Archive of Our Own ^beta

meeting you.

For his whole life, Quackity has always considered himself to be somewhat of a skeptic. He doesn’t believe in superstitions or good luck charms, and supernovas are nothing to him but dead stars. As a child, he wasn’t easily manipulated; figures such as Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy never existed to him, no matter how much he was pushed into believing the opposite. Into adulthood, he’s learned that humans are selfish and only act in their own self-interest. It’s why wars and other global conflicts happen. It’s why you can never rely on anyone for too long.

Quackity also thinks that maybe he’s weak. That he doesn’t know himself at all. That all he’s ever stood for stems from nothing but overcompensation. Because despite everything, somehow, in the depths of his very being, he’s always believed in love.

It all starts in 2020, on what is the hottest day of the summer. His black hair is plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck. He has on a thin white tank top and some boxers. His skin is damp and sticks to the leather patches of his chair. He has an old floor fan set to the highest intensity pointing right at him, but it’s doing nothing but blowing hot air into his face. It’s a furnace in his dimly-lit room, and the day shows no sign of remorse, only cursing him further with its oppressive heat.

He’s sitting in the general tab of a Discord server. He’s there for an event that someone famous is doing about something important, and maybe he would care a little more if the heat wasn’t currently turning his brain to mush.

Quackity now knows that it was inevitable that their paths would’ve eventually crossed. They were both popular streamers in similar circles with similar audiences. He knew of him before, he’d heard his name passed around amongst his online friends. GeorgeNotFound is one of the fastest growing streamers right now, they'd say. And maybe in that moment, the heat had been turning him delirious because when he saw GeorgeNotFound type into the general chat of the Discord server, he’d decided right then and there, where everyone can see, to initiate a conversation.

do you know what your name in spanish is? he types.

Me? GeorgeNotFound types back almost immediately.

Quackity sits up in his chair. He has GeorgeNotFound’s attention. He hovers sweaty hands over his keyboard. He wants to make a joke, to say something funny, but, yeah it’s jorge, is all he comes up with.

GeorgeNotFound sends a thumbs up in return.

After that, he can’t help but notice every time GeorgeNotFound types something in the chat and when he does, Quackity’s fingers itch to reply with something witty. For whatever reason, Quackity feels the need to impress him.

The next day, Quackity gets brave and private messages him a Minecraft meme. It’s not a particularly funny one but still, GeorgeNotFound reacts to it with a laughing emoji, and Quackity feels pleased. Quackity starts sending him memes everyday until he finally sends one, a Breaking Bad one containing a shocked Walter White, that has GeorgeNotFound talking.

You watch Breaking Bad? Quackity sees on his phone, a message from GeorgeNotFound. He throws himself on his bed with unashamed excitement and props himself on his elbows as he opens the Discord message.

yes, Quackity replies. it’s my favorite show

Mine too! GeorgeNotFound says.

Quackity smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

who knew me and georgenotfound had so much in common, he says.

Just call me George.

ok george :)

They have a long conversation about the show after that, what they like about it, what they hate about it, and what they would do if they themselves were in some of the show’s specific situations.

did you watch the new season of better call saul? Quackity asks after many hours and after they've exhausted the topic of “Breaking Bad” dry. It’s close to four AM in Mexico which means that in the UK, it’s well into the morning of the next day. George had stayed up all night talking to him.

Yes, George answers. It was epic.

hard agree, Quackity says, his eyes starting to droop shut. He wants to continue the conversation, to keep talking to George, but he’s intoxicated with the need to sleep and every second he stays awake only sends him further into a state of inebriation. Eventually, it becomes all too much and he blacks out.

When he wakes up again the next morning, it’s to a singular message from George. 

I’m trying to get my best friend Dream to rewatch the whole show with me, George’s message from the previous night reads . I think he would like it.

At the time, Quackity had thought nothing of the message, had replied with, yeah he definitely would. 

He didn’t know just how much he would grow to resent that singular, five-lettered name, how much of a premonition that one text from George was of the bitterness to come. He didn’t know how close he and George would get, how much closer Quackity would wish they’d gotten.

Quackity’s used to intense relationships - it’s all he’s ever known. It’s a constant battle between lows and highs, isolation and attention, mornings filled with screaming matches and nights filled with sex as passionate as feeling like nothing could exist outside of the space where another naked body meets his.

To Quackity, pushing people away is easy, and staying is harder. He doesn’t know why he’s like this, he assumes it has something to do with his mind protecting his heart from heartbreak. He wishes he could go back to the day he first met George, to stop himself from ever reaching out at all, because even as he said his last goodbye to George, he still hung onto the hope that George would run after him, to want to be with him, to love him. But he never did. Because George was in love with someone else.

crush.

By October, Quackity has learned the UK in and out. He’s learned about Tescos and pub culture and has even adopted a British accent to use for fun. All for the boy who lives across the world from him.

They start streaming on the Dsmp together and it’s the most fun Quackity has had in a long time. George laughs at all of his jokes and plays along with whatever stupid skit Quackity wants to act out. He calls George kitten because it makes George roll his eyes at him. He sings annoying songs with his voice distorted by pitchy autotune because it makes George sing along as well. He tries to find all the little ways he can keep George’s attention. All he wants is George’s attention.

George texts him first a lot more now. And even if the texts are mostly all about Minecraft or television shows, Quackity is nothing but content. He gradually learns George’s personality, studies him like one of his law books. 

George is a tough person to crack. He doesn’t provide much information when Quackity asks him about past relationships and crushes. Instead, he gets defensive, saying things such as, I’ve never dated anyone before. Quackity knows it’s a load of bullshit, and it sends thrills throughout his body because it only makes him want to sink deeper into George’s mind.

There’s just something about George that entices Quackity. Quackity doesn’t know exactly what it is - he’s spent the last couple months trying to figure it out for himself. On the surface, George is strange, witty, and extremely intelligent. Quackity feels the need to tell him as much one day after they’ve finished streaming. “You’re really smart, George,” he says, as soon as George had ended the live, his face disappearing along with it. “I admire that about you.”

George only scoffs. “Okay.”

Quackity smiles. That was something else he quickly came to discover: George was a little shit. “You’re an asshole,” he tells him lightheartedly. “You’re supposed to say ‘Thank you very much, Quackity’.”

Quackity watches George’s icon on discord. It lights up green and the first thing Quackity hears is a small laugh. He then thinks he hears George messing around with something before he hears his voice again, pitched up multiple octaves declaring, “Thank you Quackity! Thank you so much!” 

Quackity cackles. George is using the GoXLR he had recently bought. Quackity had told him about it when George asked him what he used to put effects on his voice. 

To put it lightly, George is obsessed with it, using it in every stream and every call he partakes in. It should be annoying when he uses it, considering how much he does, but Quackity laughs every single time he does because to him, everything George does is funny.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” George blurts sarcastically.

And Quackity can’t help himself. “You’re welcome, George!” he answers, voice pitched up with the same setting using his own GoXLR. “You’re welcome!”

George keeps the effect on. “Yeah! Yeahhh! I am welcome!”

Quackity keeps it on as well. “That doesn’t make any sense, George!”

“Yes it does! I’m welcome and you’re thank!”

Quackity laughs, strong and full. “Yes!” he shouts back at George.

That’s the thing about the two of them. They crash together at the speed of light and cause cosmic waves of energy. The waves are infrasonic to everyone else but to Quackity and George, they’re loud and clear. Quackity has never connected with someone in this way.

(And at that point in time, Quackity didn’t even know yet just how much George would change him, how things like alternate universes and past lives would become palpable in his all-doubting brain. How Quackity would do nothing but stare at George through his gold-tinted monitor and think, There’s no way I haven’t met you before. )

“Wooo!” George continues, voice taking on a different effect. The effect causes autotune to be applied to your voice and it’s one that Quackity and George use often. “Yeah! I’m rappin’ with no beat! I’m here with Qua-cki-ty!”

“Yeah!” Quackity hypes him up, his voice still high-pitched. “Pop off, George!”

“But he’s a little muffin! ‘Cause he’s not using the Quackity button!”

Quackity pauses. “What did you just call it?” he asks, and winces when he realizes his voice is still high-pitched. He suddenly wishes they were having this conversation without the dumb voice effects.

“The Quackity button!” George sings back, as if he knew just how much him calling it that sent Quackity’s heart fluttering.

“That’s…” Quackity starts, but trails off. That’s cute, he wants to say, and Oh no.

He looks down at his hands where they rest on his lap as he realizes that they’re balled into tight fists. He relaxes them and slowly stretches out his fingers and sees eight smile-shaped divots staring back on his palms.

I like George, he realizes.

Quackity makes sure to remove the high-pitched effect from his voice. “That’s thoughtful,” he finally says for a lack of a better word.

“Right! So was your mum last night!” George yell-raps, still in a hyped mood. And the contrast is so ridiculous that it shakes Quackity out of his head and back into the present.

After that, talking to George starts to take up more and more of his day. They grow closer as friends and for a few months, everything is perfect.

best friend.

By the time December rolls around, Quackity considers George to be his best friend. He thinks that George may consider him his best friend too. 

It’s almost time for Quackity’s finals and he’s been doing nothing the whole week but waking up, studying, streaming, and then going back to sleep. He’s drained and burned out and when he saw that he’d received a failing grade on his political science essay an hour ago, it had been enough for him to vent out about how stressed he was into the Feral Boys group chat on Discord. Upon seeing the message, Dream, Sapnap, and George had immediately started a call to help him get his mind off of everything.

And it’s working. Just maybe not in the way they intended.

Quackity slumps his body down on his chair and rests his head back on the headrest as he stares up at his popcorn ceiling. His mind had been a marathon today, but right now, the only thing running through it are the quiet noises of Dream and George giggling to each other.

“You’re an idiot, George,” Quackity hears Dream say out-of-the-blue, and despite the harsh words, it doesn’t sound much like an insult at all.

“Why is he an idiot?” Sapnap asks.

Dream giggles. “Nothing,” he replies, and then George giggles a few seconds later.

They’re all quiet for about a minute before George giggles again.

“Oh my God,” Dream says almost at the same time. “You’re literally the biggest idiot.”

“What’s going on?” Sapnap asks, sounding exasperated.

In between his giggles, Dream says again, “Nothing,” and then, “George is just being an idiot.”

Quackity remembers the first time he’d experienced Dream and George in their own little world. It was during their very first voice call they had together as a group.

are they always like this? he’d messaged Sapnap privately.

pretty much, yeah, Sapnap said.

it’s kind of annoying, Quackity added.

tell me about it, Sapnap had replied.

Quackity thinks he has it figured out. “Are you two playing a game?” he asks, but gets no response. 

Instead, George gasps. “Dream, stop,” he begs. “Dream, no. Stop. Stop, Dream! Stop-”

“Yes!” Dream cheers. “Easy!”

“Again,” George says.

“No,” Dream replies. “I won fair and square.”

“Fine. Come this way, then.”

“Where?”

“Over here, Dream, stop being an idiot.”

Dream laughs. “How am I being an idiot? I can’t even see where you are.”

“No, you’re going the wrong way, Dream!” George complains.

“I don’t know where you are!” Dream repeats.

“Oh my God. Dream! This way - okay no. Just forget it.”

“Why did you leave the game, George?”

“‘Cause you were acting dumb.”

“How was I acting dumb?”

“I could see you, Dream, you were going the wrong way.”

“You’re an idiot. I literally couldn’t see you.”

“How am I the idiot?”

“Oh my God,” Sapnap intervenes. “Just shut the hell up already.”

~~~

“You know who’s so hot?” Sapnap starts, and Quackity rolls his eyes. It’s a bit later in the day and they’re still in the same call. Karl had joined at one point asking if they were going to stream and left when they told him no. “Selena Gomez.”

“Yeah, she’s alright,” Dream says.

“No, I don’t think you understand, Dream,” Sapnap continues. “Like she is so fucking hot. She has to be one of the hottest women out there. Ten out of ten.”

“Isn’t she, like, thirty?” George asks.

“That’s rude, George,” Dream lightly reprimands.

“No,” George says, and then laughs at the way he has to defend himself. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, like, aren’t you a bit too young for her, Sapnap?”

“I’ll be any fucking age she wants me to be,” Sapnap replies. Then he adds, “Wait, she’s not that far from your age, George.”

“I guess,” George says.

“Oh my God,” Dream gasps sarcastically. “George is trying to get with Selena Gomez?”

George scoffs. “How does me being close to her age equate to me wanting to get with her?”

“But you do think she’s really hot at least,” Sapnap argues. “Come on, you have to. Right?”

George chokes out a laugh and it sounds forced. But Quackity can’t tell if he’s hearing things or not. “I don’t know,” George treads carefully. “I like her music.”

“Yeah,” Sapnap hoots. “I’m sure you like her music.”

Quackity makes a face. Straight men are ridiculous.

“Whatever guys,” Sapnap surrenders. “Y’all just don’t have good taste.”

“George thinks I’m hot,” Dream suddenly says, and Quackity can’t stop the cringe from tensing up his body.

“What?” George and Sapnap say at the same time. Sapnap sounds confused while George sounds embarrassed.

“It’s true,” Dream says. “He told me before the call.”

“I did not,” George counters.

“He’s literally never seen you,” Quackity speaks up for the first time in a while. “So how can he think you’re hot?”

“He just does,” Dream says. 

“George, are you gonna let him slander you like that?” Quackity asks.

“What? How is that slander?” Dream argues. “It’s literally the truth.”

“Alright then,” Quackity huffs lightly. “How about we let George answer for himself?”

“Fine,” Dream says. “Tell them, George. Tell them that you think I’m hot.”

But George doesn’t say anything.

“Woah, George is quiet,” Sapnap says.

“That means he does,” Dream states proudly.

“George,” Quackity reasons, “you have literally never seen this guy.”

“George isn’t shallow, Quackity,” Dream tells him. “Looks aren’t everything to him.”

Quackity sits up in his chair. “It’s one thing to think that looks aren’t everything, and it’s another thing to call someone that you’ve never seen before ‘hot’.”

“I never even said that,” George is quick to say.

“Oh, come on, George,” Dream teases, and Quackity feels a sour taste suddenly enter his mouth at the tone Dream uses. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying!” George says.

“See,” Quackity boasts. “He thinks you’re ugly.”

“Well,” Dream says. “He never said that.”

Quackity puffs his chest up even though no one can see him. “And he never said you’re hot either.”

“What is this argument?” Sapnap asks, but his words go unanswered because Dream starts speaking again.

“You wouldn’t know,” Dream says. “George doesn’t talk about these things with you.”

“He does,” Quackity lies. “He actually told me the other day that he thinks I’m hot.”

“Oh my God,” George groans.

“That’s literally not true,” Dream asserts. “I would know because George tells me everything.”

Quackity smiles feeling like he has the upper-hand. “Well not everything obviously.”

“Who’s hotter, George?” Dream asks abruptly. “Me or Quackity?”

“What?” George asks, incredulous.

“Who’s hotter?” Dream repeats.

“And keep in mind,” Quackity adds, “that you have literally never seen Dream in your life.”

“Keep in mind, George,” Dream counters, “that you’ve only seen Quackity at 480hp ‘cause of his shitty camera. So you’ve never really seen him, to be fair.”

“Keep in mind,” Quackity continues, “that you’ve still seen more of me than you’ve seen of him.”

Dream laughs. “Keep in mind that Quackity’s probably a quarter of my height.”

“Keep in mind that Dream’s a fucking dick.” They bicker like this a lot. And it’s fun. But this time it feels different. There’s a weird tension in the air and Quackity knows that everyone can feel it. He doesn’t back down though, and while what he just said might’ve been a little harsh, he doesn’t regret it.

“I think,” George finally says, “that you both are annoying.”

And that’s the end of the argument. At least Quackity thinks it is.

Dream seems to want to continue, however, because he says, “You know what’s annoying, George? That you literally never go on TeamSpeak anymore.”

“How is that annoying?” George asks.

“Because,” Dream says. “You’re always on Discord now. And you’re always in a stupid “Sex Havers” call or in a call with Quackity and I can’t just join.” 

Quackity can’t help it. “Then don’t join.”

“Yeah, you would like that,” Dream says.

“Dream,” George cuts in before anything can escalate again. “If you just text me and ask me to add you to the call, then I’ll add you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to have to ask,” Dream complains.

“Why not?” George asks. “You’re acting like I would say no.”

“You might.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“No, you’re an idiot.”

Not this again.

“You’re a bigger idiot,” George says.

“Okay, technically,” Dream giggles, and suddenly, all the earlier tension is gone from his voice, “ technically, I am taller than you. So by that definition, then I am the ‘bigger’ idiot.”

George giggles as well. “You’re a huge idiot. A gigantic idiot.”

“And you’re a small idiot. A tiny, little-”

Quackity leaves the call.

~~~

Quackity wouldn’t say he’s jealous or anything. Definitely not. George is allowed to have other friends. He knows he can’t be the only person George talks to, no matter how much he wants to be. 

But Dream has George’s phone number. And no matter how much Quackity asks George if he can have it as well, George refuses to give it to him.

“Do you like Dream more than me?” Quackity asks him one day when they’re streaming. They’d been arguing about the topic for over a week now. George probably didn’t want the argument on stream, but Quackity had selfishly thought that maybe George would’ve been more willing to give him his phone number with pressure from his audience.

But George wasn’t budging.

The green and blue colors of the minecraft world reflect in his eyes as Quackity watches George tell him that there are moments where Dream needs him. That George has Dream’s calls go through his Do Not Disturb. That George, who Quackity knows hates being woken up, lets Dream reach him at all hours of the day, under the guise that they just need each other sometimes.

give me your phone #, Quackity messages him later that night.

He doesn’t get an answer for a long time and it bothers him more than it should. He knows George is awake right now.

dream has it, Quackity adds after a few hours. why can he have it and not me?

I’ve already explained to you why he has it, George replies almost instantly. 

but im your best friend, Quackity argues. what kind of best friends don’t have each other’s phone number?

Dream is my best friend.

so am i

Why do you want my phone number so bad?

Quackity doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he’s been making a bigger deal out of this than he should. Especially when they already do all of their talking and messaging on Discord. It’s pointless to have George’s phone number.

All he knows is that he’s not jealous. Not of Dream or of anyone. 

~~~

He doesn’t feel the sour taste in his mouth again until another stream they do towards the end of the month.

The topic of best friends had come up. 

“You can only have one best friend. Otherwise,” George had explained, “it’s not the best.”

Quackity wanted to agree. It made perfect sense in his logic-wired brain. But he couldn’t when he knew exactly who George was thinking about when he said that.

He’d tried to swallow the sour taste down but it only caused something ugly to bloom to life inside of him.

He can’t help but get upset when he’s treated like a second choice. Like he’s a doormat for people to clean their shoes on when they need it. Like he’s a passing thought not worth holding onto because there’s a better conversation to be held instead.

But he knows that’s not what George is doing. George is nothing if not a wonderful friend. It’s the ugly thing inside of him making him think a certain way. 

All he wants to be is important to George.

spanish lessons.

The New Year arrives, like it always does, in flashing colors. 

When he was little, his cousins would all go into their grandma’s front yard and shoot fireworks into the sky. His mother would never let him join them, claiming that he was too young to light matches; still, he would watch the fireworks from the living room window, marveling at the way they would explode in the sky. 

It took Quackity his whole life to light up the same way. Being a gay kid in a latino country with Catholic parents was the perfect formula for a lifetime of repression. The bible had told him when he was way too young that men shouldn’t lie with men, and he lived his entire childhood thinking he was doomed for Hell because of it.

He knows now that no one is that important, that an all-powerful deity in the sky doesn’t care whether you suck dick or not. He’s been with men. Older men. Men who would put his drug-addicted father to shame. 

His days of watching fireworks at his grandmother’s house are over. He’s watching them now from his own bedroom window instead. He’d usually have people over, to drink, dance, and forget with, but the pandemic had rendered him lonely for the night.

Twelve grapes sit on a small plate in front of him, las doce uvas de suerte. It’s a hispanic tradition he hasn’t taken part in for years. You eat a grape for each month of the year as soon as the clock hits twelve. You then reflect on the year you had and thank God for all his blessings. 

He’s a bit too late to properly take part in the tradition now as it’s thirty-two minutes past midnight, but he eats each grape anyway. As he does so, he thinks of 2020 and what it brought him. He thinks of how much bigger his platform got. He thinks about how many doors opened up for him. He thinks about all the mistakes he made. He thinks about how much he grew. He thinks of the people he met. He thinks of one person. 

He thinks of George.

~~~

“I’ve been wanting to learn Spanish,” George says one day before a stream, and Quackity had formed a plan in his head before George had even pressed the “Go Live” button. It was the perfect opportunity to spend more time with George, he’d thought.

He tells George after the stream to move into a call where it’s just the two of them. He tells him he’ll teach him Spanish.

“Oh, you don’t have to actually teach me,” George tells him, always so kind and considerate. “I don’t wanna waste your time.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Quackity offers. “I want to do this.”

“Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, Quackity asks, “Do you know how to say ‘hello’?”

“Hola,” George answers.

“Okay, what about ‘what is your name’?”

“Cómo te llamas.”

“How old are you?”

“Cuántos años tienes.”

Quackity is suprised. “Wait, you already know basic phrases?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know much of anything else, though.”

“How much do you want to know?”

“Enough to be able to hold a small conversation.”

“Hmm,” Quackity thinks, “okay, let’s try to have a conversation then.”

They go back and forth, George slowly learning whatever phrase Quackity throws at him.

“Te ves muy feo,” Quackity says about thirty minutes into their conversation.

“You look very…” George translates. “What is ‘feo’?”

“Ugly.”

George starts laughing. “Te ves muy feo,” he repeats giddily, like he’s a child that’s just been taught a curse word. “Te ves muy feo,” he says again.

“Alright, alright,” Quackity sighs, but he’s not annoyed, could never be annoyed at George. “What would you say if someone told you that?”

“I would say,” George starts, and Quackity can imagine him resting his pointer finger on his chin, taking on a pensive pose. “I would say, ‘Te ves muy feo too’.”

Quackity smiles. George is just so cute. “No George,” he says. “You wouldn’t say that. They would call you a gringo.”

“Ugh,” George complains. “Fine. Tell me what I would say.”

“Well, you would probably insult that person back.”

George gasps. “Teach me insults. Quackity, teach me all the insults.”

“ All the insults, George? We’d be here forever.”

“You said you would teach me Spanish.” That’s another thing he was quick to learn about George. He’s cautious but when given permission, he takes. He takes and takes.

“Fine,” Quackity relents. “There’s this really important insult that’s used a lot in Mexico that you need to know if you’re ever gonna come here. Okay? It’s ‘Chinga tu madre’.”

“Chinga tu madre,” George repeats. “What does that mean?”

“Um,” Quackity thinks. He’s never really thought of it before. “I guess it means ‘Go fuck your mother’.”

“What?” George shouts.

“No no no,” Quackity quickly interjects. “It sounds weird in English.”

“Woah, Mexico’s kinda… sus,” George jokes. Then he blurts, “Wait! Teach me how to say ‘sus’!”

Quackity rolls his eyes but his face holds a smile. “There’s not really a direct translation for that, George.”

“So what do you guys say when you play Among Us then?”

“We just say ‘sus’.”

George gets distracted after that as he starts meowing the Among Us song. Usually, Quackity would join in, but right now he’s happy to just sit and listen. 

“Pendejo,” Quackity says after a while.

“What was that?”

“Pendejo. It’s like calling someone a dumbass.”

“Pendejo,” George repeats.

“Then there’s ‘culero’ which means asshole.”

“Culero.”

Quackity thinks for a moment. He hesitates slightly before saying, “Then there’s ‘cariño’.”

“Cariño. What does that one mean?”

“It means stupid,” Quackity lies. “There’s also ‘amor’ which means idiot.”

“Amor,” George says, and it sounds beautiful rolling off of his tongue. “Amor, amor,” he says again and again.

“Te amo,” Quackity whispers. But George doesn’t repeat it like he thought he would.

He only laughs. “You’re tricking me now. I know what that one means. It means ‘I love you’. I’m the smartest,” he continues between laughs. “You really thought you could trick me, didn’t you? I’m not repeating that one.”

“You got me, George,” he plays along, knowing he got George with cariño and amor, two pet names meaning dear and love, respectively.

“I know,” George states. “I’m literally the goat. How do you say ‘I am the goat’ in Spanish?”

Quackity just wants to hear him say it. Aches for it. Even if George wont know what it means. “Eres mi mejor amigo,” Quackity lies again. “That’s how you say that you’re the goat.”

But George is suspicious of him. “I don’t believe you. What does that mean? What were you trying to make me say?”

Quackity doesn’t tell him.

nuisance.

It’s March now, and George starts texting him and voice calling him first. Quackity’s crush only grows.

George messages him one day telling him to join a call.

“What’s up?” Quackity asks when George’s colorful Discord icon appears right next to his own.

“I was just bored,” George says, and of course, he has to add, “Dream went to sleep.”

“Isn’t it pretty late in the UK? Why aren’t you sleeping too?”

“I’m not tired.” Then George sighs like he’s irritated. “I told Dream to stay up but apparently he was just so tired that he just had to go to sleep.”

Quackity chuckles weakly. “Just let the man sleep, George.”

“No,” George states stubbornly.

“Why not?”

“Because we’ve been in sync for the past couple of weeks and now he’s gone and ruined it.”

Quackity frowns and his stomach twists. He’s scared to ask. “You guys sync up your sleep schedules?”

“Yeah,” George says, like it’s a normal thing to do with your bro.

“Why?”

“‘Cause we want to.”

Quackity sighs. Just another thing to add to the list of things Dream has over him. “But you’ll see him again tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but then it’s annoying because we have to wait for the other to wake up.”

“Jesus Christ,” Quackity whispers, and he hopes his scowl isn’t evident in his voice.

“What?”

“You guys don’t need to talk to each other every second of the day.”

“We don’t talk to each other every second of the day.”

“Oh, right,” Quackity says sarcastically. He’s feeling petty. “He allows me to see you for a couple seconds. But after that, it’s right back to Dream.”

George doesn’t say anything.

There is a long stretch of silence in the call after that and admittedly, it’s a bit uncomfortable for Quackity. He’s not used to sitting in silence with someone for so long.

“You do this all the time,” Quackity states. 

“Do what?”

“You want me to join a call with you but you don’t have anything to say. Why do you wanna sit in this call if we aren’t gonna talk about anything?”

“It’s what I do with Dream-”

“Alright,” Quackity interjects loudly and with annoyance. He thinks he’s heard enough about Dream. “Let’s do something,” he proposes. “Let’s stream.”

After that, they start to stream all the time. They do a stream where he teaches George Spanish. They also have a mukbang and read fanfiction and they even end up writing a diss track about Dream. 

It’s nothing but laughter and fun. And the best part of it is that it’s just the two of them.

Except slowly, that changes, and it becomes not just the two of them anymore. George starts to quietly add Dream to their calls while they stream and Dream will sit there muted. Quackity had finally found something to do with just George and him and yet, Dream still infiltrates the space like an intruder.

He’s projected and called Dream jealous on stream multiple times, mocking him for the way he demands George’s time. 

But it’s not like he can really blame Dream. Shit, if Quackity was in Dream’s position, he’d probably be acting the same exact way. There was just something about George, something that was so easy to fall in love with.

They’re in a voice call one day and George had, of course, added Dream to the call. George never asks Quackity if it’s okay for Dream to join them, but he supposes that George wouldn’t think Quackity has a problem with it. Why would he? Dream is supposed to be his friend too.

“What is it?” George asks when he notices that Quackity is quiet. George notices things like that.

“Nothing,” Quackity says, even though everything is wrong. Quackity wants to tell him that he’s bummed that Dream is in the call with them. He and George hadn’t had any alone time together in almost two weeks.

“You sure?” George asks.

“Yeah,” Quackity lies, because how can he tell the truth when Dream is right there with them?

“You’re lying,” George tells him, seeing right through him.

“No, I’m not, George.”

“Yes, you are,” George presses.

Quackity sighs. “George, I’m not.”

“Tell me,” George says.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh my God, George, you’re fucking annoying.”

“Tell me,” George repeats evenly.

“No, George, I’m not telling you.”

“Tell me.” George is like a robot.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Quackity’s dumb,” Dream suddenly says, and Quackity’s mood gets even worse. “He just admitted that something is wrong, he’s just not gonna tell you what it is. He lied to you, George.”

“Oh!” George laughs, delighted. “You lied. You actually lied.”

“I didn’t fucking lie, George.” The argument isn’t fun.

“You did lie. Tell him he lied, Dream.”

“You lied,” Dream says.

Quackity frowns. “Shut the fuck up, Dream.”

“That’s mean,” Dream says.

“Yeah, good,” Quackity spits.

And Dream and George laugh, too busy wrapped up in each other that they don’t notice that Quackity isn’t laughing along with them.

~~~

When May hits, the days get a lot longer and he sees the sun a lot more. He sees Dream a lot more. It’s a rare occurrence that George doesn’t add Dream to their calls, only not doing so if Dream is too busy or asleep. 

Just a few months ago, when it was still cold enough outside for his front lawn to shine with morning dew, it was just him and George. Back then, Dream would never insert himself into their conversations. But ever since George gave him the green light, all Quackity had to do was start a call with George and Dream came running, demanding to be let in the call as well.

Quackity doesn’t talk to Dream as much as he used to. There were times back at the end of last year when he and Dream would talk in a voice channel alone. They had a lot in common. They had the same sense of humor. They had a lot of the same familial problems. They had a similar drive and motivation to do big things in their careers. 

So he can’t bring himself to hate Dream. He doesn’t think he could ever hate Dream. 

Quackity just wants his one-on-one time with George back.

One day, it just so happens that they’re in a call without Dream.

“You should come soon,” Quackity says. They’re discussing the possibility of George meeting up with him in Mexico. 

They’d talked about meeting up before. A while ago, George had even gotten mad at Quackity because he’d said during a stream that he wanted to go to the UK and meet up with Wilbur. George had called him to yell at him for insinuating that Wilbur was the only one that Quackity was excited to meet. Quackity hadn’t even considered that George wanted to meet him until then.

But currently, George is ignoring him.

“Did you hear what I said?” Quackity asks him when he’s met with nothing but silence.

“What was that, sorry?” He thinks he hears George set down his phone.

“That you should come soon,” Quackity repeats, “before the summertime comes. Otherwise, it might be too hot for you.”

“I already told you,” George says. “Mexico’s not one of the countries I can visit that will let me get into the US. I could visit you in the fall when the weather gets colder again. I’m sure I’ll have my visa by then. Plus that way, Dream and Sapnap can come with me and the three of us could visit you together.”

“Yeah, but also you could come by yourself too.”

“I’m not just going to leave Dream and Sapnap in Florida to go visit you.”

“Then as soon as you’re allowed to leave the UK, come to Mexico first. Then go to Florida. That way you’re not leaving them.”

George doesn’t answer him.

“George?”

“What?” George sounds distracted. “Oh, um, yeah I don’t know. Dream, Sapnap, and I have been talking about me going to Florida for a long time. I think once the UK allows for commercial flights, then I’m probably going to go to Florida first.”

“Or I could just go to the UK.”

George doesn’t answer again. 

“George.”

“Wait, sorry,” George says. “Dream’s been texting me. I don’t think he realizes I’m in a call with you. Or else he would’ve asked to join.”

“Yeah, probably,” Quackity agrees with reluctance. He tries not to sound too disappointed when George adds Dream to their call.

~~~

Quackity’s stomach hurts and he’s almost in tears. He doesn’t think he’s ever laughed so hard at a video before. He quickly sends it to George, hoping to get the same reaction out of him.

Dream already showed me that this morning, George messages him back.

~~~

As much as Quackity didn’t think it to be possible, Dream starts to get even more possessive of George. Recently, he’s not only been joining their calls, but he’s been snatching George away as well.

Leave with me, George, Dream will say. And George can refuse, he can tell Dream that he’s content with staying in the call with Quackity. But George always chooses Dream.

~~~

One day, Quackity messages George asking him to be in one of his videos.

I can’t, George replies. I’m gonna be filming a video with Dream at that time.

okay what about later that day then?

Dream likes company while he edits sometimes so I’ll probably still be in a call with him.

how much time do you spend with Dream anyway?

A lot, I guess. He’s my best friend.

love.

Dream is sleeping. It starts to become Quackity’s favorite thing that Dream does. It means uninterrupted time in calls with George. It means Dream can’t take George away from him.

“Yes, but realistically,” George is saying, “if a man has a large dick, it’s more likely that the outline is going to be visible through their pants.”

Quackity doesn’t know how the hell they got on this topic.

“True,” Quackity says, fully engrossed in the argument regardless, “but it does depend on the type of pants they’re wearing.”

“Well, obviously. But if you looked at a man with a small dick wearing, let’s say, a pair of sweats, versus a man with a large dick, who do you think is more probable you’re gonna see their outline?”

“The man with the bigger dick,” Quackity answers.

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, but that’s only if you’re comparing two people wearing the same pants,” Quackity argues. “What you’re saying is that you can tell if someone’s dick is big or not based on just looking at their crotch.”

“You can.”

“No, you can’t, because some pants are just naturally gonna make it look like you have a big dick.”

“But if you’re looking at the same man with different pants and it consistently looks like they have a big dick, then they probably do have a big dick.”

Quackity thinks about that for a minute, but then accepts that he’s lost the argument when he doesn’t know what to rebuttal with. This isn’t the first time they’ve had a conversation of this nature. It’s also not the second or third or maybe even the tenth, and for someone who Quackity thought was straight, George sure does talk about dick a lot.

“Do you see yourself getting married?” Quackity asks suddenly, a complete shift of what the conversation was.

George makes a noise he frequently does. It’s a mix between a scoff and a laugh. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Quackity says. “We were just talking about literal dick prints but the topic of marriage is where you draw the line? We literally never talk about it, dude. I bet I could tell you how many times you’ve ordered McDonald’s this month, but not how many people you’ve dated. I don’t know why you’re so secretive about this stuff.”

“I’m not secretive about anything,” George says.

“Oh yeah? Okay. Then tell me how long your last relationship was.”

“I don’t remember,” George answers stubbornly after a slight pause.

“You’re a liar, George.”

“I’m not lying,” George lies.

Quackity rolls his eyes. He thinks that George would rather die than be emotionally vulnerable, even for a second. “My last relationship lasted two years,” Quackity admits. “I thought I was gonna be with this person forever.”

“So what happened?” George asks. “She got sick of you?” 

He wasn’t a ‘she’, Quackity almost says, but holds his tongue. “No,” he says, “it just didn’t work out.”

“But it was two years. How were you with her for two whole years before realizing that it wasn’t going to work out?”

“I made a lot of mistakes.” Quackity resists the urge to correct the pronoun again. 

“Like what?”

Quackity swallows. “I was always worried they were gonna get sick of me and leave me. So I would constantly ask for reassurance and I would worry every time they were far from me.”

“Sounds like you were immature.”

Quackity frowns at the sudden harshness in George’s tone. “Well, I was younger, George,” he says in defense of himself.

“And it sounds like you had some attachment issues,” George continues.

“I mean, maybe, but-”

“And that’s the reason they probably left you.”

“What the fuck, George?” Quackity fumes. “Why are you being a dick?” 

George doesn’t say anything for a whole minute. Quackity narrows his eyes at George’s unmoving Discord icon, waiting for the flash of green around it. He listens as he waits for an apology, or at least an explanation. George is blunt and sarcastic, Quackity knows this, but George is not mean. Never mean.

Quackity tries to picture what the other side of the call might look like, what George is doing in his own dark, empty house. Certain sounds get picked up by George’s microphone pretty often, letting Quackity a little more into George’s quiet life. He’s heard the soft rumble of a washing machine and the faint honk of a London taxi. But right now, Quackity thinks that George may be holding his breath because he can’t even hear George breathing.

“I’m,” George starts, and he stutters, like he’s trying to find the right words to say. “I was uncomfortable,” George states softly. “The conversation made me uncomfortable. I don’t like talking about this stuff. I didn’t mean what I said. You know I didn’t. I was just uncomfortable so I was trying to make a joke but it came out the wrong way. I’m sorry.”

And just like that, Quackity isn’t angry anymore, as if he was never angry in the first place. “It’s okay, George,” he says. Because it is. He doesn’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t forgive George for.

Quackity bites his tongue. He wants to ask George why he’s always so reluctant to engage in conversations about love, but the words never even have a chance to leave his lips because George speaks up again. “I do see myself getting married,” he says, so low that it’s almost a whisper. “Not now, obviously, but…sometime in the future.”

“Really?” Quackity asks, and he doesn’t know if he’s more surprised that George sees himself getting married, or that George is actually opening up to him a little.

He wants to know more, to ask more, but he’s scared of George shutting down again. So, he treads lightly. “Would you do, like, a big wedding or a smaller one.”

“Hm,” George thinks. “Probably a smaller one. I like the idea of it being more private.”

“Same,” Quackity says.

“What about you?” George asks. “Do you want to get married?”

“Oh, me? Yeah definitely,” Quackity answers. “I’ve always wanted to.”

George chuckles lightly. “Even as a child?”

“Yes.”

Then George giggles. “Even as a fetus?”

Quackity scoffs around a smile. “Okay, you know what I meant George.”

George laughs. “Yeah, I did. I think I’ve always wanted to get married as well.”

Quackity considers that for a moment. “It’s funny, you know, ‘cause I feel like a lot of people our age don’t really want that.”

“Yeah,” George sighs, “but I’ve always seen myself with a partner.”

Quackity freezes in his chair, all his senses heightened. Partner, George said. Not wife . 

“What would she be like?” Quackity asks around a dry throat.

“Uh,” George answers, and the slight hesitancy to say anything is back in his voice. “I dunno. Nice, I guess.”

Quackity can sense George closing himself off again, and he feels hopeless for a second because he doesn’t know what caused it, or what he can do to stop it.

“I would want my partner to play video games with me,” Quackity says quickly, and almost lets out a sigh of relief when he hears George laugh.

“That’s more like your best friend,” George says, “not your partner.”

“Your partner can be your best friend, George,” Quackity reasons.

“I mean, I guess,” George says, and although his face is right next to his microphone, he sounds far away. “If you’re lucky enough.”

Quackity’s scared to breathe too loudly, as if one strong exhale would blow George away. 

“I would want to be able to talk to my partner for hours about nothing,” Quackity continues. “And for us to laugh and have fun together and understand each other like no one else does.” He’s thinking about George. He can’t help it. 

“Yeah,” George says quietly. “I think I would want my partner to be like that too.”

“My partner and I would have to adopt kids if we wanted any,” Quackity whispers.

“Y-yeah.”

“And people would probably disprove of us, but it’s okay. Because we have each other.”

“Yeah.” It’s so quiet, Quackity almost doesn’t hear it.

They end the call after that, George giving an excuse about how he has a video to edit. 

Quackity lays on his bed and stares at his popcorn ceiling, something he’s been finding himself doing way too often lately. He traces constellations into the irregular bumps. Partner, George had said. Not wife.

He tries to derail his train of thought, to shut down any idea that George might possibly be into men, that Quackity might actually have a chance with him. But he’s thirty constellation patterns in and imagining George pressed against his side. 

It’s illogical, he knows, to hang onto something as fragile and destructive as hope . But George came into his life and changed his world and left Quackity with no choice but to see everything differently.

~~~

Goodnight Q-meister, he sees on his phone a few hours later.

goodnight george, he types back, even though he’s nowhere close to falling asleep, the memory of their earlier conversation preventing him from doing so.

They have each other’s phone numbers now, it becomes the main way George reaches out to him. George sends him cute voice messages and silly pictures and he loves facetime. Quackity is more than happy to indulge him. 

Back when he met George, his dark eyes and mysterious nature is what drew him in. But finding out who George was on the inside is what made him stay. George is soft around the edges and sweet to no end. Beneath his hard exterior, he’s malleable and gooey. 

A past science teacher once told him that everyone was made of stars, that all the elements in the body have traveled the universe once, twice, three times. Quackity thinks that the star George came from was a rare one, one that sat in the center of the universe and controlled the motion of everything around it. One whose dust traveled further than anyone else’s and landed on Earth in the form of flesh and bones. It’s not about George’s status or his money or his looks. He falls in love with who George is.

confessions.

Dream is sleeping again. Or busy. Quackity can’t bring himself to care right now.

It’s a couple days after they’d talked about marriage when they get in a call again. Just the two of them. 

“And then,” George says, and he’s frantic, way too frantic for the stillness of the late night, “he did this quiz. And it was an Are you in love with your best friend quiz.”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” Quackity asks, leaning forward on his elbows. He was always one for gossip.

“Yes! In front of everyone! And I just had to sit there and listen!”

“Well, but, he’s obviously not in love with you,” Quackity reasons, although he’s really not sure of that at all. “So the quiz just said he’s not in love with you, right?”

“That’s the thing. The quiz told him that he was! At least a little bit.”

Quackity leans in closer to his computer. “Really?”

George is still frenzied, stumbling over his words like Quackity used to do when he still wasn’t confident with the English language. “Yeah - it was like - it was saying that, like, he could fall entirely in love if things keep going the way that they are right now.”

Quackity definitely doesn’t like the sound of that. “Well,” he says, “those quizzes are dumb anyways, George, so calm down. That doesn’t mean he’s actually a little in love with you. Don’t worry.”

“I know, I know,” George grunts. “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

George sighs, sharp and loud. “Some of his answers were… strange .”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, he was saying that he would be jealous if I got a partner and that he dreams about me and stuff like that. And then he kept complaining that none of the answers matched how he really felt.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you ask him?”

“No. I kept telling him that I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You weren’t?”

“Of course I was!”

Quackity’s confused. “So then why did you tell him you weren’t?

“Ugh, I don’t know,” George says again. “I don’t know.”

According to George, the quiz was a joke, something Dream took on a whim because a chatter in their discord podcast had suggested it. He doesn’t understand why George is getting so worked up.

Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t want to accept it.

“The worst part was the last two questions,” George continues.

“What were they?” Quackity asks.

“The first one asked him if he thought I was in love with him.”

“What did he put?”

“He said that he didn’t know.”

Quackity frowns. “Well, why didn’t you tell him that you weren’t? You could’ve just told him.”

George sighs again, sounding sadder.

“George-”

“And then the last question was if he thought he was in love with me,” George says quieter.

Quackity is almost scared to ask. “And what did he say?”

There’s a long stretch of silence in the call before George speaks. “He said no.”

“Oh, thank God,” Quackity blurts, reassuring himself more than anyone. “That’s good then. I don’t know why you were freaking out so much. He said he’s not in love with you, so now you don’t have to worry about things being awkward or anything.”

“He said no, Quackity,” George repeats.

“Yeah, I know,” Quackity answers, and the bliss moment of relief he’d experienced is gone when he realizes that there’s an even worse scenario than Dream being in love with George. “Did you…did you want him to say yes?”

And when George doesn’t answer Quackity feels his body separating from himself, like he’s living life in third person. The accusation of You’re in love with him, aren’t you sits in the back of his throat.

“Remember what we were talking about the other night?” George asks instead of answering Quackity’s question.

“Yes,” Quackity answers with his heartbeat in his ears. He remembers. Of course he remembers. It’s the only thing he’s been able to think about. Partner, George had said. Not Wife. Partner. Not Wife. Partner. Partner. Partner.

“I knew what you meant,” George says.

“What did I mean?” Quackity throws at him.

“You know exactly what you meant,” George throws back at him. 

“Explain it to me.”

“I’m not explaining something you said.”

Quackity lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding onto. “I wanna know if we’re talking about the same thing.”

“We are,” George says. “About having to adopt kids, and about people disapproving and all that.”

“I said that?”

George groans. “You did. You know you did. I’m just telling you that I know what you meant when you said it.”

“What did I mean?”

They were talking in circles around each other, no one wanting to take the bait.

“I’m gay too,” Quackity finally says, ripping the bandaid off.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but he’s met with silence. It’s so loud that Quackity thinks that everyone in the world around them stopped moving. Or that they were all gathered outside the confines of his bedroom, pressing their ears against the thin walls, waiting, like him, to hear what George has to say next.

Quackity’s worried now that he misread the situation, that George was wrong when he said he knew what Quackity meant. Quackity thinks George might insult him or shame him or turn away from him in disgust. For a moment, Quackity is fifteen years old again. He looks down and his left hand holds the Holy Bible while his right counts the beads of a wooden rosary. He says his Our Fathers and Hail Marys like he’s supposed to and makes the Sign of the Cross at the end. He gets up from his spot on the dusty carpet and tells his school teacher he’s done. She nods at him kindly and takes the holy items from his hands, setting them down neatly on her desk next to an ashtray littered with the white ends of cigarettes. Quackity waits to be dismissed before running into the courtyard.

Manuel is his name, a mestizo boy with curly hair and a year above Quackity. Quackity likes that about him, likes that he towers over him. He likes the way he speaks to him and how he touches him when no one else is looking. 

Quackity sees him under a tree, one they frequently meet under as it’s hidden behind the angled west wall of the school. He’s sitting at the base with a book in his hand, one that probably goes against everything their Catholic teachers teach them on a daily basis. “Ey,” Quackity greets him as he approaches him.

Manuel looks up and Quackity melts under his gaze. “Hola amor,” Manuel tells him as Quackity sits down next to him. Quackity blushes at the words, feeling almost as loved as he does when Manuel leans forward and kisses him.

They kiss slowly and lazily under the rays of the Mexican sun. Quackity has both of his hands on the sides of Manuel’s face and when Manuel's hand comes up to graze the rugged bumps of his knuckles, Quackity thinks to himself, This is love.

“Que diablos hacen?” he suddenly hears above him, What the hell are you guys doing?

Manuel and him snap apart. In front of them stands Quackity’s school teacher, the same one Quackity had handed his rosary to. 

She leads them both back inside. They plead with her not to tell their parents but she doesn’t listen, because when Quackity gets home from school that day, his father beats him until being gay is the only thing left of him.

He doesn’t see Manuel in school the next day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. He eventually comes to the conclusion that Manuel must’ve gotten sent away. 

Quackity was unfortunate enough to stay.

“Wait,” George’s voice cuts through his haze. “Really? Wait, really ?”

Quackity can imagine him bouncing out of his seat and can’t help but chuckle. “I thought it was kinda obvious, to be honest.”

“It wasn’t to me.”

“What?” Quackity laughs. “Well your gaydar fucking sucks, dude. When have you ever heard me talking about girls?”

“Well, I never brought them up. So I thought maybe that was why.”

There’s a pause before they both burst out in laughter. They laugh and laugh and Quackity could cry with how good it feels. 

“To be honest,” Quackity says, pressing a hoodie sleeve against happy, damp eyes, “I didn’t know you were gay either.”

“What?” Now it’s George’s turn to sound shocked. “No. There’s no way. Quackity, I’m way more obvious than you.”

“No fucking shot, dude. It’s so hard for anyone to tell what you’re thinking. You’re so good at that, by the way. Letting people only see what you want them to see.”

“Well,” George says. “I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

And yeah, Quackity knows exactly what that’s like. 

“Who are you out to?” George asks.

“Just a few friends and obviously to past boyfriends,” Quackity answers. “My parents knew too at one point but, I think they thought it was a phase.” He chuckles. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m not really out to anyone.”

“Not even your parents?”

“No. They’re a bit old-fashioned. I mean, they do love me a lot, but I’m not sure if they would really get it .”

“Yeah,” Quackity sighs. “My parents are the same way.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. When I was growing up, they were always trying to set me up with someone’s daughter or they would always be asking me when I was gonna get a girlfriend. And they would tell me nonstop that they couldn’t wait until I found a nice wife and had kids with her, and how beautiful our wedding would be. It was annoying.”

“It was annoying because of the way our parents treated it like it was the norm, which resulted in us growing up thinking it was the norm as well, which then resulted in us thinking there was something wrong with us for not wanting a life like that.”

And just like that, every tear cried into his pillowcase, every unanswered prayer, every sliver of self-hatred that flowed through his body found comfort in George’s single sentence. Quackity wants to tell him Yes, exactly or You get it but none of those phrases seem enough. Instead he tries, “We are so similar, George. I guess now in more ways than we thought.”

“Yeah,” George says simply, and if Quackity isn’t mistaken, he thinks he can hear a small smile in George’s voice. “Anyways,” he continues, “I don’t think I’m ever going to come out to anyone.”

“You don’t?” Quackity asks. “You’re just gonna hide it forever?”

“No, I’m not going to hide anything,” George explains. “I just mean like, why do we even have to come out in the first place? It’s dumb. We’re just like everyone else. Why can’t we just live like everyone else? Why do we have to come out and create a huge statement about who we like when straight people don’t have to do that at all?”

Quackity tilts his head to the side, thinking. “I’ve never thought of it like that before.”

“One day, I’m just going to show up to my mother’s house with a man at my side. No coming out. No I’m gay, mum. I’m just gonna tell her that this is my partner, and that’ll be that.”

Quackity chuckles. “Maybe in a perfect world. She’ll definitely question you if you do that.”

“Well, then she’s a bit silly for questioning something that’s normal.”

Something that’s normal. Something that’s normal. Something that’s normal.

Quackity repeats George’s words in his head as if they were made of oxygen and his skull was airtight, as if those three words were prisoners to the walls he has up to protect himself. He knows that George must’ve also had it tough when it came to his own journey of self-acceptance. But here George is, saying those three words like there’s nothing else he believes in. Quackity thinks if he repeats them enough, he might also start believing them too.

sleepover.

Quackity’s in London. Quackity’s in London and he’s so in love.

Quackity, George’s voice had bled through his phone speaker one night. I’m sad.

Why? Quackity had asked, and George started saying things Quackity didn’t really understand. Something about being cold. And lonely. And how none of his friends were here.

Have you told Dream and Sapnap about it? Quackity asked.

I don’t know if they’ll take me seriously, George answered.

They will, George.

No, they won’t understand. They’re together. They have each other. And I’m here. And I’m cold. And I’m alone.

Quackity had bought his plane ticket the following morning.

And now he knows what it’s like to hug George, to feel his breath by his ear and his heartbeat next to his own. There’s no feeling of awkwardness or newness, it all feels the same as when he was talking to George through a satellite. 

Quackity vlogs some of what they do. He films them fooling around with a bidet in his hotel bathroom and then films George making a tiktok in his kitchen the next day. They bring a tripod outside with them and take silly pictures around George’s hometown. George shows him where he went to school, where he shops for groceries. He shows him where he had his first kiss with a girl, where he had his first kiss with a boy.

That night, as he looks through the pictures he took with George, Quackity thinks of Dream. He thinks of Dream locked away in his house, rotting away while George blossoms. He thinks of Dream not knowing what it feels like to have George look at him or hug him or speak inches away from his ear. He selfishly takes pride in the fact that this is the one thing he has over Dream. Dream doesn’t know George like this.

~~~

The sleepover stream is, surprisingly, George’s idea. 

They were tired after a long day of traveling and when George had timidly asked Quackity if he could just stay at his hotel room saying, We could even do a stream for your channel so you can get content out of it , Quackity had said Of course, leaving out the small detail that Quackity would’ve let George stay without the promise of a stream at all.

Quackity had made sure to clarify to the stream that they wouldn't be sharing a bed, as per George’s request. They’d set up a small ironing board with a thin sheet and called it George’s bed and when Quackity ended the live, they both crawled into the big one.

I brought beer, Quackity had told him, nerves alive at the idea of him and George sleeping next to each other.

Let’s pop ‘em open then, George had said.

And after a couple beers, George was drunk out of his mind.

Fucking lightweight, Quackity had laughed at him as George continuously hit him with a pillow. They continued with their pillow fight they had started on stream. George had knocked Quackity’s hat off at one point, revealing his hair, but Quackity didn’t care, he’d already laid out his soul for George to behold a long time ago.

They’ve calmed down now, laying next to each other on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. It’s different from the popcorn one back in Quackity’s room. This ceiling is modern and smooth, made to contain not a single imperfection. There are two small lamps attached to the frame of the bed which act as the only light sources in the room. They cast shadows on the ceiling in the form of rays and Quackity thinks they almost look like comets. 

“You know who I think is so attractive,” Quackity says, his words a slurred mess. He’s tipsy, sure, but not as far gone as George.

“Who?” George asks.

“Wilbur.”

George cackles like he can’t believe what Quackity just said to him. “No way!” he shouts, falling into another round of laughter.

“You don’t think so?” Quackity asks him, turning his head to look at him.

George wrinkles his nose. “Nah.”

“Alright, George,” Quackity concedes. “I know you’ve had some crazy crushes in your past.”

George smiles and turns his head as well. He has a playful gleam to his eyes. 

“Who?” Quackity asks.

“Don’t tell anyone,” George threatens with a finger pointed to Quackity’s face.

“I won't, I won’t.”

George giggles. “I think Sapnap’s father is so hot.”

“What the fuck,” Quackity says as George laughs again. “George, there’s no way.”

“Wait! Don’t judge me yet. Let me show you a picture.” George fishes for his phone and scrolls a bit until he finds one. He turns his phone to show Quackity. “See?”

The first thing he notices is that Sapnap’s dad is tall. Very tall. The top of his head almost reaches the top of the door frame he stands under. He has blond hair and eyes almost as light. He looks nothing like Quackity and more like someone else they both know.

“Not my type,” Quackity says.

George shrugs, like he disagrees, even though the opinion is Quackity’s and not his own. “What is your type then?” George asks him.

What is my type?

Quackity doesn’t know. But without permission, his mouth starts moving. Quackity describes pink lips and freckles. Quackity describes dark hair and stubble. Quackity describes George.

“You know,” George says, turning his head to look back at the ceiling, “I don’t really talk about these things with anyone else.”

“Not even Dream?” Quackity asks.

“No.”

How can you even think of him as your best friend? I know more about you than he does. We understand each other in ways he never will. I flew fourteen hours to be with you. He doesn’t care enough about you to even leave his house.

Quackity’s glad he’s not fully drunk or else he might’ve said all that out loud.

“I should call him,” George declares.

“No,” Quackity argues, “no, you shouldn’t.”

But George already has his phone up to his ear.

“Hello?” Quackity hears Dream’s voice after the second ring.

“Dream,” George hums, voice spilling from his lips like syrup from a bottle.

“George,” Dream hums back. “Everything okay?”

“I’m drunk,” George whines.

Dream giggles. “Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?” Dream says gently. “Can you tell me where you are?”

“I’m in a hotel room.”

“You’re in a hotel room?” Dream perks up, voice sounding anxious. “Who’s hotel room?”

“ My hotel room,” Quackity states, hoping it’s loud enough for Dream to hear him.

“Oh,” Dream breathes out, sounding relieved. “Okay, good. I was worried for a second.”

Quackity frowns. “We’re both drunk,” he says.

Dream laughs then addresses Quackity. “What did you guys have?” he asks easily.

“Heineken,” Quackity says.

“Hm,” Dream notes, “I’ve never had that.”

“I think it’s more popular in the UK,” Quackity says. Then he adds, “We’re both really drunk, by the way. Me and George. We’re both lying in bed. Next to each other.” He wants Dream to get mad, to get jealous. He wants to experience having power over Dream, the same power that Dream has had over him for the past year.

But Dream doesn’t get mad. Instead he says, “Make sure George drinks a lot of water in the morning. He’s super lightweight so the hangover will probably affect him more.”

Quackity squints. How does Dream even know that?

“Dream,” George suddenly pouts. “If you wanted to talk to Quackity, you should’ve called him instead.”

“Sorry, sorry George,” Dream plays along, laughing lightly and turning his full attention back to George. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes,” George answers.

“What did you eat?”

“Quackity and I had burgers.”

“Were they good?”

“Um,” George thinks, and then he laughs when he says, “I don’t remember.”

As Dream laughs along as well, all Quackity can think about is how, even though Dream and George are in different countries, even though he’s physically closer to George than Dream has ever been, he’s still the one third-wheeling.

He reaches over and takes the phone from George’s grasp, hanging up.

“Hey!” George protests. “Why did you do that?

“You’re drunk, George,” Quackity says. “What if you said something stupid?”

“Who cares,” George whines. “It was just Dream.”

“I’m trying to be a good friend here, George.”

“If you were a good friend, you would give me my phone back.”

“No,” Quackity says, and throws George’s phone in the bottom drawer of his bedside table.

“Wow,” George slurs. “You’re obsessed with me. You’re literally obsessed with me. You want all of my attention. You love me.”

“I-” Quackity stutters. He’s sitting up now, he’d moved from his horizontal position on the bed when he’d sat up to hide George’s phone away from him. He looks down at George and God , he thinks, how can anyone look at George and not immediately fall in love? “Have you ever been in love?” Quackity asks him.

George smiles, his black eyes disappearing behind the paleness of his eyelids. “No,” he says.

Quackity knows George is probably lying, but he doesn’t push. “I’ve been in love,” Quackity says, moving to lay back down on the bed. He’s on his side facing George now, and George moves his body in the same fashion to look back at Quackity. “I fall in love with people so deeply that,” Quackity continues, “I want to be with them forever. But then something always goes wrong. And everything falls apart.”

“Well, if it’s the right person,” George says simply, “it won’t.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy, George.”

“I think it is that easy,” George says, suddenly confident. “When it’s the right person, you’ll just know. You’ll know that you’re never gonna love anyone else as much as you love them. You’ll be set on them forever.”

Quackity pauses for a moment to take in his words. “You’ve definitely been in love before, George,” he tells him.

George smiles and takes Quackity’s hand. “You’ll find the right person eventually,” George says through a yawn, turning to look back up at the ceiling. He keeps Quackity’s hand firm in his grasp between them. “I think there’s someone out there for everyone.” 

I’m for you, Quackity wants to scream. I can be that person for you.

Quackity sighs and shuts his eyes tightly. He wonders what the pastor from his hometown would think of him right now: on the other side of the world, holding hands with the boy he loves.

“Call me your best friend, George,” Quackity whispers pathetically. “Just say it. Lie to me.”

Next to him, George is asleep.

second place.

Quackity’s back home now. He just finished editing his vlog and uploaded it to his youtube channel. He added a silly montage at the end containing mostly clips of him and George, and layered a voiceover on top of it talking about how much he’ll cherish the memories he made on the trip forever.

Quackity’s phone dings next to him and he doesn’t even have to look to know who just texted him.

Dream is planning a place for just the two of us to go to when I get to Florida.

what like a date? Quackity messages George back.

I think so :]

that’s great, Quackity says.

It’s not great.

~~~

Quackity thinks that the most annoying thing of all is the way George talks about Dream. In Quackity’s opinion, Dream can be quite cringe and embarrassing but George thinks he’s the coolest person in the world.

For the next month, George gives Quackity little details here and there about whatever it is he and Dream have going on: 

We’re thinking of getting matching PCs.

and

I caught him saying he loved me in his sleep.

and

He showed me a picture of his dick.

It’s sickening, truly, and Quackity can’t help but notice in the midst of it all that dream has been less admitent about joining their calls as of late. Almost like he’s more…secure.

~~~

George hadn’t reached out in over a week. George always reaches out, and that’s how Quackity knows something’s wrong. He calls George’s phone but it rings all the way to voicemail. He checks other forms of media to see that George hasn’t streamed or tweeted or even been on Discord at all. 

He calls Dream and Dream tells him that he’ll let George know he called. Quackity asks if George is okay and Dream says yes, but that the visa process has been taking a toll on George, on them both.

He finally gets a hold of George on the ninth day. He’d called him on Discord before he went to sleep for the chance that George was at his computer. He almost didn’t believe it when George picked up.

“George?” Quackity asks hesitantly.

“Hey.” George’s voice comes out small.

Then Quackity jumps on him. “George! Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” George says flatly.

“Are you sure? I haven’t heard from you in like a week.”

And then he hears a shaky exhale, and a hitch which George breathes in again. “Quackity,” George starts, and then he’s crying. It’s quiet but loud enough for Quackity to hear everything.

“George,” he tries again, gently this time. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“The visa,” George says between gasps. “It got denied.”

Quackity can’t stand how crushed George sounds, isn’t used to how crushed George sounds. George has always been loud and fun, the light in the room. He’s never heard George like this. “Shit,” he whispers, then says, “hey, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. Quackity, I’m never gonna get there.”

“Yes, George, yes you will.”

“No, I won’t.”

“It could be just a couple more months of waiting.”

“But that’s all it’s ever been! It’s just waiting and waiting and I don’t want to wait anymore! I just wanna be there. ”

“George,” Quackity tries. “Do you remember when we first met?”

George sniffles. “Yeah?”

“I remember you talking to me about wanting to go to Florida all the way back then. And now we’re here, about one and a half years later, and you’re so close, George, I know you are. Dream’s not going anywhere. He’s waiting for you. The hard part’s over. This is just the final stretch. And the good thing about it all is that in the meantime…you have each other.”

Maybe it’s not exactly what George wants to hear, but in the moment, it’s enough to stop his crying. 

Quackity’s not expecting a thank you or anything. Friends should be there for each other and support each other unconditionally.

But it feels like a punch to the gut when all George has to say is that Dream is calling him, and that he has to go.

“Yeah, of course you fucking do,” Quackity whispers into an empty call.

together again.

Quackity’s in London again, but everything feels different. Him and George aren’t alone this time. George isn’t showing him around London. They’re not taking silly pictures. They aren’t sharing a bed.

Quackity wants to tell George he’s in love with him. He thinks he could burst after so much time of keeping the confession inside. He also thinks that maybe, telling George the truth could bridge the strange gap that had recently formed between them. 

Quackity’s gone over the words he wants to say in his head a thousand times. We’ve been friends for so long and We’re so much alike and I’ve never had anyone who’s understood me the way that you do.

He knows if he doesn’t say how he feels now, to George’s face, he doesn’t think he ever will.

But he and George never get a moment alone, and he goes home with I love you unspoken on his tongue.

facetime.

George is the only one that reaches out now, has been the only one to reach out between the two for the past several months. Quackity doesn’t know when he started to push George away, but he guesses it was around the time when the butterflies he used to get from George’s messages turned into ugly wasps.

George facetimes him one day. It isn’t anything out of the ordinary. George’s calls get through to him multiple times a week. Quackity always ignores them.

He tries to ignore the call now, but it’s hard to because George calls again and again with no end.

When Quackity finally does pick up, he sees George in Sapnap’s car. In Florida. On his way to Dream.

strangers.

They meet in person one last time for Twitchcon in October. Dream, George, and Sapnap had texted him saying that they’d arrived at their hotel rooms and that they would be in the main lobby of the event within the next thirty minutes or so, and that they all should meet up there.

Quackity’s currently in his hotel room as well, fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror. He sighs at his reflection. Something’s off. He exchanges his hoodie for a slim-fitting long-sleeved shirt, adding a couple chains around his neck for good measure. He reaches into his luggage and takes out a small Ralph Lauren cologne bottle, one he’d gotten as a birthday gift a few years back. He sprays the scented liquid under his chin, on his chest, and the insides of his wrists. You can do this, he tries to convince himself as the drops of mist hit his skin. George means nothing to you.

He heads down to the lobby and waits at a small, metal table. His left leg bounces up and down without pause and the diamond-shaped pendant of his metal chain grows hot where it rests at the center of his chest. He checks his phone every couple of seconds, preferring to scroll mindlessly through his notifications than to sit there in torment, eyes glued to the front doors. 

At one point, he hears his name being called. He looks up and that’s when he sees them: Dream and George, attached at the hip, wearing what looks like matching cat beanies.

Quackity almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. 

Almost.

~~~

Quackity shuts his eyes as he turns the faucet to the warmest setting. It’s the night of the final day of Twitchcon and despite being in the shower, he’s not really cleaning himself. He only stands there, over the drain, letting the hot stream of the water pour over his body.

He knows it was never meant to work out between the two of them, not with Dream in the picture. He thinks that maybe there’s another world where he and George meet under different circumstances, one where they both have regular jobs and quiet lives. One where George hears the word Dream and thinks of nothing except the faint movies that happen in your head while you sleep. 

He’s glad, in a way, for the distance he’d been putting between himself and George lately. Quackity knows that if everything that happened today had happened a year ago, if he saw the way George looked at Dream, the way they acted together, it might’ve completely destroyed him. Today, as he looked at the two of them, he just felt…numb. 

Quackity steps out of the shower and dries himself with a small white towelette. He realizes quickly that he’d grabbed the sink towel, but then decides he doesn’t have the energy to try and find where the bigger towels are.

He throws himself on his bed, getting ready to go to sleep, but his phone buzzes and Quackity, somehow, just knows that it’s a message from George.

Come to my room #444, it reads. 

Quackity sighs. He’s exhausted. But the next thing he knows, he’s knocking on George’s door.

George opens the door in a flash, as if he’d been doing nothing but sitting and waiting for Quackity to arrive. Quackity stares at George as George beams at him from the other side of the doorway.

“Are you just going to stand there, idiot?” George asks him, pulling him in the room and then to the side so he can close the door.

Play arguing was one of his favorite things to do with George. Back then, he would’ve had a funny retort, one that would’ve sent the two of them into a fit of insults. But now a quiet, “Sorry,” is all Quackity supplies.

Quackity notices George’s mood shift, notices the worried look in George’s eyes. Quackity only stands there as George watches him, soaking in the fact that George has his eyes on him at all.

George purses his lips like there’s something he’s trying to hold himself back from saying. He opens his mouth a few more times after that before he says, simply, “Come with me,” and leads Quackity to the other end of the room. As he follows George, Quackity tries not to notice the beanie Dream had on earlier sitting at the foot of the bed.

George continues leading him until they reach the balcony. George sits down against the wall and as he looks up at Quackity, he pats the empty spot next to him with his hand. Quackity nods in acknowledgement at what George wants him to do and takes a seat next to him. The view from George’s balcony is a pretty one. Quackity only wishes he were experiencing it under different circumstances.

Time always became a unitless thing when he was with George, and it’s no different now. The only proof that time is even passing is how the occasional light of a street car seeps its way through the thin metal railings. It casts a momentary soft glow on both their bodies, counting another increment of time passed in silence. There’s three inches of space between his left arm and George’s right, and they serve as reminders of the three words he’ll never say.

“I miss you,” George says into the night, and if Quackity tries hard enough, he can pretend that George is talking directly to the moon and not him. “You were like my best friend.” 

And with George’s words, he thinks back to a simpler time. He thinks of Discord and Minecraft and a 3AM glare from his monitor. He thinks of autotune and Breaking Bad and teaching George spanish. He pretends, for a moment, that everything’s exactly how it used to be.

You were like my best friend.

A year ago, he would’ve given anything to hear George say those words. Now he thinks that it’s the worst thing George has ever said to him.

“Dream’s been asking about you as well,” George continues. “He says that you two haven’t talked in ages.”

“Are you guys…?” Quackity can’t help but ask, turning to look at George.

George turns his head to look at him as well. “Not yet,” he says around a growing smile. “Soon though,” he whispers. “I can feel it.”

Quackity exhales. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you,” he says, just as quiet.

That’s when George’s face morphs into an expression that goes beyond any anatomical explanation. He smiles with his eyes and blushes at the ears. He hugs his legs to his chest tightly and looks back up at the stars. “Yeah,” GeorgeNotFound breathes out.

Quackity nods, turning back to the night as well and they sit there, side by side, backs against the cold walls of the building. He knows that this is probably the last time he’ll ever see GeorgeNotFound, and GeorgeNotFound has no idea. 

But it’s a good thing, he thinks, that GeorgeNotFound doesn’t know this is a goodbye. It saves Quackity a lot of talking, a lot of explaining about the only thing GeorgeNotFound was never able to figure out about him. 

When they stand at the doorway of the hotel room again, getting ready to call it a night, Quackity extends his hand out. GeorgeNotFound takes it and Quackity stands there as he holds GeorgeNotFound’s hand between them, just like GeorgeNotFound had done to him back in that hotel room in London. 

It’s the only thing Quackity can bring himself to reveal. But it’s not closure, not even close to it, and GeorgeNotFound will never know, always wonder, how he lost a friend.