well, stop then.”
Dream paused, then giggled a little high pitched and very anxiously. “I don’t think I can just- what. Stop? That’s not what, that’s now how people do things.”
“That’s what I do,” George complained. “Maybe you’re just weak or something.”
“Oh my god you’re so dumb, this entire thing is so dumb,” Dream muttered. Barely an entire second passed before Dream said quieter. “How did we get kidnapped?”
George at least couldn’t answer this one. He could ask one question that had confused him openly. “Did like, Patches eat your ankles or something? They look horrible.”
On the other side, Dream shuffled. The sound of fabric moving and shifting weight was oddly familiar, it was how their friendship had been built. George waited impatiently as Dream presumably checked out his ankle. The surprised gasp was loud enough for George to hear, and to once more spike his curiosity.
“What is it? Tell me. Tell me right now.”
“I- I didn’t have this,” Dream muttered, faintly heard through the wall. “I- George this is all so fucked like…what the fuck?”
George rattled the door once again, smacking his hand boldly against the wood. “I don’t know because you won’t let me out. Open the stupid door!”
“I will just- just wait…wait a second,” Dream repeated anxiously.
George growled, flinging himself away to pace around the little room. There was nothing there to occupy his time while Dream apparently was struggling to open a single door. The bed didn’t have a blanket- likely the one Dream had thrown over himself the previous night.
Which…was odd. Dream tended to overheat, he had told George numerous times he slept without a shirt because it was too much for him. He didn’t walk around the house with a blanket on.
Actually, George hadn’t seen Dream yet because of the stupid blanket. And oh, suddenly it made sense.
“Dream?” George asked, turning to look at the door with apprehension. “Are…are we actually meeting?”
“I- I kinda had a whole plan and…well this is not it.”
George giggled. He suddenly wasn’t so impatient. It made sense, he had imagined it too. Well, only parts of it. He would arrive at the airport, Sapnap would pick him up in his dumb car he always sent messages about. They would drive to their house, and Dream would make them steaks. It would be perfect.
This, staring at a ramshackle door in a freaky little cabin in god-knows-where after waking up in their character’s screwed up bodies , is not perfect.
George very lamely made a noise, roughly translatable to “eep”. Dream on the other side of the panel giggled anxiously once more.
“So uh,” George stated, his words trailing odd uncomfortably. He fidgeted, not entirely sure how to proceed. “Can I just…open the door?”
“Yeah?” Dream said, voice trailing higher into a question. “I mean, you have working hands and it’s just a dumb door-.”
“ Dream,” George said fondly, cutting off the other man. “Are you okay if I open the door?”
The response this time came later, softer and anxious. Eventually, Dream said “yeah”
George reached out, grasping the odd metal latch to lift. Slowly, the door freed itself and began to swing towards him. George kept his eyes on the wood, rotating to slip by and paused before slowly turning to look at the older man.
Who…had covered himself once again with the blanket. Unable to stop himself, George scoffed loudly. He didn’t notice he was grinning until a muscle in his cheek began to twitch.
“Dream,” he said, exasperated and fond.
“I’m nervous,” Dream whined.
“Well so am I!”
“Just- just look away for a second,” Dream argued. He shifted, bouncing a bit under the blanket as anxiety gave way to fidgeting. George knew that Dream tended to hop around when nervous, he hadn’t ever seen it. “I…just close your eyes or something.”
George obliged, unable to stop smiling. He heard the rustle of fabric and the soft noise of something heavy flopping onto the floor. Little scuffing sounds as bare feet tapped on wooden slats, a heavy trembling inhale.
“Okay,” Dream said, further away than before.
George opened his eyes just as Dream very nervously turned around. There were details that George noticed immediately, the cabin was somewhat dusty and as light shone through windows little particles glittered golden. Dream’s hair appeared dark at first glance then softer and brighter as flyaways glowed like silk. His skin hideously pale, which filled George with glee as irony struck- for once he was the tan one.
Then, he noticed the horrifying details.
There was sick bruising across Dream’s body. He was thinner than he should be- thinner than Sapnap ever said and the few pictures George had seen suggested. The bones of his wrist were never that obvious. His collarbones never stuck out like that, otherwise Sapnap would have mentioned it. Clothes didn’t hang off of him- he was bigger than George but now he looked smaller. Scrawny and wounded, there were bandages wrapped in odd spots and one spot on his jaw looked shiny and burned.
Dream’s eyes widened when he inhaled horrified, his face expressive and somehow not that impressive. He looked…average, just a person. Except he had a hideously gored scared absence of skin across one cheekbone and a mutilated eyebrow. His eye was there, but the socket looked quite frankly, disgusting and misshapen. His lip twisted on the corner, pocked and marked as if an enormous spoon hand carved a good section of his face.
“George,” Dream whispered, horrified. “What happened to your face?”
“Me?” George asked, feeling cold and overwhelmed. “You- what happened to you?”
Dream’s eyebrows twisted, pinching together in open confusion. His eyes were moving, tracking him normally despite the mutilated state of the one. Dream was tall, but looked so ill it hurt George to think about.
“Me? You have, like, a big scar on your face!” Dream argued. George, overwhelmed and crippled by the irony of the situation, burst into laughter.
“Me? Me?” George repeated hysterically. “Look at you! Can you even see me? Dream what the fuck?”
“Huh?” Dream asked, hands fluttering to his face to poke around his skin. As he felt the divot and obvious sensory loss, his jaw dropped and he floundered, spluttering nonsensical noises. “What- what happened to me?”
George felt very overwhelmed, the world felt too much. The room was too bright, too loud despite the only noise being their breathing. His hands felt tingly, his knees kinda wobbly even as he stood.
“Dream?” George asked, his voice sounding odd to himself. “I…I feel…weird?”
At once, Dream’s panic evaporated into open concern. He reached out, hand hovering between them, too nervous to touch. His fingers were large, nails chewed to little nubs just barely past the bed. One nail looked shorter than the others, lopped off too early or a congenital defect. George knew Dream hadn’t been born with it.
George stared at it, eyes struggling to remain focused. For a small second, the image warped and distorted- two hands overlapping in double vision before he blinked it away hastily.
“George?” Dream asked, undeniably his voice. “George? What are- maybe you should sit down?”
“Kay,” George said wisely, letting his legs collapse. He wasn’t completely able to feel his knees. He blinked quickly, feeling very odd. “I…I’m just gonna…lay here.”
George very slowly slumped to the side and very calmly passed out.
----
George was starting to hate this pattern. He woke up confused, initially thought of it as a very strange dream, then recalled that it was very much not. It took him a while to coordinate himself enough to sluggishly stumble out of bed and slam through the wooden slat door with the aggressive worry of a dog with separation anxiety. Both times, Dream had been skittering about the small main room of the cabin in different states of dress- normally wearing a large blanket.
“Why are you doing that?” George asked, his tongue slightly slurred.
Dream jumped, bare feet skittering on the floor as he spun around, giving little hops. He peered out from below the floppy wool hood, avoiding eye contact oddly.
“I just…you know,” Dream said lamely, continuing to duck away strangely. “Just…it’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“Being here,” Dream stated instantly, shifting his weight. “Being…looked at, I guess? Just- I’m used to Sapnap and now that you’re here it’s just…you stare.”
George wasn’t going to deny that, but also he had no shame. “You just look different than I expected.”
“No shit,” Dream scoffed, flexing his fingers and curling his toes on the floor. “Look I don’t…this isn’t me.”
George blinked, trailing off with a small perplexed: “uh.”
“This body,” Dream stressed, thrusting out one arm to twist it around and display a collection of odd shiny marks, some sections lacking arm hair entirely. “I fell off my scooter and had this tiny scar and it isn’t there, and I don’t know where any of all these came from.”
George at least could understand that. He imagined Dream would have mentioned that he had been attacked by a chainsaw or something growing up, especially with how devastating it looked across his face.
“And I know you didn’t have that scar on your cheek,” Dream accused, pointing directly at George’s face. “Unless you’re good at makeup, but I know for a fact you’re shit at it so clearly this isn’t us. I don’t know what the hell this is, but If I keep thinking about it I’m gonna lose it.”
“What happens when you lose it?”
“I’ll just- I don’t know. Shit in your bed or something.”
“Gross,” George said, wincing outwardly.
It was all shockingly casual, nothing different beyond the fact they were absolutely different in every sense. Everything Dream said sounded the same as it did across the phone, lacking the slight tinny quality. He hadn’t ever seen Dream’s mannerisms, but he could identify them as if they were his own. It all made sense, what didn’t make sense was the world around them.
“And you’ve had those sleeping things,” Dream muttered nervously, wringing his hands on the blanket draped across his body and over his head. “Twice now. You just…I don’t know, go cross eyed or look into the fourth dimension and just slump over.”
“I do what now?”
“You faint! Like, twice!” Dream cried out, throwing both arms upwards as if for emphasis. “You just slumped over and fell asleep!”
George blinked twice, considered it and said: “yeah, that does seem kinda weird.”
Dream stuttered through something, an odd assortment of noises before he looked skywards, squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled through his nose. Looking pained, he agreed. Slowly, George attempted to adapt to the new information.
“So like…this isn’t my body,” George stated slowly. “And that’s… not your body?”
“Definitely not,” Dream stated hastily. “I don’t remember missing a toe.”
“You’re missing a toe?” George asked, peering down at the small little toes- sure enough, a pinky toe was missing on one of Dream’s feet. It was easy to miss it from the hideous bruising all across his lower legs. “Huh, did you kick a couch?”
Dream didn’t respond. He stared at his toes, wiggling them slightly. After a moment of pause, he cocked his head sideways, continuing to look at his feet and asked in a soft dazed voice. “George? Is this like- well okay not like, but- okay so hear me out-.”
“Dream, tell me,” George stated, a bit mystified by the sight of wiggling toes. “Tell me, tell me-.”
“It’s just- isn’t this like…a little like the SMP?”
Dream was pretty fucked up.
His body just kept getting worse somehow. It wasn’t like he was the pinnacle of health, but George knew that the man was somewhat healthy. Sapnap had complained enough about Dream’s workout routine and healthy food (despite loving pizza and splurging on occasion). Dream also was one to never go to the doctor under any circumstances, going months with a collapsed lung or other sickness until he actually had to go.
This was different. This wasn’t a cold that didn’t go away. This was Dream waking up realizing he was missing an entire toe. This was Dream suddenly stumbling and losing balance, complaining of a ringing in his ears. This was Dream suddenly losing depth perception as he walked, stumbling into a table and wincing as it caused yet more bruises.
Each bruise wasn’t healing, lingering painfully no matter how long they were in the cabin. They weren’t exactly locked in, but knowing what they did of the SMP, the only option suggested that, well, going outside the forest would be painful. It was nice anyways, there was plenty of preserved food in the barrels and outdoors had a miniature vegetable garden with enough fresh produce to keep them happy. There was a hunting bow around the back of the cabin in a small empty smokehouse, although neither Dream or George knew how to use it. They’d be in poor luck even with expensive hunting gear.
Dream looked at apples and proposed some sort of cobbler, making magic from crushed flour and sugarcane. He sorted through their things with an odd categorical system that was so endearingly Dream, George watched silently for hours.
The sleeping attacks didn’t come on randomly either. It took almost four days for the pattern to become more apparent- only when George was experiencing any sort of intense emotion did the disorientation kick in. Once it did, he just needed to settle and let it pass, hopefully in a bed and not on the floor (again).
“Dude, George the character sucks,” he complained, sprawled on the floor yet again as another odd wave of disorientation hit. Not enough for him to take a short nap, but enough that he wasn’t comfortable standing anymore. “Why is he just sleeping all the time?”
Dream tried to withhold a giggle, curled up in the little reading cranny with his wool blanket pulled over his body and head again. He mentioned in passing that he was oddly self-conscious, not accustomed to being looked at and although he trusted George, it still felt odd. “Well, I think that’s mostly your fault to be honest. You just made him sleep through everything.”
“Yeah well, past me was an idiot and I'm currently a genius,” George declared, closing his eyes to help himself focus. “And I’ve decided right now, no more weird sleeping attacks.”
“Is it working?” Dream asked wryly, mocking from his spot. “Is it working? Hey George, is it working?”
“Shut up,” George grumbled, slowly pushing himself to sit upright. “This is weird. You’re weird. Your whole face is weird.”
Dream twitched slightly, turning his chin downwards. Silently and subconsciously, one hand lifted to trace along the disgusting scar marrying his face. Dream said nothing, lost in thought and clearly in a poor spot.
“I didn’t mean that,” George apologized quickly. “I’m just not used to like, a voice to the face-.”
“It’s fine,” Dream dismissed a little too casually. “This isn’t my face after all.”
But it was. It was damaged and hurt, but it was still him. George knew how much Dream wanted their first meeting to be perfect. He had mentioned hiring a professional makeup artist even, or getting a haircut. Dream wasn’t vain but he wanted to make sure George liked him.
And now, Dream was forced to reveal his identity in the most brutal self-conscious way possible. It was sickening in some aspects, painful in others.
“I like your face,” George told him. “I can’t wait to see you without the scar.”
Dream glanced at him, then quickly looked away. “It’s fine, George.”
“Seriously,” George pressed onwards. “It’s not bad, like, you’ve got a really strong chin and-.”
Dream stood abruptly, swaying slightly. He stumbled into the wall, recovering quickly with a small winded breath. He smiled, grimacing slightly before he waved off George’s concern. “It’s fine I just- I wanted to lay down for a bit. Headache.”
“Right,” George said, watching Dream stagger off as if drunk towards his room, the blanket wrapped protectively around him. George thought to himself: liar.
George watched him leave, turning far enough for something in his back to pop. He chewed on his tongue, fiddled with his hands and kicked his ankles. After some time his patience ran thin, and he stood with a weary sigh. This was new territory, if Dream ever left a call there was no way to assure they could reconnect. This was something brand new, a cranky Dream with no former experience to lean on.
Knocking on the wooden slat door, George pressed an ear against the surface. He couldn’t hear anything inside, so he quietly lifted the latch and let sunlight streak into the small room. “Dream?”
Dream lay on the bed, covered in blankets in a miserable lump. Approaching cautiously, George announced his presence yet again. “Dream? Are you alive? Hello?”
“Go away,” Dream mumbled into the straw filled pillow, shuddering with his entire body. “Head hurts, spinnin’.”
Oh, and perhaps he hadn’t been lying with the sudden headache. Suddenly feeling guilty, George settled himself on the edge of the bed. He wasn’t one to get migraines, he wasn’t quite sure what to do in the situation. “Do you want me to get water or something?”
“No,” Dream groaned, barely peeking his head out from below the blanket. George glanced at it, once more curious as to the actual colour of Dream’s eyes. They glimmered a golden colour- George knew gold or yellow wasn’t a real eye colour but some people did have yellowish-brown tones. He wondered if Dream was like that. “Jus’...really dizzy.”
George stared, curious as to what Dream was looking at. His eye jerked around, not staying still on any target. It took George a moment to realize Dream was trying to look at him- and shockingly unable.
“Dude, Dream,” George said, grasping Dream’s head hurriedly. Dream flinched, gasping outright as George manhandled the man to roll slightly. It turned George’s stomach slightly to see the wound marring half of Dream’s head, but this was more important. “Follow my finger.”
Dream scoffed, obliging with some level of irritability. “What, you’re a doctor now? Doctor Notfound, you’ll get a terrible yelp rating.”
“Your eyes are like, fluttering,” George said rather dumbly. “Like, twitching back and forth. Sideways, like a shake-weight.”
“A shake-weight,” Dream echoed skeptically, his eyes continuing to jerk sporadically horizontally, not in time with one another. “I am… so dizzy.”
“I’m not a doctor, but this doesn’t seem good.” George stated underwhelmingly.
Dream groaned, flopping back on the bed. He nestled once more into the pillow, hiding the injured side from George. His eyes continued to jerk, he closed his eyes against the faint light.
“It’ll go away or something,” Dream muttered, cringing a bit. “Just…dizzy. Everything kinda like…spins all the time.”
“Did you get a concussion?” George asked hurriedly.
Dream hesitated, body tensing. George noticed at once, feeling something sick growing in his stomach. Dread filled him, worries and fears and countless google image searches fluttered through his working memory. He wasn’t a hypochondriac, but the pandemic had brought out a bad side in him.
“I…we’re in our character’s bodies, yeah?” Dream asked, opening his eyes just a fraction. “So…like…I think? I maybe? Have a brain injury?”
George blinked at him. Dream winced and closed his eyes fully.
It took a moment for the thought to process. When it did, it hit him with the raging fury of a bull. His chest seized, he couldn’t breathe. Countless options and ideas passed him by, smacking him with no mercy. A brain injury. What did that mean- was Dream dying? Was he close to death? Could he see anymore? How long had he been hiding it?
“George, it isn’t that bad,” Dream tried to soothe him, lifting one hand. “Look, it isn’t like-.”
“Dream, shut up,” George said flatly. He squeezed his eyes shut, considered the information and his growing panic and oh- yep, there was the fainting spell.
Dream squealed as George went limp across his body, absolutely utterly unconscious.
“Are you spooning me?” George mumbled, barely awake. He felt hazy. Brain slow and sluggish, trapped and seized like an old car engine.
Dream muttered something, rolling away without any further word. It couldn’t have been for too long, because Dream hadn’t entirely tangled himself up on George.
“You fell asleep on top of me,” Dream complained, sitting upwards slowly. Even sitting up in bed, he towered over George. Good to know all of his height didn’t come from his legs. “Guess that was too much? Poor little Georgie, getting all emotional over me-.”
“I thought you were dying,” George argued, struggling to sit up. He slumped sideways a bit, bones still jelly. “How is your head?”
A pause, Dream carefully selected his words. “This character got totally wrecked. It hurts but like…it doesn’t stop? The ringing? And the weird spinning dizzy thing, and I think maybe one of my ears isn’t working?”
“Well, guess you fit the trifecta perfectly,” George mumbled. “Deaf, dumb, and half-blind.”
Dream huffed, nudging George to the side. George collapsed wearily, bones aching. “Rude.”
“I’m rude? You just- just called me dumb!”
“That’s because you are,” George defended with a wince. “Seriously, you good?”
“...Yeah,” Dream sighed, hauling George upright against him again. “What about you?”
“Fine,” George stated. He blinked, getting his vision to focus. It sucked, but Dream was also in a poor state. “You ever wonder like, how our characters got here? In a weird cabin in the woods?”
Dream hummed, one hand wrapping around George to hold him more securely to his side. George rationalized it was because he was still bad at coordination right now.
Dream said warmly. “No, it’s not that odd. Like, I imagine he- well the other Dream, got out of prison or something and you swept him away to a little cabin in the woods to recover.”
“Uh huh,” George said warily. “More like I saved you. Bet I had to haul you all the way here.”
“Bet,” Dream taunted with a small grin, squeezing George’s side. “Come on, loser. Let’s get up, we need more firewood for the stove thing.”
The outside world was bright and chipper, unlike the way George felt. If he had an option, he would stay inside as long as he could. It was nice to see Dream outside with better lighting. There was a dizzy unsteadiness to his steps presumably due to the vertigo. Beyond that, he had a good idea of his size and height, suggesting that his enormous giant stature was actually his norm. It made sense, and made George keenly aware of how small he was in proportion.
They gathered sticks and small branches for kindling, then settled for hauling a fallen tree as wide as George’s thigh towards the shack. Dream mentioned he was uncomfortable swinging an axe with how unsteady he felt, and had seen something like a saw near the cabin door. George tried not to think about the statement: I don’t feel like I can swing an axe honestly. The ramifications, although Dream didn’t seem to realize it, were horrifying.
They cut wood, stomping on it when the lacerations seemed close enough to snap. George watched Dream stomp angrily on one stick, cursing when it fractured and snapped up, whipping his calf.
“Dumb stick!” Dream growled, throwing it with vigor into the stove. “Yeah, burn you little bitch.”
“You’re cranky today,” George noted. “Poor little Dream didn’t get enough sleep?”
“The beds are shit here, you know it,” Dream countered with a small smile. “Or sorry, were you sleeping on the floor again?”
George gestured crudely, Dream laughed in return.
The days passed similarly. Dream had a decent green thumb and could tell when the plants in the garden were ready to be harvested. A few wilted due to unknown reasons, but George accepted that sacrifice. Plenty of animals were seen in the forest, a deer had scared George to the point of shrieking once. Dream similarly made a surprised noise, mystified by such a sight. He claimed he only saw alligators or large snakes on the average, a deer was something unique and new.
Not all days were good. Sometimes George slept far longer than normal, unable to be woken or remained in a disoriented state for the majority of the day. Sometimes Dream woke with a strange slur to his words, a confusion and jerky uncontrolled tremor that bothered them both. Sometimes they were simply in a shitty mood and snapped insults until eventually they apologized.
Some days were good too. Dream was here, in borrowed skin wearing bruises that were starting to heal. They discovered things together, learned about the world and laughed. Oh, George would never grow tired of simply staring at Dream and realizing that the man was there, he existed.
Then, Dream appeared with a sly grin holding a pair of tarnished dented goggles. They were more steampunk than George would have imagined, still white due to the inlay of some sort of shimmering shell rather than a paint. The rest was metal, like aviator goggles.
“Try them on!” Dream enthused, bouncing on his feet with little hops.
George held them, flipping them back and forth. The lenses were completely black, looking to be stone rather than glass. They were undeniably his character’s goggles, left somewhere that Dream had discovered. “They look so weird.”
“Yeah but I want to see you in them,” Dream argued, hopping around. “Do it, do it. Do it or you’re shit.”
George rolled his eyes, watching the golden figure fidget with excitement. He placed them over his eyes, then slipped the leather strap around his head where it settled securely on a callused spot on his scalp.
At first, he saw nothing. Then, he saw everything.
“Holy fuck,” George breathed, unable to think. He blinked quickly, vision adapting. It somehow showed his peripherals as well, something that he wouldn’t have assumed at first glance. It was bright, different, new.
“What?” Dream asked, suddenly worried. He ducked in, bowing his head to squint at George’s face and the black goggle lenses. “Are you okay? Do you want them off?”
George blinked again, reached out slowly and poked Dream’s face. Dream blinked, recoiling slightly in surprise.
“Your eyes are- are a colour,” George stated dumbly, barely able to keep his jaw from dropping.
“Yes?” Dream started to get confused. “They’re green? Why?”
“Green,” George echoed. Suddenly, he had something to associate with. “Green, I- I can see it.”
“What?” Dream asked. Slowly, his expression altered from bafflement to open awe and excitement. “You can- those goggles are like the colour-blind glasses?”
“Better,” George stated dumbly, “they work.”
“They work!” Dream said, eyes brightening (and how lovely to see it for once). “They work- George look! Look at the grass and stuff!”
George stared, unable to look away. He stared at Dream, an uncanny replica in a stolen body, but still undeniably Dream. He stared, until Dream blushed and fidgeted and George said lovingly: “Hi.”
Dream grinned bright and beautiful and said: “Hi.”