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“I have a problem,” Dream announces, at the start of rehearsal, which takes place, of course, in his garage. They’d organised for it to begin five minutes ago, but it’s just Sapnap and Dream so far. God knows where Karl and Quackity are, but they’ll probably slink in at some point, not even bothering with excuses.
“You have a problem,” Sapnap repeats. Generally speaking, Dream’s problem’s are Sapnap’s problems, like the whole debacle with trying to muster up the courage and charisma to ask George out, like putting together a band that was skilled enough to meet Dream’s standards but chill enough he’d have enough fun to keep the burn out away, like all the times Dream has landed them both in detention.
“Yeah,” Dream says. “It’s nearly Valentine’s day.”
“Astute observation,” Sapnap says. The school hallways are currently festooned with pink streamers and heart-shaped bunting. There are flyers reminding people to buy candygram’s stuck to every door.
“I need to get George a gift,” Dream says. “It needs to be good. It needs to be special. The issue is —”
“You’ve already bought him all the useless shit he wants,” Sapnap says. “You’re out of ideas.”
“No. Well, kind of. I have kind of gotten him everything he’s hinted at wanting. I do have an idea, though.”
“Okay?”
“You can say no,” Dream begins. “And if you agree I’ll pay you, or get you something you want. I know it’s kind of last minute but I was thinking about it in the car and I had this idea and I think it’d be really cool, and I think he’d like it a lot, and it would be really unique and sweet, and it would definitely make him blush and he’s really pretty when he blushes, and usually when I get him something he has this little routine he does where he pretends to be all cool and unaffected but later he’ll tell me why he likes it, because you know he doesn’t do well with emotion so he prefers to think sweet things through so he can wrap his head around it, I guess. What was I saying? Oh yeah, this’ll make him blush. And I like it when he blushes so it’s a win-win. I forgot what the point of this was.”
“Are you going to proposition him or something?” Sapnap jokes, kind of amused but mostly confused. “Why am I involved in that?”
“What? No, idiot. I need you to write me a song. For George. A love song.”
Sapnap’s known in the back of his mind where this has been leading this whole time, but the request still punches him in the gut. “I don’t write love songs. You know that, dummy, you’re the one who’s been singing my lyrics for the past however many months.”
“Well, yeah. But could you try? For me?”
“You want me to write you a love song for your boyfriend.”
“Yes. Please. I’ll do all the music shit, I just need some half-way decent lyrics. You know George, you know me, you’re very talented, I know you’ll be able to make something really amazing.”
“George hates my lyrics,” Sapnap says. “He’s made that very very clear, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”
“When he says he hates something he means he likes it,” Dream says. “He’s just repressed, or whatever. He asks me to play our songs all the time.”
“Yeah, because they’re the songs you know the best, idiot. He doesn’t want to hear you stumbling through the chords for a Taylor Swift song, he wants to be able to pay attention to him while you’re playing rather than staring at the frets the whole time.”
“He likes your music,” Dream says, sounding slightly offended. “Our music.”
“Well, he’ll like anything written for him regardless,” Sapnap mutters. Louder: “I get to choose the payment.”
“Within reason,” Dream says hastily, holding out his hand.
“Sure,” Sapnap says. They shake on the agreement before actually figuring out any of the details, which is kind of dumb, but whatever. “So, you want this done by Valentine’s Day?”
“Preferably a bit before, so I can figure out music to go with it, but yeah.”
“And it’s about George specifically.”
“Ideally.”
“Anything in particular you want in it?”
“Um… I don’t know. Whatever you think is good. Please don’t make it too angsty, minimal cursing, happy as you can muster. Something cute but not gross. You know George, just write something he’d like.”
“George likes the Minecraft OST,” Sapnap says, as the door slams open. “Hey Big Q!”
“Sapnap! My man, my man. Are those drumsticks in your pockets or are you just happy to see me?”
“Always happy to see you, Quackity.” Sapnap grins, letting himself get swept up in Quackity’s infectious energy. It’ll be even better once Karl arrives, and Sapnap will probably be able to carry the happy-high through to the evening, when he’ll flop into bed and immediately start overthinking every single word of the conversation he and Dream just had. “How’s the baby?
“She’s good, she’s good,” Quackity says, lightly slapping one of the many stickers adorning his guitar, which has El Rapids scrawled in Posca pen just under the bridge. El Rapids has a lot of inventive lore attached to her, including the fact that she is Quackity’s literal child. “The high E string is clinging to life, but we manage! We manage. More importantly, where’s the baby mama?”
“Karl just texted, says he’s on his way, he had to stop off at the chemist,” Dream says.
“Getting birth control,” Quackity says, nodding sagely.
“He probably fell off his board again and needed Band-Aids,” Sapnap says.
“Oh he fell off alright. We can start without him, yeah? The bass is useless anyway.”
“The bass is the viola of rock bands,” Sapnap says.
“Orchestra freak,” Quackity laughs.
“I thought we were punk,” Dream frowns.
“Pop-punk,” Sapnap says. “Yeah, we are, it just sounded funnier. I want to be rock but your whole Taylor Swift vibe means that I have to settle.”
“You’re too angsty to be rock,” Quackity says.
“Says the guy who listens to Abba,” Sapnap says.
“Okay, shut up,” Quackity begins; they bicker through the rest of practice, and sure enough Sapnap manages to keep himself busy till that night.
Lying flat on his back, his brain is flooded with oxygenated blood and he recalls Dream’s request with a clarity that makes him flinch.
He has to write a song. He has to write a love song. He has to write a love song for the guy he’s crushing on to play for the guy who he’s also maybe crushing on. Because they’re boyfriends. And in love. And he’s just the friend who’s so little of a threat it’s fine for him to write out lyrics about being in love.
He can make this a tomorrow problem, surely. Listen to love songs on the drive to school, work out the formula and follow it to the tee during lunch, touch it up and send it to Dream tomorrow night. Easy.
Except obviously he can’t do that.
It’s Dream. It’s George. Its Valentine’s Day and he’s been asked — been paid, in fact — to do something nice for his friends. His friends.
He’s grabbing his guitar before he’s even registered sitting up — a battered old thing that used to be Dream’s. Quality doesn’t matter, just the fact that it makes noise. Playing simple chord progressions helps him with the rhythm of his lyrics, allows him to tell if it sounds good or not, even though the actual melody and music is always written by Dream and Quackity.
He settles cross-legged on his bed after grabbing the notebook and pen that sit on his bedside table, flipping to the first empty page, about halfway through.
He never usually forces lyrics, so this is going to be interesting, to say the least. The fact that he’s forcing himself to write about George makes it doubly interesting, if he’s honest, though not necessarily difficult, given that George has been a feature in his songs ever since he and Dream got together, shrouded in metaphors and incomprehensible imagery.
He knows George-as-Poetry, has embellished him into something vaguely monstrous and parasitic, because Sapnap’s a petty bitch who is probably a bit too engrossed in Vampire related media. He needs to peel back his half-baked, almost-disenfranchised hatred, and create George anew. Create George-as-Love. George-as-Dream’s-Love.
His stomach turns a hypnotic spiral. He spins the pen between his fingers, tucks the acoustic guitar into position, rubs at a peeling sticker, courtesy of Quackity, on its body.
The words come too easily. He tries not to acknowledge the fact, even as he scribbles four full pages full of ideas. His pen goes still, tap tap tapping on the paper, and he reads through what he’s written, starring his favourite ideas before settling in to refine them.
He’s writing and mumbling and strumming and scribbling out until the sun comes up, sending strands of orange gold into his room. He shoves everything aside and collapses into sleep, his alarm blaring not even an hour later.
He reworks a couple of awkward places and adding in a couple lines that pop into his head as he’s eating his cereal. He types it into a file on his phone and reads though the chorus:
You said you’d hold my hand through the turbulence
Because I’m scared of falling
You hold your head high with an elegant confidence
I can feel myself falling, falling
Get you scared just to hear your heartbeat
The adrenaline rush from tripping over my feet
Make you laugh just to hear the sunshine
The dopamine rush from knowing you’re mine
He figures it’s… fine.
He calls Dream as he gets in his car.
“You need a ride?” he asks. One of Dream’s parents’ go-to punishments is restricting his access to the car, and it happens frequently, so Sapnap’s made a habit of offering every morning.
“If you can, yeah,” Dream says. “Would you mind if we got George as well?”
“That’s fine,” Sapnap says, hoping his disgruntled expression isn’t strong enough to be heard. “I’ll get him first, then keep going to get you. Tell him that I’m coming, please.”
“Of course,” Dream says. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Wait, Dream, before you go,” Sapnap says hastily. “I’ve got the song.”
“What song?”
“The song you’re paying me a million dollars to write. For George.”
“Wait, really? Already?”
“Yeah. If you don’t like it I can change it or do something new, but it’s done.”
“You didn’t stay up all night, right?”
“Not all night.”
“Sapnap.”
“Inspiration struck, Dreamie.”
“We’re stopping to get coffee,” Dream says.
“I’ve already had a coffee. And it’s out of the way. You don’t even like coffee.”
“I like you,” Dream laughs, and Sapnap keeps his eyes on the road, on the road. “Stop off with George, go to the cafe between his house and mine. You have to. I’m gonna tell him to make you.”
“Fine,” Sapnap says. “I’ll send you the lyrics at some point today, okay?”
“Sounds good. Alright, bye!”
“Bye,” Sapnap says, even though Dream has already hung up. He’s driven to and from George’s house quite a bit, but he’s only been inside a couple of times. He hopes George is waiting on the sidewalk when he arrives — he isn’t, obviously.
Sapnap sighs and calls him.
“What?” George drawls, after picking up on the forth ring.
“I’m on taxi duty, and we’re getting coffee, so you need to hurry up and get out here or we’ll be late.”
George scoffs. “I’m getting ready. Hold your horses.”
Sapnap slumps forward. His forehead hits the horn and the intensity of the blaring noise makes him flinch back up.
“I said I’m getting ready!” George snaps.
“It was an accident,” Sapnap mutters. “You’ve got two minutes to get out here, by the way. I will leave without you.”
“Please do,” George says. “I call music, by the way.”
“Fine. Are you nearly done curling your eyelashes or whatever the fuck?”
“I don’t curl my eyelashes,” George says. “They’re natural.”
“Naturally stupid,” Sapnap says.
George laughs, and Sapnap stamps down the bright feeling that swells inside him. The door to the house is finally flung open. George hangs up and strolls down the driveway, hopping in the front seat.
“Dream called shotgun,” Sapnap says weakly, as George plugs in his phone. He puts on some airy, synthetic, string-filled piece, probably from a video game soundtrack.
“Tommy killed all your cows, by the way,” George says, presumably talking about the Minecraft SMP they have with their friends. “Last night. I bore witness to the crime.”
“Did you try to stop him?”
“I gave him the iron he needed for the flint and steel. We were hungry,” George grins.
“You’re gonna regret that, bitch,” Sapnap says, but he’s grinning as well. He parks out the front of the small cafe. “You wanna stay in the car?”
“I’ll come in,” George says. “I lost my wallet, though. Or left it at home, I guess.”
“I’m not your boyfriend, George, I’m not paying for your coffee.”
He pays for George’s coffee. It’s the pinkest, sweetest thing on offer. He also gets a black coffee for himself and a strawberry muffin for Dream. He makes a mental note to add it to his payment from Dream.
George slurps happily at his iced drink as they drive to Dream’s house. He’s out the front already, waving at them as they pull up.
“I got you a muffin,” George says, handing the paper bag back to him.
“I already had breakfast, babe,” Dream says.
“Sapnap got it, then,” George amends.
“Thanks, Sap,” Dream says. “I’ll keep it for lunch. Are you going to come to practice tonight, George?”
“Yeah,” George says. “Tommy took two stacks of iron from your chest last night, by the way.”
“Gremlin,” Dream says. “Did you take something from him to make it even?”
“I took his life a couple times,” George says.
“Fair trade,” Dream shrugs.
They continue to talk about the SMP while Sapnap focusses on driving, not stopping even as he parks, even as they get out of the car. Dream gives him a quick side hug in the hallway as they separate. George just grins, his arm tucked around Dream’s waist, and holds up his plastic cup, empty but for melting ice and pink dregs, in a mock salute.
Later, at band practice, Sapnap sends the document to Dream, who promptly saves it in a locked file so George won’t be able to see it when he inevitably steals Dream’s phone.
“Look at it later and let me know what you think,” Sapnap says, trying and probably failing to sound casual.
“I’m sure it’s amazing,” Dream grins.
At that point the ongoing argument between George and Quackity peters out, and Sapnap hurries away, wanting to avoid any suspicion.
— — —
Dream calls him that night. Sapnap is naturally preferred for the worst, so he’s pleasantly surprised when Dream starts singing his praises.
“You should write more love songs, dude. I know you wanna keep this edgelord persona or whatever, but this is so good. He’s gonna love it.”
“I’m not an edgelord,” Sapnap scoffs.
“Yeah, that’s why I said persona. You’re allowed to write happy songs every once in a while.”
“You just don’t like singing my songs,” Sapnap says. “You’re too happy to understand them.”
He means for it to be joking, but it comes across far too sincere. Dream either doesn’t notice or doesn’t acknowledge it, which Sapnap is grateful for. He really doesn’t need Dream trying to figure out why he’s always writing about wanting.
“Have you started writing music for it?” Sapnap asks, to move the conversation along.
“Not yet, no. I wish I could play piano. This feels like a piano song.”
“You’re just a romantic.”
“Do you think I could learn piano in time for Valentine’s Day?”
“I mean, you could. If you really want to you’ll do it. If you play guitar you’ll be able to make sappy eye contact better, though.”
“Sappy,” Dream laughs. “True, though.”
They lapse into silence. Sapnap fishes for something — anything — to say.
“How’s Patchy?”
“She’s good. She’s in my lap right now. I said I’d call George, if that’s okay.”
“Of course, dude. Talk later. Good luck with your composing.”
“Good luck with writing more love songs,” Dream teases.
Sapnap scoffs, opens his mouth to retort — Dream hangs up.
His words dissipate into a small, pained noise. “Okay,” he says. “Whatever, I guess.”
He texts George fuck u and waits awhile for a reply, feeling stupid and desperate in increasing increments, in a way that makes him unable to leave.
He’s pathetic, but he knows it, so it’s not that bad. Right? That’s how it works? Self awareness is the first step to self help or whatever the fuck.
He’s tired from his almost all-nighter, so he slips thankfully easily into sleep.
— — —
He wakes up to texts from both George and Dream; lol and can u drive us again please respectively. He ignores George and sends Dream a thumbs up.
“What were you and Dream talking about last night?” George asks as soon as he gets in the car.
“Good morning, Gogy, lovely to see you too,” Sapnap says. “You want coffee again?”
“Sure, if you’re paying.”
“Dream will be paying, to be clear.”
“I don’t care as long as it’s not me. What were you talking about?”
“We were having phone sex.”
“He’s planning a surprise for Valentine’s Day. I want to know what it is.”
“That ruins the surprise, idiot.”
“So he is! I knew it. I knew it! He’s such an idiot. Now I have to do something.”
“I mean, you don’t have to. You’ll just be a bad boyfriend if you don’t.”
“Better boyfriend than you,” George grins.
Sapnap should say something equally cutting in return. He would, on any other day, but he’s dealing with the ache of having to write a stupid love song for the two people he’s crushing on, as well as Dream’s rejection last night. It wasn’t even a real rejection, just him hanging up after he said he would, but it feels like a rejection to Sapnap, even though he knows it’s stupid and selfish to expect Dream to talk to him rather than George.
Sapnap turns the radio up. George opens his mouth, but when Sapnap glances over at him he shrugs and turns away to stare out the window.
Sapnap pays for Dream’s muffin and George’s coffee.
“Aren’t you gonna get something?” George asks him.
“Not hungry.”
“Okay…” George says, drawing out the word like Sapnap is being weird. Which maybe he is, but it’s pretty obvious why he’s acting weird, so it’s surely not so weird that George deems it necessary to, like, call him out on it.
Dream isn’t on the sidewalk this time. Sapnap curses silently, weighing the options: wasting gas or risking awkward silence?
He thinks of the stupidly expensive fruity drink George is currently sipping on and twists the keys, killing the music. The quiet isn’t as uncomfortable as he worried it would be. George drinks obnoxiously loudly and Sapnap can’t help but laugh, which makes George laugh, which is such a pretty sound his mood can’t help but be somewhat lifted.
“So…” George says. “What’s up with you?”
“Not much. Just take him on a Minecraft date or something, dude, he’ll love it. There. You’re welcome.”
“Ok. But what’s up with you?”
“Nothing’s up with me.”
“Is he paying you to do something embarrassing?”
“What? No.”
“But you’re in on it.”
“No.” It sounds weak even to him. He keeps his hands on the wheel, his eyes on his heads, trying to ignore the heavy burn of George’s gaze.
“What are you doing for Valentine’s Day, then?” His tone is almost, almost mocking. The slightest touch of genuine curiosity is the only thing keeping Sapnap from — from doing something, that’s for sure. Crying or screaming or kicking George out of his car.
“Valentine’s Day is for lovers, George,” Sapnap says.
“Lovers,” George says, affecting a terrible Texan drawl. “Still, you don’t have any plans?”
“Wake up. Eat. School. Eat. More school. Maybe band or orchestra. Eat. Minecraft or Valo till 3 am. Sleep. Rinse and repeat.”
“Sounds fun,” George says.
Sapnap’s trying to think of a reply that doesn’t sound utterly depressing when Dream rushes out of the house. He’s wearing bleached jeans, a pink and purple t-shirt, and a red-green-blue striped cat beanie. George can’t even see half those colours. An irrational wave of irritation floods through Sapnap and he revs the engine in an attempt to dispel it, gnawing at his bottom lip.
Dream opens the front door to press a kiss to George’s lips. Sapnap looks away, revs the engine again, again. George can’t see the pink on his cheeks, surely, and Dream’s already off on a tangent as he hops in the back seat, so Sapnap’s probably safe.
He takes off driving as soon as Dream’s clicked his seatbelt into place, twisting the volume knob up and up and up.
Dream seems to be banned from his car for the foreseeable future — Sapnap’s asked him about it but his answers are so vague it’s hard to tell if he doesn’t know because his parents are winging it or because he wasn’t listening when they reprimanded him. He doesn’t even know why he’s banned, which obviously makes the whole punishment useless, but whatever. Sapnap’s happy to drive him. It makes his chest feel like someone’s shoved an unpinned hand grenade between the cracks in his ribs, but whatever.
In short, Sapnap drives the happy couple to and from school every day in the week leading up to Valentine’s day. Most days he’s able to shove down his discontent and banter as usual, but sometimes he drowns in despondent silence, chewing on his lower lip, listening to Dream chuckling at every single stupid joke George makes.
Sapnap’s a hypocrite, obviously; his own lips curl up every time as well.
Dream ends up getting his car back on Valentine’s Day, probably negotiating with his parents under the guise of taking George on a cute date — to be fair, maybe he is taking George on a cute date. Dream’s not the kind of guy to pick one nice thing and leave it at that.
Dream offers to give Sapnap a lift, in payment for Sapnap chauffeuring him for the past several days. Sapnap doesn’t point out that he’d literally do it every day in return for nothing, because he’s pretty sure Dream knows anyway. George is shotgun already, of course, so Sapnap settles in the middle seat.
George passes him back a black coffee and a chocolate muffin with a pink icing heart on it.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he croons. Sapnap can’t help but imagine what it would be like for him to say it in the same tone, but seriously; he wonders how George said it to Dream earlier. It would be nice to have George love him, he thinks. It’s already nice — George never gets annoyed at him for spam texting him, and always checks in if they’ve gone a couple days without talking, and steals Sapnap’s clothes like they’ve always belonged to him, even though they’re always slightly too big — not as big as Dream’s clothes on George, but that’s definitely not a thought to be having right now.
“Are you going to need a lift home?” Dream asks.
“I’m sure someone will give me a lift,” Sapnap says, reading between the lines. “Punz and I were talking about maybe skating.”
“Sounds fun,” Dream says.
“I thought you said you had no plans?” George says, the picture of innocence.
“It’s not a plan, it's just an idea,” Sapnap huffs.
“Punz is cute,” George says, still oh-so-casual, though Sapnap spots the flick of his eyes towards Dream. “Blue eyes are my favourite.”
“I thought you liked my piss eyes,” Dream says, pouting.
“Piss eyes are fine, I guess,” George says. He looks back, green eyes meeting caramel chocolate, and Sapnap purposefully licks at the icing of his cupcake, which he’s been saving for last. George crinkles his nose up. “Why do you eat like a five-year-old?”
“A five-year-old would eat the icing and nothing else. I’m saving the best for last, which is a very smart and mature tactic.”
“You’re making suggestive gestures at a guy in front of his own boyfriend,” George says. “You’re insinuating seduction.”
“Big words,” Sapnap says.
“Did you like the icing? Valentine’s special. The whole cafe was dripping pink,” George says.
“Tasted good,” Sapnap says. “Probably not as good as you, but I make do.”
“You’re gross,” George laughs, and then they’re arriving.
Sapnap is in a state of tension the whole day. It’s impossible to not think about the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day when the whole school is festooned with hearts. He and Punz do go skating, taking turns on Punz’s board. He’s pretty sure Punz catches onto his weird mood, but he doesn’t say anything.
Sapnap drowns himself in anime when he gets home, hopping in a call with Karl, who is keen, and Quackity, who is not, finding himself somewhere in the middle ground. He’s glad for the distraction; he wishes he didn’t need one in the first place.
Quackity spends the whole time alternating between flirting with both of them and purposefully pushing their buttons. Sapnap falls asleep, and wakes up to a ringing phone.
“It’s four in the morning,” he says, knowing who it is even though his eyes are too blearily to properly read the caller ID.
“Sorry, sorry, just wanted to let you know that the song was a hit, he really likes it.”
“That’s good. Did you play Minecraft?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Nice. You should go to sleep.”
Sapnap is glad to rid himself of the whole affair.
— — —
The next day, George stares at him all throughout lunch, a smile brightening his face. Sapnap struggles to keep his returning grin from being too shy.
Dream leaves to go to the bathroom, and George immediately bombards Sapnap.
“Dream played me a song yesterday. A new one. For Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh yeah? Was it good?”
“The music was mid, but the lyrics were good.”
“Because they were written about you?” Sapnap asks, trying to tamp down his nervousness.
“No. Well, that added to it, maybe, but they were really just nice. It made me happy.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“My favourite bit was the bit about being scared of airplanes.”
“Yeah?” Sapnap says. His voice is more breath than actual noise. The memory of a late night conversation when they’d scared themselves senseless watching horror movies runs through his head — Dream snoring calmly on the couch between them, George suggesting that they deflect their fear of the ghosts from the movie by talking about real life things that they were scared of. It hadn’t really helped but George had talked so softly the whole time and Sapnap probably would’ve said anything if it meant he’d get to keep hearing it.
“Yeah,” George says. And that’s that.
— — —
They end band practice pretty quick because they’re all tired and fumbling. Dream drops Sapnap off at his house with a promise to call him later.
Sapnap waits. He could call, he knows, but now it’s two am and he doesn’t need Dream knowing just how pathetic he is. He’s probably in a call with George.
Now there’s a thought, calling George, who is generally up later than Dream, and who Sapnap is better equipped to handle teasing from, seeing as it’s all he does.
George joins his discord call surprisingly quickly.
“Sapitus,” he greets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t sleep,” Sapnap says. “Play on the SMP with me?”
“Fine,” George groans, but Sapnap can hear his smile.
“I have a bunch of wither skulls I took from Tubbo, do you wanna try to get some beacons?”
“We could do that,” George says, joining the game. “Or… we could steal some more things from Tubbo. Or Hannah, she's been very robbable lately. Or we could give Tommy’s base a makeover. Where are you?”
“I’ll meet you at Tommy’s house,” Sapnap says, clicking through the community house chests in search of granite — he finds three stacks and takes them with glee.
George has several stacks of obsidian, likely courtesy of Dream, and so they fill the inside of Tommy’s house with it and add a layer over the outside of the glorified dirt hut, before spamming down a mountain of granite with a few artistic speckles of diorite and netherack.
It’s mindless work, George talking Sapnap through the terrible romcom Dream made him watch, and Sapnap giggles along with him but mostly he’s thinking about how while Dream was happy with George, Sapnap was flat on his back waiting uselessly for his call, like a dog waiting at the door for its owner to get back.
And then it’s a thought that he can’t get out of his head, and he chucks George the rest of his blocks and gets up to grab his notebook.
“Don’t be lazy,” George admonishes him.
“I’m busy, just give me a minute,” Sapnap says. George huffs and crits him, placing down a few blocks before hitting him again, and then repeating that cycle as Sapnap scribbles down some rushed lyrics. He finishes just in time to dodge the hit that probably would’ve killed him, punching George away from him and sprinting back towards the community house to take refuge in the Holy Land.
“Coward!” George shouts, laughing. They practice water bucket MLG’s off the tower for a while, until George eventually says, “I’m tired, shall we log off?”
“Sure,” Sapnap says. “See you tomorrow.”
George gives him a soft goodbye.
Sapnap holds it close to his chest as he falls asleep.
— — —
He fixes up the lyrics over breakfast the next day and writes them out on a sheet of paper that he tucks into his phone case.
He gives it to Dream that afternoon at band practice.
Dream’s eyes flit back and forth along the page as he silently mouths the words, Sapnap following along in his head.
I’m lingering by your door again
Waiting for you to call me back in
But you don’t
But you don’t
I’m flat on my back on my floor again
I’m waiting for the phone to ring
But it won’t
But it won’t
My puppy love is turning rabid
Slipping back into old bad habits
Biting my lip till it’s chewed raw
Flat on my back on your bedroom floor
Leash myself down, tugging my teeth out to make myself tame
Make myself small, rush over whenever you call my name
I’m lingering by the door alone
Waiting for you to come back home
But you won’t
And you don’t
Dream’s eyebrows furrow into a frown that deepens the longer he reads. Sapnap shifts awkwardly on the balls of his feet.
“Do you not like it?” He asks. “We don’t have to use it if you don’t like it.”
“No, no, I like it,” Dream says. He glances up at Sapnap, then suddenly clasps his cheeks, tilting his face up. His thumb sweeps along Sapnap’s bottom lip and Sapnap just about combusts, face surely flaming bright red. “You have been biting your lips.”
“Not that much,” Sapnap says, torn desperately between wanting to wrench himself out of Dream’s warm grasp and wanting to stay there forever.
“What are you stressed about?” Dream asks, making the decision for him, dropping his hands and going back to reading the lyrics.
“I mean, it’s kind of all there,” Sapnap says, chuckling awkwardly.
“You’re in love,” Dream says, incredulous. “You’re in love?”
“I dunno,” Sapnap says, taking in the slight furrow of Dream’s tidy brows, the vivid green glint of his eyes, the rainbow beaded bracelet adorning his wrist. “Feels like it sometimes.”
Dream’s eyes scan over the lyrics again. He’s chewing his own lip, clearly deep in thought. Maybe imagining potential chord progressions or melodies. Sapnap doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it certainly isn’t what Dream actually says: “Is it Karl?”
“Huh?”
“‘Flat on my back on your bedroom floor’ — you’ve only been to so many people’s houses, and only a few enough for it to be a bad habit. Unless the bad habit is just you chewing your lip… I still think it’s Karl, though. Karl or Punz. Maybe Punz, actually, because you’ve known him longer. Am I right?”
“No,” Sapnap says. “It’s not anyone.”
Dream snorts. “This is really good, Sap. Fucking sad, but good. Are you good?”
“I’m fine,” Sapnap says. It’s a battle to keep his teeth from gritting. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“You should just tell them,” Dream says. “Shoot your shot. Better than pining over it. Look at me and George. It’ll all work out in the end.”
“You and George are vastly different from me and — and my person. It wouldn’t work out. I know for a fact they don’t like me back. It’s fine, Dream, I’m fine and I’m handling it and I’d like to not talk about it ever again, please,” Sapnap says, snatching the paper back and stalking over to his drum kit. He can feel Dream dithering behind him, torn between chasing after him and giving him space.
“Sorry,” Dream calls after him, eventually. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You’re all good, man,” Sapnap says. He finds comfort in focussing on twirling his drumsticks through his fingers. “Do what you want with the lyrics, if you wanna use them or whatever. I’ll send you them later.”
“Okay,” Dream says. “Sounds good.”
— — —
Sapnap is wolfing down his lunch when George slips into the seat next to him. Sapnap chokes down an under-chewed mouthful so he can smile at him.
“Hi,” he says.
“Dream showed me the lyrics to you wrote,” George says. “He was all weird about it. Wanted my opinion.”
“Opinion?”
“He wanted to gossip,” George says.
Sapnap rolls his eyes, lifting up his sandwich for another bite.
“He thinks it’s Karl,” George says. He cocks his head. “But it’s not.”
Sapnap slowly lowers the sandwich back onto the paper it was wrapped in.
“No,” he says, throat thick. Something molten sinks through the layers of his insides as he realises George knows. He braces himself as subtly as he can, preparing for some kind of speech about how he needs to back off and know his place.
George takes his hand. It was resting palm-down on his knee, and George slips his own hand under it and threads their fingers together. Sapnap feels like maybe he should put up some kind of fight, pull back and push away, but George’s hand is small and cold in his and it feels like it fits far too perfectly.
“Dream’s coming over to my house later. Do you wanna join us?”
Sapnap can’t muster the words to answer. He should say no, because he figures he knows how this will go: George will tell Dream about Sapnap’s stupidly transparent crush and Dream will cut Sapnap out of his life and George will rejoice, boyfriend securely in hand and in love. Sapnap doesn’t really deserve to be upset about it. He wonders if he can argue his case enough for Dream to want to keep him around as a little kicked-puppy friend, inching the lines back until they’re at a comfortable distance. He’ll take what he can get, the same as he always has.
“Dream’s gonna drive me home so I’ll tell him to wait for you as well. I’ve gotta go, I’ll see you later,” George says. He lifts his hand, still entwined with Sapnap’s, before suddenly dropping it. He smiles sheepishly before ducking off. Sapnap’s hand hovers in the air. He’s hung out with Dream and George long enough to learn their little goodbye routine of George kissing Dream’s hand. His hand is shaking.
The rest of the day passes in a stuttering staccato, time slowing and speeding, imbued with a panicked frenzy.
The scribbled pieces of paper are still tucked into his phone case, poisonous lyrics hidden behind the red plastic. He should’ve been smarter. He should’ve tethered himself in, the way he always has, keeping the leash tight, keeping his feelings and thoughts and symptoms in check. He’s gotten sloppy and now he’s facing the consequences. Real people don’t get happy endings. Real people settle. By this definition, neither George nor Dream are real people, but he figures that fits. They’re angels in the purple-prose part of his brain, it may as well translate over to the poetic justice of life.
He feels like he’s concussed, maybe, because the day drags on and on but the memories trickle straight out of his ears and as he’s walking to the parking lot the last thing can recall is George almost lifting his hand to his lips and the shudder-stop fumble of his heart as it happened.
George is already in the front seat, window rolled down so the music spills out, a steady hum of rap. Sapnap clambers into the backseat and clutches his bag to his chest like it’s a shield. They’re mid-conversation and don’t stop to acknowledge him beyond a nod (George) and a smile (Dream). Sapnap lets his head fall forward till it’s resting on his arms, crossed across the top of his bag. They set off and he’s never really gotten carsick before but nausea is bubbling up in him now. He fiddles with the zippers of his bag and tries to focus on his breathing.
They arrive way too quickly. George opens the car door for him and Sapnap can’t help but feel like he’s being lead to his execution. George offers him a fleeting smile that Sapnap can’t be bothered to return. He feels heavy all over, steeped in stone.
They end up in Dream’s room, George on the bed, Dream on the desk chair, Sapnap hovering in the doorway. Ordinarily he’d sit on the floor leaning against Dream’s legs, or sling his arm around George’s shoulder, but he’s trying to build a case for himself and actions speak louder than words.
“Come lie down,” George says, and Sapnap glances towards Dream, who’s looking at him expectantly. “Sapnap. Come lie down.”
“Oh,” Sapnap says, dropping his bag on the floor and walking slowly towards the bed. George shuffles along and lifts the blanket up. Sapnap perches on the edge of the bed.
“Lie down,” Dream suggests. “You look like a wreck, dude, you should take a nap.”
George’s hand lands on his shoulder and Sapnap can’t help his flinch. The contact is withdrawn immediately, and Sapnap flops onto his side. George pulls the blankets over him. Tears build up in Sapnap’s throat and he curves himself inwards, tucking his face under the blankets.
“We’ll wake you up when the food gets here,” George says. “You just rest for now.”
Sapnap can’t do much besides follow the orders. The voices are muffled by the blankets and he figures he may as well make the most of the last few moments of comfort he gets. He probably won’t be allowed to cozy up in Dream’s bed after this. It would be weird and wrong, probably. It is weird and wrong, probably, but he was offered it, and he’s easily selfish enough to take the opportunity.
He doesn’t sleep, just lies there in a soft haze, listening to their hushed voices. The blanket pulled over his head muffles them enough that he can’t hear what they’re saying, which is probably for the best. He’s glad they’ve given him this final nicety. Maybe they think he’ll cry easier if he’s tired, and it’ll be harder to kick him out if he’s crying. It’s like the last supper, or some shit. The comfort feels like — and is — a finality.
He sinks into it anyway, lets their soft voices wash over him like warm blue waves, ignoring the faint sting of the salt in his wounds.
He hears the door open after a while, someone leaving and then returning, and then he’s being gently shaken.
He groans, the way he always does when Dream wakes him up, because he told him once that he thought it was cute.
It’s George, though, who peels back the covers.
”Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” he says.
Sapnap hopes he can attribute the redness of his cheeks to the disorientation of being woken up, or maybe the warmth of being burritoed in a blanket.
“Did you have a good sleep?” Dream asks. He’s sitting cross legged at the end of the bed, a bag of delivered food in front of him.
“Yeah,” Sapnap says, or tries to; his voice chafes in his throat.
Dream pulls a bottle from the bag and holds it out. George takes it while Sapnap is trying to wrestle his arms free. He tamps down his disappointment, sitting up, shuffling as subtly as he can away from George.
He realises the positions are wrong. He’s commandeered the bed, taking Dream’s rightful place next to George, leaving Dream to sit awkwardly where Sapnap should be. He’s not sure how to fix it though, or how if he even should — he’s going soon, right? The not-quite nap has dulled him down, and it’s hard trying to fight through the spongy-mouthed sleep thats settled veil-like over his face.
George presses the bottle into his hands. It’s cold, not shockingly so but enough to spark him up enough to start listing counterpoints in his head. He’s been Dreams friend since he was eleven; surely he deserves to keep at least some small part of him.
“Drink it, idiot,” George says, nudging him into raising the bottle to his lips.
He takes an obedient sip, and then several more desperate gulps, suddenly realising how thirsty he is. It’s some kind of sports drink, strawberry flavoured.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. George gently takes the drink from him to screw the cap back on.
“Feel better?” Dream asks. “I got you a burger, are you hungry?”
“Um,” Sapnap says, automatically taking the paper-wrapped burger Dream holds out.
As he’s peeling off the rustling paper, a box of fries is set on the bed and squirted with ketchup.
“Do you want to eat and talk, or talk after we’ve eaten?” George asks, unwrapping his own burger.
“Um,” Sapnap says again, because he’d like a few more minutes of indistinct happiness, but the nausea that rises at the thought of what they’re going to talk about sends a pulse of anxiety through him, worrying that he’ll throw up. “Can we talk and then eat?”
There’s a pause, which is understandable, given that they’ve probably planned for the talk to end with kicking him out.
“I can just —“ he begins, right as George says, “Sure.”
Go on, Sap?” Dream prompts.
Sapnap just shrugs, his reassurance that he can just take his burger and go withering in his throat.
“I thought you might feel better if you ate, that’s all,” George says. His voice is steady and certain, like always, but there’s a definitive tenderness to it, like he knows he’s about to break Sapnap’s heart and he wants to do it as kindly as possible. He still wants to do it, though, or needs to.
Sapnap shrugs again. “Today has been… long. I don’t feel very well.”
He watches George’s slender fingers unscrew the cap, press the bottle into his hands. He takes a sip, holds it in his mouth, swallows. George offers him the cap and he screws it back on with fumbling fingers.
“We can talk tomorrow,” George says. His voice has a cotton candy sweetness to it, cloying and corrosive against the ache of Sapnap’s teeth, stomach, head.
“Tomorrow?” he echoes. He imagines having to go home and sleep on this, tossing and turning under suffocating, too-thin blankets, suffocating, too-thin dreams.
“If you want,” Dream says.
“We can talk now,” Sapnap says. The softness of his voice is entirely opposite to that of George’s; a threadbare blanket to George’s velvet feather-down.
“Okay,” Dream says.
There’s a silence. Sapnap pulls an errant piece of lettuce from his burger and nibbles at it, just to have something to do.
“Do you want to go, Dream?” George asks.
“You’re the one who’s got it all figured out,” Dream says, and Sapnap can hear the shape of his smile, plunging into his stomach with a sickening squelch. So there are no qualms, no arguments, no problems from Dream.
“Okay. So, Sapnap. Dream and I were talking about some things that we noticed, and we wanted to run it by you.”
George pauses, clearly waiting for some kind of response, some sort of reaction, but Sapnap is frozen with a pulsating panic that beats just out of rhythm with his heart.
“You’re a very good songwriter,” George says, and maybe Sapnap was wrong. Maybe he is cruel, not just knowing where the knife is but having the gall, the strength, the desire to seize it, press it deeper, twist it.
“Sapnap?”Dream says, a confusion in his voice that Sapnap wishes he could clear. Look up, smile. He doesn’t have the energy, and even then if he did he doesn’t need Dream seeing the stinging shimmer of his eyes. “It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to be scared.”
Sapnap nods tightly.
Dream shifts the box of fries aside, shuffles forward, places his hand on Sapnap’s knee, the contact dulled by the blankets.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Dream repeats. Sapnap reaches out carefully, as if George is a t-rex, unable to see slow movement. But Dream realises what he wants almost immediately, and his hand shoots out to seize Sapnap’s. His grip is big and warm and comfortable as ever, but there’s an underlying dread rubbing at every fizzing nerve ending, because what if this is the last time Sapnap ever gets to hold Dream’s hand?
He half-expects George to snap at him to let go, keep his hands to himself and his thoughts away from Dream, away from things that are already cherished, already spoken for, but the room is filled once more with a silence that crackles with the rush of distant traffic.
“Okay,” George says, again, and he’s tried several times know to state his point but Sapnap keeps derailing the conversation with his squeezing selfishness. “Look, let’s just cut to the chase.”
He pulls his phone out, taps at it for a few moments.
Sapnap wonders what he’s doing. It becomes clear as soon as he speaks, each word feeling like a nail thrust into Sapnap’s stomach and tugged roughly out, letting the acid spill out and eat his insides alive as George reads his own lyrics out to him, all puppy love and desperate hopeless waiting and wanting.
“You wrote that about Dream,” George continues. He reads again, the lyrics Sapnap wrote for Dream to sing on Valentine's Day, and it feels like a eulogy, like a death sentence, like termites chewing up the foundations of Sapnap’s body. “You wrote that about me.”
“Dream asked me to,” Sapnap says.
“But I’m the one you told about being scared of flying,” George says. “I asked Dream about it and he didn’t know. And then you put it in a love song.”
“I was just trying to think of good things about you,” Sapnap says. “I didn’t want to write some generic stuff about how you look. Love songs should be about feelings, and moments, and they’re not— you can’t really ghostwrite love songs about a random person, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Lucky I’m not random,” George grins. “Lucky you love me.”
The tears that have been building up behind Sapnap’s eyes finally spill over. “You don’t have to be mean about it,” he says, voice wobbling, and he feels stupid and small. “You could’ve just told me to fuck off. I would’ve. You know that I would’ve,” he says to Dream with a painful laugh. “I’d pull my own teeth out if you asked me to.”
He tries to detangle himself from the blankets, clamber out of the bed, but Dream’s hand tightens around his and George wraps a lithe arm around his shoulders, pulling him back. He only had the energy to fight back for a few seconds before slumping down, cheeks damp with tears.
Dream shifts forward, kneeling in front of him. Sapnap closes his eyes as Dream brushes his thumb under his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears, but they're persistent. George has pulled Sapnap against him, slumped sideways so his head rests on George’s shoulder.
He focusses on the pressure of Dream’s hand in his, squeezing lightly, trying to ground himself. Dream tightens his grips in return, giving up on his Herculean task to hold Sapnap’s other hand instead.
“Sap, what George was trying say is that we like you,” Dream says.
Sapnap’s eyes fly open.
“What?” he says, and he means to snap it, sort of, but it comes out weak anyway, shocked and small.
“I’m sorry,” George says. “I went about this really badly, obviously. I thought it was — I thought it would be funny, I didn’t realise you’d find it mean. I’m really sorry.”
“You like me,” Sapnap says, stronger but just as unbelieving. “You both like me?”
“Yes,” George says. “Dream’s liked you for forever. I only realised when you wrote the song for me, and I thought it was really sweet, and it sent the cogs turning. No one’s ever done anything like that for me. And you’re… you’ve always been so nice to me, even though I know it must’ve been difficult to see Dream with someone else.”
“I was kind of awful to you at first,” Sapnap argues.
“We were awful to each other,” George corrects. “It was banter, it was fun. Everyone is always way too nice to me, it was refreshing. I like arguing with you about dumb stuff.”
“Oh,” Sapnap says. “I guess it’s lucky that you have such terrible opinions about everything, then.”
George laughs, pretty as ever, and Dream’s deep chuckle is enough to make Sapnap give a few wet giggles, tugging his hand free so he can scrub at the tears with his sweater paws. He’s still crying, a bit, so he gives up in favour of taking Dream’s hand again.
Dream’s thumbs rub circles on the back of his hands, and George’s hand strokes little up-and-down movements on his shoulder. He can feel all the fear and tension that have been building the past few days and hours and minutes slowly dissipating, soothed away by steady movement and soft murmurs, and eventually his soft sobs dwindle into shaky breaths.
Dream squeezes his hands and says, “You’re the most special person in the world to me.”
“Hey!” George protests mildly.
“Well, you’re George,” Dream says, with a laugh. “But Sap, you’ve been with me for forever. I wouldn’t be who I am today without you, and I’m sure you wouldn’t be you without me either. We’re all tangled up in each other, and I wouldn’t change that for the world. I don’t really have all the fancy words like you do, but I love you so so much, and I’m going to do every single thing I can to make sure you remember that.”
He brings Sapnap’s hand up and presses a soft kiss to his knuckles.
“You’re gonna make me cry again,” Sapnap whispers.
“Don’t cry,” Dream says. “You’ll make me cry.”
“You say that like he’s just doing it to spite you,” George says. “We should talk about things, probably, so we avoid any more tears.”
“George is scared of people crying,” Dream stage-whispers. “He thinks he’s bad at comforting people even though he’s actually really good at it.”
“Shut up,” George says, lightly whacking Dream’s shoulder.
“It made him smile, George, you can’t be mad at me for making him smile.”
“I guess not. You do have a very pretty smile.”
“Pretty blush, as well,” Dream says. “So do you wanna be our boyfriend?”
Sapnap splutters, trying to cover his face with his hands, but Dream won’t let him hide.
“Say yes,” Dream says, shaking their connected hands enthusiastically “Say yes!”
Sapnap glances at George, who smiles and nods, seeming just as excitedly happy.
“Yes,” Sapnap says. “Yes please.”
“Good,” Dream says.
“You’re so cute,” George adds, wrapping his other arm around Sapnap to pull him into a tight hug. “And pretty. And talented. And epic.”
He presses a kiss to his cheek with each adjective, and Sapnap is mildly surprised that the heat in his face doesn’t burn George’s lips.