Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” George comments absentmindedly, like there’s any chance Dream might not know this. “D’you have any plans?”

Dream hums a question, but George knows he heard him. He doesn’t repeat it and lets the seconds go by, waiting for his brain to catch up. Soon enough, Dream answers, “not really. I think Sap wanted to do something but—”

“It’d be nice if you could go out,” George says, ever the daydreamer. He feels a pressure on his chest and wonders if it’s a mirror of Dream’s reaction to his words. “I know you don’t—”

“Too risky.”

George plays with his fingers. Raindrops meander down his window as static rings in his headset. He imagines a long cord tying him and Dream together across the Atlantic and wonders if he could walk it like a tightrope. Just for a day, just for an hour.

“Not even out of state?” he attempts, letting his voice drop lower, like an afterthought. “If he drove—”

“It’s not worth it,” Dream argues. “It’s just a birthday.”

Dream is turning twenty-two tomorrow. In a few hours, more like. He doesn’t do much—he jumps between Minecraft and whatever his current hyperfixation is, he spends hours on call with George, he feeds his cat, he streams on occasion.

He calls it waiting. George calls it hiding.

“People tend to do fun things for their birthdays,” George pushes. He doesn’t know why he does it. It’s not like he wants Dream to go out and be recognized and have all of their plans ruined.

It just feels empty sometimes.

“Why’re you so hung up on this?” Dream asks, genuinely confused. Reading his mind, probably.

George shrugs. “Dunno.”

The clock hits ten. It’s only two hours until Dream’s birthday—his London birthday, not his real one. Well, his London birthday is still real for people in London, but his American friends and family won’t be sending him any heartfelt messages for another seven hours. George will be first. It’s Britain’s only perk.

It doesn’t seem worth the headaches—or the lonely nights, for that matter—but it’s all he has.

“I’m sure Stinknap is baking you a cake right now,” George funs, letting the bitterness slip away. He doesn’t want to fight over this, certainly not right before Dream’s birthday. “A big, fat chocolate cake.”

Dream tsks. “I don’t—”

“Fine, a stupid banana pudding then,” George corrects, rolling his eyes at the mere implication that he’s not aware and familiar with every single one of Dream’s rituals. “He’s making you a perfectly tasteless banana pudding.”

“Don’t insult my grandma’s banana pudding,” Dream says. George silently wishes he knew what he looks like so he could picture the crease between his brows. He knows it’s there. “You’re mean to me.”

George rolls his eyes again, out of sheer endearment. “‘M not mean to you, idiot.”

“You’ll love my banana pudding,” he adds, in a tender tone. They tug at the distance sometimes, at ticking clocks. There’s a promise embedded in most sentences they utter. “You’ll see.”

Silence usually follows. Today is no exception.

It’s only been a couple of weeks since if turned into when. Dream is leaning into it; George doesn’t think he’s strong enough to follow. His heart is too frail after years of beating for someone who’s too far away to even hear it. He knows it won’t be long, though—it can’t be. He waits in silence. He knows his time will come.

“I wish you were here,” Dream whispers after a while, after it’s had time to settle. So sweetly, so softly; George isn’t sure he was meant to hear it.

They do this to themselves sometimes. It’s a curious form of torture. To George, at least, it’s torture. He’s not sure Dream feels that strongly about it. He could, though, for all he knows. It seems impossible, but he could.

George rids himself of a poor scoff. It serves as a shield. “Is that your birthday wish?”

It hangs in the air for a moment too long. George toys with it as he leans back in his chair, further away from his mic so his feelings have more room to breathe before they fly off to Orlando. It’s not like they need it. Keyboards and optical fiber. Too much space.

George fears it.

“Yeah,” Dream says, finally. It sounds toxic, like some kind of drug. George tries to swallow it but it gets stuck in his throat. “Yeah, it could be. It’s a good wish.”

The only answer Dream gets is the sound of fingers tapping against wood.

There’s a secret tab open on George’s monitor. Cruel, dangerous, shameful. A plane ticket. No distance seems too far when he puts it like that. It’s the reality that makes it weighted, that makes it sting. He doesn’t talk about it.

“I wanna be there too,” George ends up saying, because there’s no point in denying it. Forever, he said once, a parapraxis of his heart. He hasn’t been able to live it down. He stands by it, though—how could he not? “Maybe have some banana pudding.”

Dream breaks a smile. It tastes sour, even from here. “I don’t think Nick’s making banana pudding.”

George doesn’t think so either, but that wasn’t the point.

I would, he wants to say. I’d learn for you. It feels too honest.

“Well, someone has to,” George complains, easing back into less pitiful territory. He glances at his clock again, like he can make time go by faster, somehow. If he learns how to do it, he could try it with a calendar. “Is your mum not visiting?”

“On the weekend,” Dream says. “Casey too.”

“Wow. Congrats. So you’re having the most boring birthday ever.”

“Why are you mad about my birthday?” Dream asks. George can hear the faintest hint of annoyance in his tone. He doesn’t like it.

He exhales, melting against the back of his chair. “Jus’ think you deserve a good birthday.” George shrugs. “‘M not trying to, like—” A groan cuts him off, so he gives up on trying. “Whatever.”

“I really don’t mind it, George,” Dream promises, speaking gently to him, like talking to a scared kid. “I’ll have plenty of good birthdays in the future. I’m fine with waiting.”

Hiding, George corrects wordlessly. You’re hiding.

“‘Kay,” he says instead. He also hides sometimes. Unlike Dream, he has good reasons. He thinks he does, at least. “D’you think I’ll—” He stops. It doesn’t seem wise to ask. “Never mind.”

It might’ve been too late. “You’ll be here next year,” Dream assures, seeing right through him, sounding so certain George almost believes it. Almost. “And it’ll be—”

“Epic,” George completes. He can’t handle anything more earnest than that, and he knows that’s where Dream was going. “I— Yes, I know. You’re right, it’s fine.”

“We can sit on call,” he offers, something kind to his tone, lighter—brighter—than George’s wishes. He’s not sure why they’re colored gray. It’s the one-sidedness of it all. “I’d love to spend it with you.”

Not the same. It’s not worth it. But it’s not the same. But it’s not worth it.

“Okay,” George grants, blinking rapidly. “We can do that.”

He hears Dream smile.

It wasn’t worth it.

“So, technically,” George starts, peering at the monitor, “your birthday is twenty-nine hours long.”

Dream chuckles. “How does that work?”

“Well, ‘cause—” He frowns, counting on his fingers. “—here it starts five hours early. And then there’s twenty-four hours ‘till midnight your time, right? So, technically— it’s twenty-nine hours.”

“Hm.” Dream swivels in his chair, back and forth and back again. George pictures his socked feet dragging against the floor. “I never thought about it like that. Would it count, though?”

George shakes his head. “Would what count?”

“Your five hours,” Dream clarifies. “‘Cause it’s still the eleventh for me.”

“Oh, are you saying I don’t count, Dream?” George jokes, crossing his arms over his chest for effect, even though Dream can’t see him. “Are you saying England doesn’t exist? Do you hate your English fans?”

“Shut up, idiot, that’s not—” he chokes on laughter. George simply joins him. “—that’s definitely not what I was saying. But, I mean— if my birthday was, like, extended to fit every time-zone, I’d have, like, a forty-eight-hour birthday.”

“‘S not every time-zone,” George protests, rolling his eyes. “It’s me. Only I count.”

Dream chuckles, a little softer. “Yeah, that’s true,” he says. George has a feeling he’s just trying to indulge him, but he’s not complaining. “So why am I not getting any birthday messages now?”

George rolls his eyes again. He doesn’t get it. “Like I said,” he insists, “only I count. The other idiots will start texting you in three minutes and they’ll be late.”

“You’re always first then,” Dream notes, like it wasn’t George’s plan all along. “You’re, like—”

“Exactly,” George grins. “Living in England was all a ploy so— your birthday could be earlier. It’s genius. See?”

Dream hums, spinning the words around in his head, giving them some thought. “Well, then maybe—” he stops. “Yeah, that’s a good plan. Thank you for the extended birthday.”

They let some go. Otherwise, it’s just cruel.

I’ll still be first when I’m there, George thinks. I better be.

It’s the first ‘special day’ since George told Dream he’d move in with him. He’s still wrapping his mind around it. By the looks of it, holidays will be harder. He pictures Thanksgiving; he pictures Christmas. Family, closeness, togetherness. He knows it’ll sting. He’s not ready for it.

“One minute,” George calls, relaxed, knowing that he already gave Dream his best wishes five hours ago.

“Happy birthday, Dream!” he’d said then, staring intently at the clock with a smile breaking on his face. “Make three wishes.”

“Only have one,” Dream replied. “You know already.”

That’s bad luck, George wanted to say. You’re gonna jinx it.

He was too busy distracting the butterflies coming to life in his stomach, threatening to burst out, to ruin everything. He didn’t answer; he let Dream have it. It’s his birthday, after all.

He wished too, just in case.

Ten seconds.

“Are you ready?” George asks, although nothing truly spectacular is happening at midnight.

Dream giggles. “Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah. Got my wish right here.”

Three seconds.

He clears his throat. “George, I—”

Before he can say anything, the clock strikes twelve.

Then everything goes dark.

Against all odds, the first thing George notices is the air. Thick, humid. Hot. It was raining in London just a second ago. This doesn’t feel like rain air.

He doesn’t open his eyes. He feels heavy. The skin of his sweaty bare back adheres uncomfortably to the chair. George hates being shirtless. It’s sticky.

There’s ruffling in his headset; the person on the other side is moving. Aside from that, it’s quiet. George straightens his spine and gets his hands off the keyboard without looking.

A Discord call flashes on his monitor; his icon on the right. The green circle blinks around it. It takes him a few seconds to piece together what’s wrong.

He looks down at his hands and feels a crater break open in his chest. His soul teeters on the edge, and his heartbeat stops for a solid five seconds.

“Dream?” he asks in a broken voice—a broken voice he doesn’t recognize as his own. It’s familiar, of course, but it doesn’t belong to him. It belongs in his ears, from an ocean away. “Dream.”

He hears himself grunt, except that it’s not himself. It rings inside his headset—tired, pained. “George, what—” He’s stunned into silence. George hears the gears turning; the world caving in on itself. “What the—”

“Dream,” he repeats as his breath slips his lungs, as his eyes fall shut. He can’t look. He can’t look. “Dream, we—”

George heard about it before. He didn’t know how to do it; he didn’t want to know. He didn’t think it’d be this easy. It shouldn’t be. Did he do this? Did he cause this to happen?

“George, why do I—” Dream asks again. George recognizes the sound his own chair makes when he gets up, and can almost picture his own body stumbling away from the desk. “Why am I small?”

It’s almost comedic. George would laugh if his mind wasn’t racing a mile a minute, trying to come up with an explanation, a solution. He presses his hands to his eyes and the cold metal of Dream’s sleep ring burns against his forehead.

This can’t be happening.

“We body-swapped,” George explains, because he seems to be the only one with a grasp on the situation they’re in, however flimsy. “You’re in London.”

“What? No, that— George. How?”

George finds it strange to hear Dream’s speech patterns curled around his own voice. He stumbles with his accent, seemingly awkward and out of place in a mouth as British as George’s. If that’s even logical.

Although, what even is logic anymore? The swapped bodies, for fuck’s sake. The rules of the Universe don’t seem to apply anymore.

“I’m— I’m you, I’m in America,” George explains again, peeking through his fingers and meeting Dream’s colorful set-up, his wide monitor, and his unattended Discord chats. It feels invasive. “At least— yeah, no. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.”

“What happened?” Dream asks, scandalized, leaning in closer to the mic. “How did this happen? One minute ago, I was—”

“Midnight,” George blurts out, unsure of where it comes from. It takes shape in his mouth and explodes before he has time to register it. It makes sense. “We swapped at midnight.”

Moving is complicated. A myriad of thoughts swirl in George’s mind and he doesn’t know how to answer any of them. He can’t look. He has to figure out a way to come back, to be himself again, to—

“How do we fix this?” Dream asks again, failing to realize that George doesn’t have much more information than him.

George gapes but no sounds come out. He moves his hands up to tug at his hair and— curls. Soft, defined, lovely curls shower his forehead and cover his eyes and fuck, fuck, fuck, that’s Dream’s hair.

His hands fall like he was just struck by lightning, heavy with the weight of his best friend’s anonymity threatening to snap. This can’t be happening.

“I don’t know,” he chokes out, aggressively digging fingers into his—Dream’s—thighs. This is Dream’s body that he’s seeing. Dream. His hands fly up again, like the contact burns him. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

On the other side of the call, Dream breathes heavily. Deep, long intakes. Controlled, collected. A mouse and a keyboard clatter against the wood of the desk, and without much reading into it, George knows Dream is arranging them for his own comfort.

Certainly, there are more important things to focus on, but curiosity pushes his question out either way. “Are you still right-handed?” George asks, growing a frown on his lips and deeming Dream’s bedroom ceiling a safe enough place to fix his gaze.

Dream makes a noise in protest. “What do you mean, am I still—”

“Well, I’m left-handed,” he explains, and it feels so out of place he almost wants to cry. He’s losing his fucking mind. “Is that, like, a body thing or—”

“George, I don’t—” Dream sighs. George hears it past the unmistakable sound of keys being tapped. He guesses that answers his question. “Yes, I’m still right-handed.”

“Huh,” George says. “Interesting.”

“Glad that’s settled,” Dream mumbles as the clicking resumes. George is painfully aware that Dream is on his computer right now, and has no idea what he could find amidst his bajillion open tabs. It’s not like he can do much about it from four thousand miles away, though. “Can we focus on our other problem now?”

George doesn’t have enough confidence to open Dream’s browser and type accidentally swapped bodies with my best friend from another continent easy fix diy, so he just sits still and lets Dream do the googling. He can probably come up with more useful keywords.

There’s George’s problem, though. He’s glad he realized so soon, but he wants to bang his head against a wall because he knows it’s gonna make this situation exponentially harder for however long they’re in it.

He’s never seen Dream’s face before. He doesn’t know Dream’s house, he doesn’t know Dream’s body, he doesn’t know anything about his IRL day-to-day life.

What if he stumbles upon a mirror? What if he has tabs open that George isn’t supposed to see? What if he has an unreleased top-secret surprise thing that George doesn’t know about and that he can’t peek into?

They’re both private, to an extent. To different extents. In the same way that George knows everything about Dream’s feelings and his every random, unimportant thought, Dream knows George’s office and what he looks like and how he arranges his cupboards in the kitchen and—

Oh, God, what if he has to pee?

“Okay, I—” Dream groans, banging his elbows on the desk and effectively cutting George’s mental word vomit short. God bless him. “I have no idea how this thing works. It’s, like— it’s hypothetical.”

George’s frown deepens. “What does that even mean?”

“Everyone online talks about it like it’s, y’know, possible, to an extent, but no one’s ever done it,” Dream explains, and his frustration seeps through and makes George’s regular voice sound strange, foreign. “Like— according to this, it requires being in ‘physical proximity’ and—”

George scoffs. “Well, clearly—”

“Yeah, no shit.” George doesn’t like the way he sounds. He’s not used to Dream talking to him like this. It’s almost like he— “How— how did we do this, George?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Well, you knew what happened,” Dream defends, “when it happened. You went ‘oh, we body-swapped!’ like it was the most normal shit in the world. I didn’t even know this was a possibility, let alone my first thought.”

It’s hard to ignore the difference in size, in space, when he crosses his arms over his chest, but George thinks he does a decent enough job. “Are you implying I did this, somehow?”

Dream’s voice lowers. “It certainly wasn’t me.”

“You—” George’s jaw drops. His heart thumps in his ears, not letting him think. “You think I wanted this? You think that when I told you to do something fun for your birthday I meant—”

“Sapnap,” Dream cuts him off, tone filled with dread. They shoot their words like bullets. Everything is moving too fast. George thinks he’s about to be sick.

He grits his teeth. “I don’t think Sapnap can shake my spirit back to London.”

“No, I mean—” He breathes and relaxes, ever so slightly. George counts to ten in his head. “It’s— my birthday, right? He knows I’m talking to you now but he’s gonna walk in at some point to wish me a happy birthday, and he’ll—”

“I’ll explain it to him,” George says, shaking his head lightly, dismissively. “It’s fine, I don’t think he’ll—”

Dream laughs bitterly. “What exactly are you—”

“Oh, my God, stop it.” George snaps. “Dream, I really don’t wanna fight you right now. I don’t wanna add more things to my list of problems.”

“I’m freaked out, George!” Dream yells back. He’s pacing around the room—around George’s room. It’s crazy to even think about it. George doesn’t know what to do. Everything is upside down.

“I’m freaked out too, you idiot!” He has a sudden urge to kick the floor with Dream’s massive feet. He’s not even sure how to navigate this body yet. “I’m staring at the fucking ceiling right now ‘cause I don’t wanna catch a reflection of your stupid face, what do you think—”

It’s like throwing him into bitterly cold water. “What—” he stutters, plopping into the chair again. His next words are muffled into what George can only assume are his hands. “Fuck, this can’t be happening. I didn’t even—”

“Yeah,” George whispers, heart pounding against his ribs. “I know.”

He takes a shuddering breath, choosing to let the last few moments slip away. Realistically, he knows he can’t hold it over Dream’s head. There’s no manual on how to react to you and your online best friend body-swapping without a warning. Any response is a fair response.

It doesn’t alleviate the churning feeling in his gut, though. If this was a movie, the scene would be spinning increasingly faster and there’d be white noise ringing in his ears, making it extremely uncomfortable for the viewer to keep watching.

George’s anxiety prickles his skin. Dream’s skin. He wants to crawl out of it; he doesn’t belong in any body that’s not his own. Even then, sometimes, he feels like an intruder. This is definitely not a good solution.

He takes a deep breath and hears Dream do the same. They’ve been here before. He does it one more time, and then another. He can’t tell who’s following whose lead, but he’s grateful. In and out and in again; and then there’s silence.

Dream cracks his knuckles. He taps his fingers against the desk and then his feet against the floor and George presses his eyes shut to focus on the little noises coming through. His head’s still spinning. The scene too. He wants out.

“My brain hurts,” George mumbles. He wants to bring his legs up and hug them and hide in his knees, like he does at home. Dream’s legs are much longer than his. He’s broader too. It doesn’t seem viable.

Dream clears his throat. “Do you have any idea how to—” It’s like he realizes how pointless it is as soon as he starts asking. George doesn’t even entertain his question. “How are we gonna do this?”

There’s a sticky noise of sweat when George sits up straighter. It makes him wince. “D’you have mirrors in your room or can I go get a fucking shirt?”

“What— Oh, shit, uh—” There’s a loud bang. Dream just hit his leg or something against the desk. George isn’t sure why, but he thinks of the bruise he’ll find on his skin when he comes back. “There’s a mirror, like— behind the closet door, but— other than that, you’re good.”

George shakes himself out of the chair. Dream is… tall. George knew this. It’s still strange to have his line of vision so far from the floor. It’s like he’s wearing high heels or something. Not that he’d know what that’s like.

He can’t help but put a hand over his eyes, just in case. He peeks through his fingers and stumbles across the room like a baby reindeer. A massive, gawky, extremely confused baby reindeer.

He’s very aware of the space he takes up, and he makes a concerted effort to not get distracted by the decorations in Dream’s bedroom. He’s never seen it before. He wonders if wanting to snoop makes him a terrible person.

“You got it?” Dream asks when his hand is not even touching the closet door. George groans in protest. “God, okay. Take your time.”

George stands with his back turned at the mirror Dream mentioned and pulls out the first thing he can find—a thin, dark blue shirt. It’s taut around his chest and hugs his waist nicely. It makes George realize that he doesn’t know much about Dream’s fashion choices either.

There’s comfort in knowing he can look down and won’t find miles worth of bare skin. It was driving him a little insane, if he’s being honest. He knows it shouldn’t be his top priority right now, but it’s Dream. He can’t help it.

“Okay, I’m good,” George announces, stumbling back to Dream’s desk chair. He lets himself fall once he’s close enough. Dream sounds like he does when he’s deep in thought—quiet, lost. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m just trying to make sense of this,” Dream replies, guarded. George puckers his lips but gives him the time to elaborate. “We just— we don’t even know for how long we’ll be like this. What if someone asks? What if—”

“Hey,” George calls, “it’s okay.” He rests his chin on his hands. Tiredness urges him to blink slowly, to take even breaths. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Dream huffs softly. George hears the noise his chair makes when he leans back on it, and imagines his own tired body drenched in the hard light of his monitor. “Not with this,” Dream whispers.

George steals a fidget spinner from Dream’s desk, experiencing a pang of homesickness all too soon. He misses his trinkets. “New experience.” He shrugs, pushing an invisible line. Dream won’t allow it much longer. “We’ll work it out.”

The urge to fight is there, but Dream doesn’t give into it. It’s not worth it; it won’t fix things. The sour taste of emptiness lingers in the room. George can only assume that Dream feels it as well. It’s one thing to be separated from each other—but to be separated from themselves too?

It feels lonelier than it should.

Dream’s yawn breaks the silence. George leans back on the chair too. “Tired?” he asks, in a soft voice, rubbing his own eyes with long, ringed fingers.

“We’ve been talking for hours,” Dream answers simply. It’s been nine hours, to be precise. Their brains have definitely been working overtime. “But what if Sapnap—”

“Don’t worry about it.” George takes advantage of the inherent gentleness Dream’s tone wears. It’s pulled him out of his head more times than he can count. “I’ll handle it.” Vulnerability takes over. “Trust me?”

Dream exhales. George feels the ache of it down to his bones. He doesn’t know what prompts the connection—it might be the fact that this is Dream’s body, or perhaps the way in which they know each other, so raw yet so intricate, beyond understanding.

He holds his breath as Dream makes his peace with it.

“Yeah, okay,” he accepts, sighing one more time. George presses his lips into a line but doesn’t prod further. It’s not the time. “I’ll— go lay down I guess.”

George fidgets with the hem of the shirt he’s wearing. “I’ll keep looking,” he announces. “See if I can find a way to fix it.”

Dream hums. “Wake me up if you do.”

It’s only a few seconds of hesitation. George holds out an olive branch. “I dunno, Dream,” he says, hinting at a friendly smile. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”

It’s not a proper laugh, but George will take what he can get. “Right.” The bed creaks under his weight. “Just let me know.”

George curls his fingers around the fabric and lets his head fall back against the chair. His bottom lip quivers, drawn to a pout. His throat closes around a sob but he doesn’t let it out. He can’t, not now.

Basking in the silence, he sinks into his own fear—taking over his body, coursing hotly through his veins. Something steps on his chest and he simply allows it. The humid and thick Floridian air does nothing to help him.

Sleep has come and gone.

Blinking out of existence every few hours is all he could manage to do. Dream’s phone keeps ringing with birthday texts he’ll eventually have to reply to, and a desk chair isn’t a comfortable place to fall asleep.

It didn’t feel right to lie on Dream’s bed, though. He couldn’t tell why.

When he hears the knock on the door, he bolts upright. Dream’s even breathing still comes through his headset, peaceful and quiet, urging him to relax. Any other day, he knows he would listen.

Insomnia is Dream’s best friend, so the knowledge that he could at least rest for a few hours eases some of George’s anxiety. He wonders if it’s a bodily thing or just an untimely coincidence. Either way, he welcomes his tiredness if it brings Dream some peace.

George gets up from the chair and drags his feet towards the door for his first quest of the day. Facing Sapnap is the easy part. Explaining the situation without getting Dream sent to a psych ward might be slightly trickier.

He opens the door and slithers out. Sapnap greets him with an extremely loud confetti cannon. “Happy—”

“Shhh,” George signals with a finger over his lips, glaring at his best friend before shutting the door behind him. “Dream is—”

“What is wrong with you?” Sapnap asks, swatting his arm. George looks at it. It’s curious. It burns.

He feels a crease between his forehead, adrenaline course through his veins. It’s rather sudden—he wasn’t ready. He’s on edge once again. He looks down at Sapnap without making a sound.

He has a frown on his lips and a hat on his head. He’s wearing a black hoodie and shorts that George has seen a million times before. His hair spikes on the sides and his beard frames his round face in the same way it always has.

It’s jarring.

George is suddenly hit with the realization that he’s never really met Sapnap in person. Yet here he is, standing before him without blinking an eye, letting his expression melt from anger to concern with each second that goes by.

George blinks himself awake. “Uhm— he’s sleeping,” he mumbles, pointing at the PC through the wall, clenching his other hand into a fist to hide the way it trembles.

“Who’s he?” Sapnap asks, falling right back into the anger territory. His eyes widen in shock. “Do you have someone in there?”

“What? No!” George grimaces, literally face-palming. “I’m— okay, okay.” A deep breath. “We need to talk.”

Sapnap winces. “Why the fuck do you have a British accent?” He looks disgusted. George is about to rebut but Sapnap’s groan scares his mouth shut. “Bro, I know you’re, like, obsessed with George but—”

“What? That’s— no. Shut up. That’s not— the reason.” He’s sure a blush takes over his cheeks. Dream’s cheeks. This is Dream’s fault. “Can you just— listen to me?”

“Brother, you’re freaking me out, I’m not gonna lie to you.”

“I’m George.” He really didn’t mean to say it like that. Definitely not. “I mean—”

Sapnap takes a step back, warily eyeing him up and down. He looks like George just told him he’s in love with him or something. Ew. “I don’t like this game,” he says.

George rolls his eyes. “It’s not a game, idiot.” He huffs, pressing his fingers down on his temples; his headache is coming back full force. It’s too early for this. “I am George. Dream and I, we— we body-swapped.”

“You what!?” Sapnap yells. George glares at him again.

“Stop screaming, Dream is asleep!” He sees the question forming in Sapnap’s head before he even gets to utter it. “He’s in London, but we’re on call and his mic is—”

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down.” Sapnap makes a gesture with his hands, turning to throw the empty confetti cannon on the floor. He looks back at George. “You’re not fucking with me?”

“I’m not,” George insists. This is decidedly not the best way to deliver the news. He promised Dream he could do it; he asked him to trust him.

Surely, he can be an adult for one conversation. Surely.

“Sapnap.” George puts his hands on each of his best friend’s shoulders and looks him dead in the eye. “We were on call last night. I don’t know why it happened, but we both blacked out for, like, one second at midnight. I woke up here. I’m George.”

“Prove it,” Sapnap says, gritting his teeth. “Tell me something only George would know.”

A sad smile tugs at George’s lips. “You wanna come visit me in London but you’re scared of leaving Dream alone.”

Sapnap confessed it to him a couple of weeks ago, a ghost of his innocence. Realistically, he knows Dream is an adult who can take perfect care of himself on his own. George gets it. He’d put Dream in a little box too, if he could.

Sapnap peers, still skeptical. “One more thing,” he says, arching his brow. “So I can be sure.”

George grits his teeth. He knows what Sapnap wants. Pursing his lips, cocking his head, he begs for mercy—but Sapnap doesn’t relent. “I hate you.” Under his breath, he adds, “I had a crush on Dream last year.”

Had. Past tense.

Sapnap smirks. “Okay, I’m sold.”

George drops his hands; Sapnap simply looks at him. A childish smile grows on his face—one George hasn’t seen in a while. It’s heartwarming. It brings light and murders distance.

Distance. Dreadful distance. When George snaps his fingers, it billows away like smoke.

Before he knows it, they’re melting into a hug. Sapnap’s arms wrap around his middle. George smiles into an empty hallway. Even in Dream’s body, this is him and Sapnap, his best friend of years, meeting in person for the first time.

“George,” Sapnap says when they break apart, grinning like a kid on Christmas day. George is just barely endeared by it. Barely. “You’re in Florida!”

“Don’t— even—” He shakes his head, blinking rapidly when he feels his emotions creeping up. Sapnap gets it. “It’s— it’s miserable. You’re gonna have to tell me where the mirrors are, I don’t wanna see Dream’s face by accident or something.”

“Oh, dude—” He scrunches his nose and moves his hand up to scratch the side of it. His cheeks are rosy from the insufferable heat. Why is this house so fucking hot? “—that’s so goofy.”

George shrugs. “Yeah, well.” He leans back against the wall as the excitement from meeting his best friend ebbs away. What a rollercoaster. “It’s— whatever. And Dream is way more freaked out than I am.”

“I would expect so,” Sapnap agrees easily, taking place right by his side. “He doesn’t really believe in anything, like, interesting. He probably thought he’d gone into a coma or something.”

George huffs out a laugh. “I guess.” The prospect of the day doesn’t seem too exciting. There’s one fear out of the way, at least. That’s good. He turns to Sapnap. “Why are you normal?”

Sapnap frowns. “The fuck do you mean?”

“Like—” He gestures between them, as if that could explain it. “Is this not weird to you? I’m George.”

“Well, yeah, it’s weird as fuck.” He shrugs. George knows that the urge to call him crazy is right there, words teetering on the tip of Sapnap’s tongue. “But you look like Dream. I can’t, like, kick you out of the house ‘til you swap back.”

George cracks a smile. “You wouldn’t,” he says, elbowing Sapnap on the side. He gets a half-assed glare in return. “Poor little Stinknap is too nice for his own good.”

“Okay, that’s weird.” He pushes himself off the wall, aiming a judgmental finger at George. “Dream never calls me Stinknap.”

All the times George wondered what it’d be like to actually body-swap with someone, he never took into consideration how mind-boggling it’d be to navigate a house that isn’t his, letting other people see him in a form that he’s not familiar with.

It’s threatening—the knowledge that all of his abstract thoughts and memories are here with him, but the frame he knows and the room he inhabits sit so far away, in a lonely apartment across the ocean.

On top of that, Dream is so different to him. He can’t stress this enough—he’s tall and broad and big. George feels like an intruder, both in his skin and his house. It’s crowded. There’s no room for him here. There shouldn’t be.

He studies the side of Sapnap’s face. He tries to imagine what it’d be like if Sapnap looked like someone else, if he had a different voice. Would his brain understand that it’s still him? Would it feel different?

Dream sneaks into his mind again—he has a way of doing it. Would George recognize Dream in a different body? He’d like to think he would. He knows him too well. He could pick him up from a lineup with his eyes closed. How could he not? It’s Dream. His Dream.

His Dream. The thought makes his stomach turn with something unwelcome, anxiety prickling his skin. He’s frail. Is it weird to think he’d be able to navigate Dream’s mind way better than his body? Is it wrong?

A loud noise filters through.

“What the fuck is that?” George asks, snapping out of his mild mental breakdown, watching as Sapnap’s eyes widen in scandal. “Is that the fire alarm?”

“Fuck!” he screams, running down the hallway towards what George can only assume to be the kitchen. “Dream’s birthday eggs!”

George shakes his head, but he can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. It might be sleep deprivation; it might be delirium. Sapnap yelling at him to shut the fuck up keeps the smile on his face. He thanks it.

He has one more thing to worry about, though—making sure Sapnap doesn’t single-handedly burn down the house without Dream to look over him. It’s probably the hardest task of them all.

Dream has baby pictures in his room. George has seen one or two before, even though they all seem to be from around the same time period. Baby Dream had cute little curls and chubby cheeks; he was smiley and comfortable in his mother’s arms. A happy baby. Adorable.

Almost on impulse, George brings his hand up and tangles a finger in the messy strands of blond hair showering his forehead, sneaking into his peripheral. It’s soft; it smells good. The color has changed a little bit—it’s gotten darker.

Dream mentioned it before. He even sent a half-assed selfie to prove it.

Working with secretive angles isn’t an easy task. It’s always partial pictures of Dream’s eye or jaw or the top of his head. George tries to assemble him like a puzzle but he comes out unsuccessful every single time.

With the opportunity before him, though, his curiosity subsides, giving way to patience. He daydreams of his first time seeing Dream in person—seeing everything. He wants it to be through his own eyes, from the comfort of his own mind and body.

It’s a personal experience.

He already knows more than yesterday. That thought alone is intimidating. He’ll be back in London with the ability to let his eyes fall shut and muster the image of Dream’s hands, arms, legs. Even his bare torso could sneak into mind, and he’d have no way of stopping it.

Looking down is too anxiety-inducing, but he does it anyway. He fixes his gaze on Dream’s hands, traces the veins on the back with his eyes. Dream wears a light green thread bracelet and a ring on his pointer and middle finger. His arms are pale and strong and covered in freckles.

It feels too much like something he shouldn’t be doing. He does it anyway. Not too far—he’s not a freak. Hands, legs, hair. It’s nothing new; nothing he hasn’t seen before. He simply looks.

Dream wakes up at ten.

“Hi, sleepyhead,” George greets, swiveling in the chair with a dumb smile on his face. Dream only grants him a groan in response. “Alright. Not in the mood, I see.”

“‘M fucking tired.” His elbows hit the desk. George decides it’s not wise to tell him that he slept ten hours—probably for the first time in his life. “Your bed is so good.”

George huffs, stopping in his tracks. “What a weird thing to say.”

Dream groans again, less patient. “You made it weird.” George’s voice gets low when he’s just woken up—deep, scratchy. Usually, George doesn’t really like it. Dream makes good use of it. “I didn’t even want to sleep that long. I missed, like, most of the day.”

“It’s barely ten,” George argues, rolling his eyes, pulling himself closer to the monitor. He grabs the fidget spinner again. Dream’s touched this, he thinks, for no reason. “You didn’t miss anything. Plus, it’s your birthday. You weren’t gonna work on your birthday.”

“The world doesn’t stop ‘cause it’s my birthday.” He shrugs. Dream gets like this sometimes. It’s up to George to get him out of it, to make him smile again. He’s the best at it—he’s always been.

“It should,” George says, once again, pushing Dream’s limits. Dream likes it when he’s on his side; he likes being cared for. George cares for him all year round. “D’you need me to do something for you while I’m here? Answer some emails or something?”

Dream scoffs, disbelieving. Something tells George he should take offense. “No, it was— just merch stuff. I’ll talk to them tomorrow. Tell them I blacked out or something.”

George sits up. “If you tell me what to do—”

“George,” Dream cuts him off. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why are you so moody?” he asks, unable to stop it. He mindlessly kicks the air with his feet even though he doesn’t have much room.

Dream lowers his voice, further away from the mic. He seems shy, all of a sudden. “It’s nothing.”

“Dream,” George insists. He’s met with silence. He won’t give up, though. He clears his throat and tries again. “What is it?” he asks. “Tell me—”

“I have to pee!” Dream admits and— What? “That’s it, I have to pee. Are you happy?”

George blinks. “What— Well, go pee.” Maybe Sapnap was onto something after all, when he said he couldn’t leave him alone for a week or two. “You big idiot.”

“I can’t, George,” he argues, even more quietly. George grows a frown. “It’s not my— I can’t.”

George stills, blinks again.

There’s just no fucking way.

“You’re actually ridiculous.”

Dream scoffs. “Okay, but what if—”

“Dream!” George protests, holding back laughter. “You’re gonna give me a bladder infection. Just go. You have my full consent.”

“That’s—” Dream realizes midway through that there’s no point in arguing. “Okay, sure. Whatever.” He gets up but he doesn’t leave; George can hear him breathing. One second goes by, then another. Then, Dream clarifies, “you have mine too, by the way.”

George rolls his eyes. Dream finally walks away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He decides to entertain an idea he had while Dream was still asleep. Hopefully, he’ll be in a better mood when he comes back, so George can actually talk to him about it.

It’s nothing crazy. The thing is that Dream is too defensive for his own good—especially on a day like today. George is walking on eggshells. He doesn’t want World War III to start over two men in their early twenties swapping bodies. That would be a little silly.

George likes to see the good in situations. This time, of course, it was slightly trickier. He has a good plan, though, and he thinks Dream would benefit from it. He deserves a day of freedom, however circumstantial.

Dream startles George when he comes back. He settles in the chair again, groaning to himself, sighing in exhaustion.

A faint smile breaks on George’s face. Tentatively, he calls, “hey, Dream?”

“I didn’t look!”

“Dream!” George cuts him off, grimacing. Okay, that’s— He does not need to think of that. “Just don’t— talk about it, it’s fine.”

Dream clears his throat nervously. “Well, you might—”

“Shut up, oh, my God.” George can’t believe he likes this idiot. He certainly deserves financial compensation for it. He covers his eyes with his hand, shaking his head. “That’s not what I was gonna ask.”

There’s a hint of a smile in Dream’s voice. George can work with that. “What were you gonna ask, then?”

George plays with his fingers, twisting Dream’s ring back and forth. The metal is cool against warm skin. It’s comforting. “I was thinking—” he starts, then clears his throat too, wary of what Dream’s reaction will be. He builds up courage. “—what if you go out?”

Dream sucks in a sharp breath. “What?”

“You have my face,” George explains, sitting up eagerly, chasing hope. “You don’t have to hide, you can— go outside. See people. Go places.”

Dream doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

Just like that, George’s face falls. “Why not? They can see my face!” he insists, pursing his lips. “They won’t see you, it’s perfect! You can eat at an actual restaurant, and talk to real human beings and—”

“Why are you so obsessed with me leaving the fucking house?” Dream snaps.

George forces his mouth shut. One second goes by, then another. Patience.

Patience. “I just think it could be good for you,” he resolves, falling back into a gentler, less pushy tone. “I’m looking out for you, I know you miss it.” He makes a pause. Dream gives him time to collect himself. “Stop lashing out on me, I’m not at fault for this.”

Dream takes a deep breath. The chair creaks under his weight. “I don’t know how to do that,” he says. “What if a fan, like, recognizes you and approaches me and I’m weird? I’ve never talked to fans or anything like that. I don’t want anyone to have a terrible experience.”

George’s lips curl up again. He lets the words graze his heart. “You just smile for a picture and pretend you’re me,” he answers. He figures it’s easier said than done. He’s been there. “To be fair, I haven’t met many fans either. I think they’d give me a pass for being a little awkward. People have bad days. It’s not, like— a big deal.”

“It is, though,” Dream argues, ever the people-pleaser. George wonders how different his life would be if he could prioritize himself every once in a while. “A little bit.”

“A little bit of a big deal?” George funs, holding back a giggle. Dream scoffs poorly, but George knows that the bad pun got to him. “Listen, I’m just saying— you don’t know when you’re gonna have that opportunity again. You can just— take advantage of me having a face. Breathe fresh air. It’ll be good for you.”

Dream stays silent for a moment—time passing, clocks ticking. George looks back down at Dream’s hands and his bitten cuticles. He presses his lips into a line as he waits for a reply.

Finally, Dream admits, “I’m scared.”

George melts. “I know,” he says, wishing there was more he could do to fix it. Wishing he could take over Dream’s fears like he did his body and hold them in his pocket to rid him of them for a day or two, for however long he wants to. “I can stay on call with you, if you want. We’ve done it before when I was going out,” he offers. “I can get Sapnap too, we can all chat and keep you company.”

Dream seems to consider it. His voice breaks. “You’d do that?”

“Of course, idiot.” George tangles his fingers on his lap. He’s toeing a line he doesn’t like to get close to, albeit carefully. Safely. It doesn’t seem too bad. He shakes his head clear. “I’m stuck here, aren’t I? It’s not like I have much to do.”

“You should spend some time with Sap,” Dream suggests, somewhat hesitant. George frowns. “Like, just you two. Watch a movie or something. You’ve never met him IRL, you should— you should have that too.”

Selfless. Be selfish, George wants to say. Let me take care of you, for once. “But—”

Dream parrots, “you don’t know when you’ll have that opportunity,” and George’s frown deepens, because that’s not fair game. George is a ‘do as I say not as I do’ kind of guy. Who gave Dream the right to mess with that?

It’s still more than he thought he’d accomplish. “Using my own words against me, I see,” he says, peering at the monitor. It’s okay. He’ll cut his losses.

“Wise words,” Dream replies, amused. George hears him soften. He approaches him like a scared animal and whispers, “sorry for being so reactionary.”

“It’s okay,” George assures. “I get it.” He feels more at peace now; he was worried Dream would somehow hate him for all eternity on the basis of—allegedly—forcing them to swap bodies without his consent.

Thankfully, Dream is slightly less dramatic than George’s subconscious.

“This is stressful.” George falls against the back of the chair and lets his head fall to the side. Dream’s curls fall over his eyes. It tingles. He tries to blow them away. “Maybe some sunlight will make you less annoying.”

“Shut up, idiot.” Dream laughs; George has no choice but to smile. He didn’t realize how much he needed the reassurance that they’ll be fine after all of this. It alleviates some of the crippling anxiety he’s been feeling. Dream hums. “Any particular outfit you wanna be seen in?”

George thinks about it for only one moment. Then, he says, “knowing you, you’ll probably make me wear the Dream hoodie.” Not because he wants to put the idea in Dream’s mind or anything.

He’s just too predictable. “Oh, that’s good,” Dream says. George can hear his annoying and self-sufficient tone from miles away. He smirks. “Thanks for the idea, George.”

George rolls his eyes, bites his bottom lip. What an idiot.

Patches jumps onto his lap without a warning. He hasn’t seen her all day—he figured she was sleeping or that she could somehow smell George in Dream’s body and she hated him or something.

He smiles when he sees her and scratches her head behind her ears. “Hi, Patchy,” he coos, and feels Dream’s jerk of surprise on the other side of the ocean.

“Oh, Patches is there?” Dream asks needlessly, through what George can only assume to be a pout. He knows his own whiny voice. It’s a little embarrassing. “I miss her. How is she?”

“She’s alive, Dream,” George answers, grinning. “She can survive one day without her dad’s conscience around.”

Dream grunts. “You’re so annoying. Tell her I miss her.”

“Meow,” George says, only half-joking. The cat looks up at him with her big, green eyes, and meows back. “Look, we’re communicating. I’ll tell her to help me snoop around your room when you leave.”

“Don’t do that,” Dream warns him. There’s a faint—barely even there—hint of alarm in his voice.

George arches his brows, petting Patches in his lap like an evil villain of some kind. “Oh,” he says. “What are you hiding, Dream?” George looks back down at Patches and lowers his voice. “Does Dream have a secret girlfriend under his bed, Patches? Something embarrassing?”

Dream scoffs. George would swear he rolls his eyes, too. “Fine, look around, whatever,” he says. “I have nothing to hide.” George laughs. He’s easy. “Don’t move anything. And ignore my secret stash of George photos I have laying around somewhere.”

“Ew.” George scrunches his nose in feigned disgust, but his smile grows bigger, warmer. He hopes Patches doesn’t rat him out. “You’re stalking me. He’s my fan, your honor.”

“Yeah, I am,” Dream funs, clearly laughing at him. “I’m your number one fan, actually.” George shakes his head and looks at Dream’s cat for support. She seems to be judging him, too. “That’s why I’m—” he laughs. “—inside you now.”

George face-palms as his cheeks get heated. Dream is literally an idiot. George should punch himself in the face so Dream has to deal with the consequences when he comes back. “You’re so weird,” he says, and Dream laughs louder, unaffected. “Get outta here, freak.”

Dream blows him a raspberry. “Fine! I’ll go get dressed,” he says. His tone has gone soft again. “Bye, Georgie.”

George sees an opening. “Bye. Be careful while you do that, don’t look at me naked or something,” he says, chewing on his smile. “And send me a fit check.”

Predictably, Dream Snapchats him a mirror selfie wearing his own merch hoodie. George doesn’t find it in himself to be mad about it.

“How’re you feeling?” Sapnap asks once George gets downstairs, after a hot minute of walking around with a hand over his eyes, praying he wouldn’t break a leg or something.

He plops down on the couch and turns away from the TV, lest he catches a reflection of Dream’s face on the empty surface. “Weird,” he answers earnestly. He reconsiders. “Less weird than this morning.”

Body-swapping might tamper with a person’s critical thinking capabilities. George isn’t exempt from this—at times, it’s a lot like being tipsy. Headaches, outbursts of emotion, stumbling around rooms, spawning the most random thoughts out of thin air.

He hasn’t had time to ponder and properly articulate all the psychological aspects of it yet, but he’s getting there. He’ll be an expert by the end of the week, he’s sure. Dream might be too, if George knows anything about his character.

“Are you used to it now?” Sapnap asks.

George wouldn’t say he’s used to it; he’s still definitely aware that he’s inhabiting another person’s skin. He eagerly awaits his return to his house and his room and himself—he won’t spend a moment longer than necessary here.

He could do a better analysis if Dream wasn’t so put off by the idea. He’s curious about the things that truly belong to him, like his skillful hand and his accent, and the ones he was born with and cannot change, like his voice.

If someone asks him to describe himself, he wants to know how many of the things that come to mind are actually his to claim.

It’s the same with Dream—how much does George know him?

Would Dream be just as good at Minecraft in George’s body or would his lithe hands slow him down? Would Dream love sushi and despise tomatoes if he tried them with George’s mouth? Does he laugh just as loudly or cry just as easily or blush the same shade of red?

They’re pieces of a puzzle, every single one of them. They work with what they have; they learn and grow around what they know, like grapes, sunflowers seeking the sunlight. They’re naked and layered and invisible, all at once. George is greedy.

Oftentimes, he finds himself thinking that he knows Dream a little too well. This experience, however, has most definitely humbled him. There’s a lot of Dream that he’s yet to learn and that he’ll only ever get a glimpse of when they finally live together, if that day ever comes.

“I’m not,” George answers on auto-pilot, still deep in thought. “I don’t— I don’t really think I want to be. I just wanna— get it over with.”

“Escape,” Sapnap says at the same time. It’s more fitting. George turns to him. Sapnap doesn’t even look like he just spoke. Maybe George imagined it. “How’s Dream? Did he end up going out?”

George nods slowly, training his eyes on the couch again. “Yeah, he went out to eat. He’s been Snapchatting me stuff.”

“Did he meet anyone?” Sapnap asks, a grin threatening to break on his face. “Any fans? Anyone hit on him or something?”

George splutters. “Not— that I know of.” He grimaces, weighing Sapnap’s words. “Do you think people just hit on me whenever I go out? Who do you think I am?”

Sapnap shrugs, too relaxed for George’s liking. “The common consensus seems to be that you’re— mildly good-looking.”

George barks out a laugh. “Did you just call me hot?”

“Ew,” Sapnap says. George rolls his eyes because he doesn’t sound convincing, and because he has a very big ego, thank you very much. “I very specifically avoided that word. Or anything remotely similar. I’m hot.”

“Sure,” George says, drenched in sarcasm. Sapnap hits his legs with a cushion. “Who even is this consensus? Twitter?”

Sapnap shrugs again, smirking on the sly. “Dream, probably.” George turns his head back towards him embarrassingly fast, he’s not gonna lie. Sapnap seems to enjoy it. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

George frowns, scrunches his nose. Sapnap is crazy. “What?”

“I think you lied to me, Georgie,” he pushes, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks at George with a brow arched, a smug look on his face as though he can somehow read his best friend’s mind. “I think you still have a crush on Dream.”

“Pfft.” George turns on his back, facing the ceiling. White, lifeless, innocent. “No, I don’t.”

George told Sapnap that he had a crush on Dream over a year ago. It’s one of the most embarrassing things Sapnap’s ever coaxed out of him, but a bet is a bet, and at that time, that was his biggest secret. He’s a man of principle.

Obviously, he made him swear on every living being that he wasn’t gonna say anything, and as far as George knows, he hasn’t broken that promise. Sapnap is also a man of principle.

The thing is, George is paranoid. He couldn’t stand knowing that something so vulnerable about him hid in someone else’s mind—someone he can’t control. He’s always the only one responsible for bearing his own secrets. It’s a burden he never intended to share.

He’d rather let it crush him.

So, like the coward he is, he lied to Sapnap and told him he’d gotten over it, just like that, to regain full custody of his heart’s secret wishes. He alleged it was stupid and a phase and he does not have a crush on Dream anymore.

“I didn’t lie to you,” he says, in a weak voice. It was technically a half-lie. He doesn’t have a crush on Dream anymore.

He doesn’t just have a crush on Dream anymore.

Crazy how much one word can change the meaning of a fully fleshed-out sentence.

“I think you’re lying right now,” Sapnap insists, leaning back again now that he has the upper-hand, now that his game is out in the open. “And I think it’s driving you crazy to know that you’re in Dream’s body, of all people. You might’ve accidentally wished for it—”

“I didn’t make this happen,” George sentences, clenching his hands into fists. “I don’t care what you think, I don’t even know how to make this happen, so stop telling me—”

“I didn’t say anything,” Sapnap defends. He crosses his arms on his chest, studying George carefully. His expression turns more guarded. “Did Dream imply—”

“Yes,” George spits. His heart races in his chest. He wants to go. To Dream’s room, to his own house—anywhere but here. “Kind of. I don’t know how he thinks— I was just as lost as he was. The only difference is that I actually believed in this before it happened.”

Sapnap hums, fidgeting with the cord of his sweats. “I’ve seen it happen,” he comments. George’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth to ask but the words don’t come out. Luckily, Sapnap keeps going of his own volition. “My roommate in college swapped once.”

George props himself up, turning to face him better. “Why didn’t you tell me?” George asks, less upset and more curious, eager to learn more. “Or Dream! And why were you—”

“I was nineteen and we were high as fuck,” Sapnap simplifies, moving his hand up to adjust his hat on his head, his hair on the sides, like nothing happened. George has never listened to him so attentively in his entire life. “We thought we’d, like, made it up or something. And we agreed to never talk about it. Then I kinda forgot until— well, today.”

“So—” George frowns again. “—you knew it could happen.” He tilts his head and squints at him carefully. “Do you know how we could’ve made it happen?”

“Like I said,” Sapnap insists, “you wish for it. That’s the only thing I know. There might be another way, but—”

“But how do you—” George sits up straighter, keeping his eyes away from any possible reflections. His head is numb; heart beating fast. He should talk to Dream. Maybe they can fix it. “How do you wish for it? I didn’t wish to body-swap, I didn’t want that.”

Sapnap hums, giving it some thought. “I don’t know, like, how specific you have to be. You just have to really want to be where the other person is, I guess. Switch places with them and shit.”

George’s eyes snap open. I wish, I wish, I wish. He remembers wishing.

I wish I was there. I wish you were here. You’ll be here for my birthday.

He feels anger take over him. “Well, surely the Universe isn’t that stupid,” he mutters. “Whoever the fuck handles body-swapping should get fired, like, yesterday.”

“I don’t know, bro,” Sapnap says, still amused. What a fun little joke. Distance, distance. George plays with distance once again; he plays with time. Maybe he should stop messing with shit he can’t control. “So was it you?”

George groans, throwing himself back against the couch, pressing his eyes shut. “It might’ve been both of us,” he admits.

Well, at least one thing’s settled.

“And— you still have a crush on Dream?”

It’s a poor attempt. Sapnap must know it is. George peeks through one eye and lets the seconds go by in silence, in case he backtracks. It’s not the time, really. It’s not the time.

He takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling again, hands clasped on his stomach. Fucking hell. “It might be— worse than that.”

“Oh,” Sapnap whispers. It’s lighter than George expected. At first, at least. There’s a gasp of surprise, and then, “oh.”

George huffs. “Yeah.” His chest hurts. He chooses to relax. “Whatever.”

Some things, he cannot change. Having feelings for Dream is definitely one of them.

“So, apparently—” George starts, pacing around the room. “—it was our fault.”

The room is cold. Dream hums. “What do you mean?”

When George explains it to him, Dream sounds less impressed or taken aback than George would’ve initially expected. He sounds tired—most likely from being out for hours for the first time in God knows how long. He’s malleable; he’s transparent.

“That’s ridiculous,” he ends up saying. There’s no hint of the bite his words carried this morning. He’s given up, it seems. George isn’t sure what to make out of it. “So we should swap back at midnight, right? As soon as— my birthday’s over?”

George nods, even though Dream can’t see him. “I’d think so.” He keeps his hands busy, playing with the trinkets on Dream’s desk. Aside from that, he hasn’t touched anything. He hasn’t even moved his keyboard, let alone tried to figure out how his stupid settings mold to his regular-human-sized hands. It’s a short stay—he wouldn’t want to mess with anything.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t find it curious. He’d still like to know—with an actual heads-up and consent from both of them—how this body-swap thing goes. He imagines what it’d be like once he’s finally living with Dream; they could willingly swap bodies and spend an entire day just like that, in each other’s skin.

He wonders if it’s weird to want that. He thinks it isn’t.

He keeps it to himself.

“Did you have fun today?” he asks Dream, swiveling around in his desk chair, leaving his thoughts alone. He’ll entertain more of them when he’s back in the safe confines of his own London room. “Met any fans?”

“Just two little kids with their parents,” he says, a smile audible in his tone. “They weren’t sure if it was you and the dad, like, approached me. It was weird, I had to fake your accent. I was like ‘yeah, I— guess I’m GeorgeNotFound!’”

George chuckles. “You guess?” he echoes, shaking his head. “People are gonna think I have, like, an identity crisis or something.”

“Oh, come on,” Dream says. George winces. It’s weird to hear that in his own voice. “You said it wasn’t that bad.” There’s something light—something curious—to his tone. He could finally wrap his head around it, it seems. George is glad to hear that. “How was your day?” Dream asks back. “Was Nick nice to you?”

George pulls a face. “Don’t ever call Stinknap Nick when you sound like me,” he pleads. Dream laughs like he’s joking. George couldn’t be more serious. “And yes, he was— decent, I guess.”

They had fun. Save for the part where he confessed to still having feelings for Dream. George avoids that. It wouldn’t be wise to mention it. It’s not like it matters; not like he’s ready to unpack that yet.

“Had to keep him from burning down your kitchen,” he says instead. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Dream laughs again. It’s a nice sound. It would be nicer if it was Dream’s actual laugh, but he’ll take what he can get. He kind of gets why Dream always goes above and beyond when he finds something that makes George giggle, and milks it until there’s not a single drop of humor left.

It’s rather sweet of him.

“Thank you for looking out for my home,” Dream says earnestly, pulling a smile from George. “Hopefully—” He stops himself. George’s smile widens. “Yeah.”

“Mhm.” They’re normal. They’re good. They’re them—even like this. George takes a cleansing breath and lets his mind wander off once again. It’s getting harder to control it. Does he get a little bit of Dream’s ADHD for being inside his head?

“Y’know, when I said I wanted you here—” Dream starts, careful, guarded. George knows where he’s going—how could he not? “—I didn’t—”

“I know,” George cuts him off. I didn’t mean this. I fucking hate this. “Should’ve been more specific.”

Dream hums. “You think we can permanently teleport you to Florida if we try hard enough?” he asks. George knows he isn’t serious but he still sounds innocent, somewhat childish. He breaks a smile. “If we managed to body-swap—”

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he says. He hates to burst Dream’s bubble. “But— we could try, I guess. I’d be a fugitive, though.”

“Oh, you’re right.” Dream chuckles and George joins him. Silence settles around them. It’s still, stale. They’re molding to their new, temporary existence. He hasn’t moved a finger but Florida already feels a lot more like London. “It’s raining.”

George groans. “It’s hot.” He toys with the hem of Dream’s shirt and suddenly gets why he’d feel the urge to take it off, however uncomfortable and sticky and gross his skin feels against the plastic of his chair. “I wish it was raining.”

“You’ll be back here in no time,” Dream says. George guesses it’s meant to be reassuring, but he’s not sure what would do that trick anymore.

He’ll be back in London. No Sapnap and no Patches; no Dream, either. It’ll all go back to normal and George will be still waiting. Waiting as Dream hides again—a never-ending cycle.

Patience, patience, patience.

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Dream whispers, so faintly George barely catches it. He frowns. “I— being here for a day drove me crazy. I can only imagine—”

“Don’t,” George pleads, shakes his head. It’s the last thing he needs right now. Patches purrs against his stomach. He wants to focus on that. “I don’t— I don’t want pity, I don’t—”

“It’s not pity,” Dream defends, sounding almost hurt that George would even imply he pities him. He supposes he understands. “It’s just—” A sigh cuts him off. “If we could just—”

George closes his eyes, overwhelmed. “But we can’t,” he says. He wants. Once again, all the time, he wants. “We’ll keep waiting, it’s fine. I’m used to London. Don’t think too much about it.”

Dream saw something, George figures. Dream saw it all. It’s raining outside and Dream noticed the leaks in a small apartment that seems to be permanently temporary.

The warm lights in the kitchen and the rooms so as to not feel like he’s freezing to death while he waits. The unmade bed and piles of dirty clothes he didn’t feel like washing.

Dream snuck a peek into his life and his cabinets with a single glass and a single plate and a single set of cutlery. Into his computer and his secret tab with all the flights to Orlando that take off and leave him behind.

George doesn’t talk about it. George doesn’t want to talk about it—why would he? That does belong to him, and no one else has the right to see it. Not even Dream.

“D’you wanna reply to your birthday messages?” George asks. It’s anticlimactic and he knows Dream will protest, so he doesn’t give him time. “You have, like, a million. C’mon.”

George can’t work Dream’s keyboard.

Dream agrees, and just like that, the matter is settled.

Hold on, he tells himself; he hears Dream tell him. Just a little longer.

He almost believes it.

Going back is not all that different, with the exception that they’re ready for the swap this time.

George said goodbye to Sapnap and Patches. He was left with a sour taste on his tongue after promising to be back soon. He hates lying. Even worse, he hates not knowing whether he’s lying or not.

They occupied their respective chairs and chatted until it was a minute to go.

“If this doesn’t work—” Dream had started, but George was quick to dismiss him.

“It will.” He felt it in his heart. “You’ll be back.”

George was right.

He blinked once—just once—and he was back in London. It was jarring, to say the least. For a second there, it felt like a nightmare. A long second.

They haven’t said anything since it happened.

George checks the clock—it’s only been a few minutes. They feel like years. Time going by even slower is definitely the last thing he needed after the experience he just had. The Universe must really, really hate his guts.

He looks at his trinkets and thinks his desk has never felt so empty. He looks at his unmade bed, thinks Dream was lying there just a couple hours ago and he feels like crying. He’s never wanted the rain to shut the fuck up so desperately.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember how Dream’s house smells and how Patches’ fur feels under his hand. Dream’s hand. Dream’s hand and his skin and his curls falling over his forehead.

It’s all gone, so soon.

He’s small. He pulls his legs up and hides in his knees—hides from himself. Lonely. Lonely. He was told he’d be back home by the end of the day, but it feels rather like he’s had a taste of it and was forced to leave it behind like nothing but a mere dream, an illusion.

It feels empty. His body feels empty. Dream took up more space and now he doesn’t fit in himself. All it took was one day. One day. Is it weird? He doesn’t care. His head hurts again. It breaks in half; he wants to seal it shut so his thoughts can stay within.

He fails. “Hi, you,” he whispers. He almost expects to sound like Dream. He’s disappointed when he doesn’t.

Dream clears his throat. “Hey.” The ice around George’s heart melts at the surface. He feels it drip, drip, drip. It’s like leaving ice cream under the sun, but just for a few minutes. “Back home safe?”

No. No. “Yeah.” George’s throat closes around his lies. His truths. It’s a fine line. “You?”

Dream hums. The sound of rain hitting the window almost drowns it out. Stupid fucking London.

“That was a little crazy,” Dream comments. Small talk, George guesses. He takes a deep breath. “I mean—”

“It was,” he says. There’s not much else he can say. “But we’re back now. You’re back in Florida with— Sapnap and Patches. And I’m—” He chokes. He doesn’t mean to. “Here.”

“You’ll be here soon, George,” he promises, pleads. George’s eyes burn. He feels unstable, like— bad Wi-Fi. Disconnected. “You’ll be here. When— I’m here too.”

George almost laughs. Almost. “Being there as you was so fucking weird.” He sniffles; his chest hurts. He should focus on Dream. “I’m sorry you have to keep yourself from— well, everyone,” he says. He means it. “That must be awful.”

Dream gives him leeway. He pretends. He’ll be back to hiding sooner than he thinks, and for the first time, George can’t blame him. “It’s tough,” he admits, also for the first time. “But— you know why I do it.”

The pain he was once used to feels closer this time—he can’t help it. “I feel—” George hates lying. “I dunno. Guilty.”

“It’s my choice,” Dream rushes to say, serious, determined. George knows this. It doesn’t make it hurt less—the violent knowledge that Dream’s life is on pause just because of him. “It’ll be worth it,” he says, every single time.

George knows now that he’s right. It doesn’t make it hurt less. He wonders how hard he’ll have to wish to actually be able to teleport there. He could be the first. He wants to be, if only for a day.

Touch, hold, hug. Kiss. Kiss.

“Did you really not see my face?” Dream asks.

George shakes his head—both in response and to clear his mind. He’s out of breath. “Of course not, I respect you.” The words roll easily down his tongue. The inherent curiosity of wanting from a distance comes back full-force.

He knows for sure that it belongs to him. That’s one of his secrets—one of the parts of his brain that Dream would’ve never been able to access.

“Wanna do it right,” he adds, barely above a whisper.

“You’re gonna be first, either way,” Dream says. George looks up at his monitor when the weight of Dream’s voice falls on his shoulders. His secret tab is open—it’s not so secret anymore. Dream adds, “in many ways.”

It’s hard to juggle; hard to process. There’s a pit in George’s stomach threatening to swallow everything he is, everything he owns. He swallows the lump in his throat and sinks his nails in his—his—thighs. “What d’you mean by that?”

Dream doesn’t answer. It makes George wonder if he even asked out loud. He might’ve imagined it. His mouth is dry.

Breathe, he thinks. Wait. Hide.

“‘M gonna go to bed,” Dream announces eventually. George hasn’t moved a finger—not for a minute, not for an hour, not for a lifetime. He deflates, turns liquid. To Dream, he’s malleable. Like clay. “I love you.”

George’s vision is blurry like the lines between them.

He sucks in a breath. There’s chaos in his mind.

Dream clears his throat. “Thank you for— giving me the chance to be free for a day.”

George shakes his head slowly as his heart rings in his ears. The Earth breaks open too, threatens to swallow him. A void, a pit, a crater. He’ll fall. He fell. “I didn’t do anything.”

Dream smiles. “I know. I still wanna thank you, though.”

“Okay,” George says. One of his legs falls without him meaning to. It makes a sound when it hits the floor. His foot hurts. He looks down and finds a bruise on his right knee, a scratch on his inner thigh.

“Good night, Georgie.”

George grips his armrests. “Night, Dream.”

Dream leaves the call. Then, there’s silence.

It takes George a few minutes to move. He replays the last twenty-four hours in his head, giving them time to settle. He thinks of Dream’s words and then Sapnap’s and then some of his own, invasive, unwelcome thoughts.

He wishes the void in his stomach could swallow those too. He wishes he could rid himself of them.

Wishing is off the table, he reminds himself. He can’t be trusted with it.

He grazes the marks with the tips of his fingers. Dream has them too. Nails scratching at skin, sinking in. Anxiety, bitten cuticles. Scars and mosquito bites. There’s history on their skins.

The bruise on George’s knee belongs to Dream. George feels like blowing himself up when he thinks about it. Dream and history don’t go well together. Dream and past, present, and future. Future, above all else, is terrifying.

George gets up from the chair. He’s suffocating. A chill travels up his spine when both of his feet touch the cold floor. He doesn’t warm up to it easily—he never could.

He’s about to run towards the window to get some fresh air, but he’s rudely interrupted by the presence of a blue post-it stuck to the wall behind his monitor. He didn’t put it there.

He takes it out and brings it closer to read it.

it was nice to get to know you better :)

George swallows. History. He didn’t count on having physical evidence of Dream existing in his own, personal space.

Know you better, he said. Know him better, as if it isn’t a threat. As if it isn’t one of George’s biggest, most terrible fears—to be known.

Of course, he and Dream are way past that line. He let too much out; he let Dream too far in. It’s the whole reason why he has to hide, sometimes, even in his own house.

Even from himself, that means.

There’s another note right under the first one.

im sorry if this is weird, it says. Then, (dream was here?)

Window. Air.

George closes his eyes and lets it take over him. Raindrops fall on his face but he doesn’t care—they’ll pave the way for the tears he feels prickling at his eyes, threatening to roll down. Are there any more notes?

Of course there are more notes. It’s Dream.

There must be more notes.

Before he even has time to realize what he’s doing, he turns back around to start looking for them. It doesn’t take him long—they’re all over the place. He doesn’t even know how he didn’t catch them before.

Next to a framed photo of himself, you were a cute baby.

On his bedside lamp, im sure this apartment would be a lot darker without you in it.

It prompts George to think of fire. Warmth, heat. Light. Love. I love you still burns inside his ears. Dream makes it sound easy, even welcoming.

i stood in front of this mirror to see you smile back at me, is stuck to the frame. George reads it without removing it. He doesn’t have the courage to touch it, lest it dissolves into thin air—lest he does.

He notices he’s still wearing the Dream hoodie from Dream’s outing earlier. He’s not sure what drives him to put his hands in his pockets but he does and you look really good in this :).

There’s space and there’s emptiness and then there’s this, whatever it is. George chews on his bottom lip and tries his best to blink his tears away. He’s not one to cry, not really. He’s just tired. Emotional. Emotionally tired.

Dream’s handwriting turns scrappy when he gets to the kitchen.

being in your body gave me the courage to say everything i can’t from mine. does that make me a coward? is too deep of a message to be written on an empty cupboard.

Maybe that’s what prompted him to write it. One glass, one plate, one set of cutlery. George’s loneliness has taken over his apartment as well as his life. Dream could see it. Dream could feel it, wherever he looked.

George reads the note again and thinks that there isn’t a better person in the world for him to fall in love with. Love, in love. In love, he’s in love.

He realizes it’s the first time he owns up to it so willingly.

His heart beats faster.

George reads i found myself wishing more than once that i could crawl under your skin but this is not what i meant on a small piece of paper on the kitchen counter, and suddenly, he’s the one who’s set on fire.

Love, love, loving. In the kitchen, of all places, George thinks that this is what love must taste like. He could put it in a sauté pan and serve it with some sauce and he knows he’d never want anything else, ever again.

Dream makes it seem easy. Love. Dream makes it easy.

George wipes his tears away with the sleeves of the hoodie. The edges are worn out; the fabric smells of sweet cologne. He can’t be sure of who sprayed it.

He holds the note in his hands so tightly that the paper is crumbled up. Life and tears and emotion—it’s all there. He looks at it and finds that he recognizes it from the notebook he doodles on while Dream rambles to him about his most recent video ideas at three in the morning.

Evidence, history. He runs to his desk and finds it sitting there, right where he left it. He opens it at the last page.

thank you for giving me a fun birthday. i hope next year i can leave you notes like these in our house to remind u of how much i love ur company. even better, i’ll tell u myself. i’ll make sure you never forget. i promise.

- dream :)

George grabs his pen and lets it rest between his fingers, unsure of what to do with it. He couldn’t utter a single word aloud if his life depended on it. His hand is shaking way beyond his control. It rains inside.

It rains. thank you, he writes. you’re not a coward. you’re better than me. He’s never been good with words. He tries to hunt them down. i could never string enough sentences together to let you know how I feel.

It thunders. not even if i broke them down into pieces and left them scattered all over your house. His tears gather by his jaw. They tingle. It’s comforting, and so he smiles.

He scratches the last word he wrote and replaces it with home.

At the bottom of the page, almost as an afterthought, he adds, i hope there’s room for me there. i really liked it, but then he reconsiders and adds, i hope there’s always room for me wherever you are. History and Dream. Dream and the future.

Maybe Dream is his future. He can’t wish, but he’ll work for it. He’ll make it happen. I’m not much bigger than this note, George writes. this is all i have to offer.

i hope it’s enough.

He closes the notebook. The pen feels heavy in his hands, like a weapon. He puts it down as well. Taking a long, deep breath, he turns towards the open window and realizes he should close it if he doesn’t want the rain to get in.

After doing that, he doesn’t know where to go. There’s a weight off his shoulders, in a way. Tiredness tugs at his lids for having borne it for so long—stray, aimless. He has more time to figure it out now; he won’t get bored.

He’ll be fine. He and Dream will be fine.

They’ll be good, even, when the time comes.

For now, George’s plan is to lay down in his bed and try to make it to the next morning without other inconveniences.

Things never go as planned.

He should’ve known. Deep down, he knew. One more note, just one. He sneaks his hands under the pillow, determined to sleep, and that’s when he feels it. It’s like it was waiting for him.

you’re the best thing i could ever wish for dream of.

Next thing he knows, George is walking calmly towards his desk. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t cry. There’s a smile that threatens to break on his lips. Delirium. Let go.

He opens his notebook on the page he just wrote on and takes a picture.

He goes to Dream’s chat and presses send before he has the time to regret it.

You’re not a coward, George thinks.

Then he finally smiles. And I’m not alone.