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George wakes up with sunlight warm in his eyes and air cool against his face. He rubs his eyes and looks around the yellow tent he's in, conscious of the way he is alone and how the covers, previously tucked all the way up to his shoulders, have fallen and pooled around his lap.
There's a smell that's laying thick and heavy over his surroundings. George scrunches his nose up and takes a deep sniff, and is that– mushroom? He can't tell for sure.
Huffing, he gets up, removing himself from the warm comfort of the covers and ducking through the flap entrance of the tent.
The sight of the lush forest never ceases to amaze him. Filled with gold-like greens and soft browns, patterned with beautifully intricate leaves and littered with various delicate flowers, the view is simply stunning. Fresh air invades his senses and clears his mind, and George thinks there cannot be a better way to wake up than this.
That's until he catches sight of Dream, who is standing around a little pot that's cooking over the fire.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Dream greets, and George will be lying if he says the fondness shining in Dream's eyes doesn't make spring come to life in his chest.
"Hello to you too," he slurs, tongue heavy. He adjusts his posture, looks at Dream by the pot again, and freezes.
"What," he says slowly, eyeing the tin pot like it will explode any minute, which it might, "are you doing?"
Dream grins at him and twirls a wooden spoon in his right hand. "Cooking."
"Cooking what?!" He sputters, "You're terrible at it!"
Dream frowns, lips pulling into a pout that almost makes George give up his argument, and defends himself. "I'm not that bad–"
George shoots him a dry look. "The last time you made a meal for us, Sapnap threw up three times in a row and Karl was feverish for a week ."
He'd known something had been up with that beetroot soup that day – it hadn't even smelled like beetroot, for God's sake – and had let his two friends be the guinea pigs for Dream's attempt at cooking. Needless to say, that had been nothing but a narrow clutch. He shudders to think about what he would have gone through, had he looked into Dream's puppy dog eyes and relented.
Dream cringes in guilt at the memory. "Okay, but that was one time–"
"One time too many." George says firmly. He's the only one who hasn't been brought down by Dream's cooking; he's not going to break the streak now.
At least, that's what he tells himself, even as Dream pinches his brows together and looks at him pleadingly.
"Come on, George," he begs, little spots of sunlight peeking through trees and nestling into his hair, "just give it a try." Birds chirp in the distance as if to agree with his proposition, but George presses his lips together in a thin line and resists.
Dream sighs, picking up a wooden bowl from the stack of two by his feet, and dips his spoon into the pot to scoop out its contents.
George blanches.
"It's mushroom soup," Dream hums, unbothered, even as George subtly inches away, back towards the tent, "I'm rather proud of it, actually."
George will say he loves Dream, really, under certain special circumstances, but whatever he's just made? No. George doesn't think he'll ever be able to bring himself to love that.
It's brown and goopy. A lot more un-liquid than what soup is supposed to be like, and George, for the life of him, cannot seem to distinguish a single piece of mushroom within it.
His stomach churns slightly. "No."
"Please?" With a little 'plop' sound, Dream drops his spoon into the pot. He turns pleading, doe-like eyes onto George, and George's heart seizes in his chest. "I promise it tastes good."
Not like this, he thinks furiously, as the endearing look in Dream's gaze pulls at his heartstrings and makes it beat an infuriatingly enamoured rhythm.
"George," Dream whines, and there's no way that motherfucker doesn't know just what he fucking does to him, and–
"Fine." He sighs, giving in. A little voice that sounds exactly like Sapnap cackles a tune of simp in his head. "But only this once."
Dream brightens, eagerly handing the soup over, and George thinks maybe it's worth it.
He takes another glance at the soup and quickly decides otherwise, grimacing. It looks worse up close.
Dream laughs. It eases the pressure of having to do this by a bit. "Just drink it already, you baby."
George scowls at him, effectively making him laugh harder, and lifts the bowl to his lips. The soup slowly leaks into his mouth, and he freezes.
The overwhelming relief that no, his stomach is not about to empty itself onto the forest floor sinks in, and he smiles. Its taste is… unique, to say the least. George, as a very experienced cook, will say that there's definitely more to brush up on, but it seems to be a vast improvement from the horrendous Beetroot Soup. He can get used to this, actually.
"It's not bad," he murmurs, and the way Dream's smile seems to glow makes little familiar butterflies awaken and flutter around in his stomach.
"I told you, you idiot," Dream huffs proudly. George thinks he deserves to be proud. "I put in a lot of effort into learning how to make this, okay?" Their gazes meet, and Dream's eyes fill with something soft. "I worked extra-hard on this one just because you like mushrooms."
George's heart squeezes. "Oh."
Dream snorts, but his eyes sparkle with mirth. His irises are the exact same shade of viridian as the trees behind him, and George can't help but think that he looks at home. Like he belongs here, in this outside world of greens and fresh air and cotton-clouds, where soil is warm beneath feet and wood is rough against skin.
Dream smiles, and the corners of his eyes crease like little mountain folds. "A 'thank you' would be nice," he prompts, giving George a gentle nudge.
George laughs. "Shut up, you idiot." The soup bowl remains warm in his hands.
"Surprise!"
A pair of warm hands are lifted from George's eyes, and when he registers the image in front of him, his heart flops. "What the fuck, Dream."
Dream grins widely, his eyes shining with excitement in the dark. "We haven't even gotten to the main part yet."
"Main part?" George deadpans, and gives a blank stare. "This is a tree. How is there a 'main part' to a fucking tree?"
The shit-eating smile never leaves Dream's lips. "You'll see."
George huffs and rolls his eyes. "I'm not sure if I want to see, Dream. You woke me up at six in the morning to bring me to a tree, of all things, and now you're saying there's more?"
Maybe a part of him is a little let down that after stumbling through the walk from their cabin to the woods, nothing but blind faith and Dream's instructions guiding him, all that's produced is a simple tree. Then again, this won't be the first time Dream has gone out of his way to prank him, so he can't say that he's fully surprised.
He sighs. "It's too early for your dumb jokes, Dream." Rubbing his eyes, he yawns, and ignores the way he can still feel the imprints of Dream's fingers on his face.
"Come on, George," Dream pleads, and reaches out to grab at his hands before he can turn away. "I promise this isn't a joke." He lets out a slight laugh, and George melts. "I actually have something to show you."
Dream pulls away and positions himself by the tree. His hands stretch upwards to grab at bark and stumpy branches, and George tries hard not to miss the smoothness of his touch. "First, we have to get up the tree."
His movements are fluid as he climbs, looking for all the world like he's done this a million, billion times before, and George can do nothing but stand and stare. Dream sends down a cheeky grin, eyes alight with adrenaline. "It's easy, George. Just do it."
George's face contorts. "Not everyone's a monkey like you," he jabs, voice a low grumble, but Dream's responding laugh is loud and sweet. George lets a smile adorn his face as he attempts to mimic the blonde's previous movements, heaving himself up the tree slowly but surely.
"Took you long enough," Dream greets, when his head pokes through the mess of branches and leaves. He's sitting on a rather large branch, an arc of luxurious leaves hanging over him in an arc as if to provide shelter. He's pretty, there, with his feet swinging in the air and nature eagerly providing him with the most stunning backdrop to fit into. George thinks he forgets to breathe, for a moment.
"Come over," the blonde pats the empty space on the branch next to him, sending George a grin that sparks a wildfire in his heart and leaves him burning, "you're just in time for it, too."
George thinks he'd gladly burn, especially if Dream's every little action is the fuel for the flames. He'd relish in it, even, find a home in the fire and turn to ash against the heat of Dream's lips. He'd let himself burn, but only if Dream's the one that burns him.
Carefully, he maneuvers his way towards the branch Dream is sitting on. The tree is tall. The little journey is almost perilous. He makes it through.
"This is what I wanted to show you." Dream's hand sneaks around his waist, pulling their bodies closer together, and George leans into his side just the way he's used to.
In front of them, the first rays of the sun peek over the dark horizon. Sunlight slowly falls over the forest and illuminates the green of the trees, casting a warm glow over the birds just-awakening, the forest creatures bounding from branch to branch, breathing life into the scenery before him, and it's glorious.
The sky melts from a pitch black to a dark blue, blending in with shades of bright orange and yellows, and with each passing second, more awe creeps into his chest. It fills him to the brim with wonder, that this is the world he lives in. This is where he exists, a place with beauty and calm and tranquility, and this is only a small portion of it. There's so much more unseen, so much more undiscovered. There's so much more in the future.
"Do you like it?" Dream whispers against his ear. George presses into him, takes in the softness of his hoodie and the solidness of his being, and sighs.
"Yeah."
Dream's fingers tighten around his waist, sending tinges dancing over his skin and causing his blood to soar. "I knew you would."
George hums, and tilts his head to let it rest on Dream's shoulder. He feels Dream still, for a moment, and leans his own head against George's.
Friends don't do this, he can't help but think. But then again, they'd crossed the line of friends long, long ago, haven't they? They'd crossed that line in the aftermath of a dare, in the darkness of a room and with the wetness of tears barely there against their cheeks. They'd crossed that line with a simple kiss, with a line of confession and a night of small comfort.
They haven't talked about what they are. Haven't talked about where they're at, where they want to go, but George thinks he has an idea. The touches, the hand-holding, the occasional kisses — those aren't things friends do.
He looks up, drinks in the sight of Dream with his eyes closed and breathing even, honey-spun locks flopping over his forehead, and lets a small, subtle smile grow.
Not everything needs a label, he decides, and enjoys the pressure of Dream's fingers on his hip, the weight of Dream's head around his own.
The sun glides higher into the sky, golden light falling onto leaves and trees and skin, and they sit there, legs dangling mid-air, to watch.
The demons come in his sleep.
They pick him apart and jab at places he hadn't even known existed before, paralysing him and filling him with ice-cold fear.
What George thinks is the worst part is that the nightmares aren't always the same. He can't even get used to them — each night of terror brings a new image, a different loved one lying in a pool of their own blood, swallowed by a horde of hungry zombies, reaching out to him and crying out as a glowing sword pierces through their stomach–
He hates the ones about Dream most. He despises them, loathes the way they make his head spin and his stomach knot itself, curses how they always leave him with his mind reeling, body slick with cold sweat as he searches desperately for any form of solace, detests the way he's reduced to a mess of fears and emotions.
This night isn't any different.
He shoots up in bed, body so rigid it aches and his head pounding with Dream, arrows, arrows on Dream, arrows in Dream, and God, Dream, not Dream–
He doesn't even register that he's speaking until Dream bursts in, light spilling into the room with his entrance, and God, George can still see the arrows, feathers-on-sticks emerging from his back and feet and thighs and–
"George," Dream's suddenly in front of him, and his cheeks are suddenly enveloped by warm, warm hands, but his eyes are hot and wet and he can't breathe. The demons claw at his throat and choke up his windpipe, invading his head in a mess of whispers about how it's all his fault, all his fault, why hadn't he been stronger or faster or better, he's the reason why Dream got hurt–
Dream inhales. George tries to latch onto that sound as hard as he can, proof that Dream is alive and breathing, he's alive and breathing and okay , and then Dream speaks.
"Focus on my voice, Georgie," he soothes. The sound of his words is everything, a tune George will follow like a mouse to the Pied Piper, "focus on my voice."
And then they're turning, Dream sitting on the edge of the bed and George on his lap, clinging on to the back of Dream's shirt and leaning his forehead on Dream's shoulder.
"You're okay, George." Dream says, and his fingers drum a familiarly foreign pattern on George's shoulders. "You're fine. You're here with me, and I'm fine too."
George grips Dream's shirt a little tighter, closes his eyes and opens them immediately, hit with a barrage of images of Dream almost–
"Dream." He rasps, voice shaky. Even the sheer name manages to ground him. "Dream."
The rhythm on his skin changes to calming circles, rubbed gently over his hoodie. "I'm here."
And that's more than George can ever ask for, really. For Dream to hold him as closely as he does now, to leave little taps on his back with his graceful fingertips, to allow George to use him as his anchor. As his salvation, keeping him from spiralling away into a world of hurt and pain and what-if's.
"Let's breathe together, okay, George?" Dream murmurs. His voice is soft and warm. George thinks he likes him best, like this. "Can you do that for me?"
George tries to suck in a breath, chokes on it, and nods.
"In," Dream whispers, his chest swelling against George's as he breathes, and George follows.
"Out." The air leaves George's lips in a small hiss.
"In," Dream starts again, and George interlocks his hands behind his back as he inhales. "Out." George melts into Dream's front as he relaxes, pressing himself against Dream's solid, real body while his shuddering breaths even out.
"Better?" Dream asks softly, and entangles his fingers in George's hair. The contact erases any last traces of the storm in George's mind.
George swallows. "Yeah."
Exhaustion sweeps in, pulling him from the sudden calm and leaving him drowsy. His eyelids are puffy and heavy and he struggles to keep them apart, wanting desperately to enjoy the feeling of Dream against him for a little longer, before he pulls away and George is only left with lonely sheets and empty space–
"Let's go to bed now, yeah?" Dream shifts them further into the bed, bringing their legs onto the mattress and laying George's head onto the pillows.
As he sinks into the soft cushion, even through blurry vision and an even blurrier mind, fear manages to hit him. If Dream leaves, if Dream gets hurt, if this is the last time he'll ever get to– no. No.
"Stay?" The world floats up and out of his throat, charged by the irrational panic that comes with Dream leaving his side, Dream with his warm touches and sincere eyes, his comforting hugs and pretty voice — George doesn't want him to leave.
Dream's fingers seek out his. Their hands clasp together as Dream lies down right next to him, green eyes brimming with a soft emotion that makes stars burn in George's chest. "I'm not going anywhere."
A lump wells in George's throat. "Promise?"
Dream chuckles. The sound tinkles like the chiming of wind bells, buttering over George's heart and leaving it so, so tender. "Promise."
Satisfied, George lets his eyelids fall.
Later, when he wakes up, he'll open his eyes to the sight of mussed, straw-like hair falling over slightly tanned skin, freckles dancing over a nose bridge and chapped lips slightly apart so as to allow air to go through. He'll have the emotions overflow and tide over him in the form of grateful tears, will press his lips to Dream's in an unspoken thank you, will admire the way Dream's eyes flutter open at that and will let the low murmur of good morning go straight to his heart.
He'll admire the way the morning sun makes Dream's skin glow in an otherworldly manner, will fist his hands into Dream's hair and kiss him again and again and again, but that's all for later.
For now, he sleeps, with the warm comfort of Dream's body heat by his side, and their fingers never unlacing from each other's.
Dream hasn’t been home in a week, four days and twelve hours.
George is counting, of course. He always counts, whenever Dream goes on one of his adventures, his trips of self-discovery and world-exploration. He never asks George to come with him, and George has never asked to go with him either.
(He’s always so, so close to doing it, though. In the wee hours of the morning before Dream hooks his leather backpack over his shoulders, in the late of the night after Dream is home, safe, in his arms, in the occasional afternoons where he catches Dream’s longing stares into the outside, into the wide, wide, world.)
Instead, he waits. Counts the hours and minutes and days until Dream comes back, until he can once again feel tan, strong fingers back between his own, until there’s no longer a still silence in their cabin.
(Sapnap comes along occasionally, of course. He and Karl visit together – they’ve been pretty much inseparable ever since they moved in with each other – and bring some life into this dull, empty house, but nothing can quite fill the cavity within George’s chest when Dream’s not around.)
Maybe he should have asked, this time.
Maybe he should have manned up, risen past the feeble insecurities detailing how Dream doesn’t want nor need him there, anyway, and if he goes alone he’ll just be a bother, and let the question leave his lips, because it’s been a week, four days and twelve hours since he’d last seen those warm, green eyes, since he’s last felt that wide, sun-blessed smile against his own, and God, does he miss it.
God, does he miss him.
I’ll be back in a few days , that stupid note had said, had promised.
That same note now lies in a corner of his bedside table, crumpled and creased from all the times George had looked it over, traced the words with his fingertips, laid it beside him on his bed as he slept, as if by doing that Dream would come back faster, would magically appear before his eyes and make it as if he’d never been away.
(It’s never worked, of course. But George does it anyway.)
A few days , he thinks, and bitterness surges up his throat like bile. A week, four days, and twelve hours. “A few days”.
The emptiness is almost overwhelming. The silence seems to swallow him up and send him tumbling head-first into a whirlpool of Dream’s every laugh, Dream’s every whisper and every shout, and maybe it’s because he can hear those, has those sounds ingrained into the depths of his soul, that a sharp ache shoots through his chest.
Where is he? George can’t help but wonder. For all he knows, the idiot might be lying unconscious in a ditch, or in a faraway village after having had a potion of harming flung at him, or maybe even d–
No , he thinks, and glances towards where the moon rises from behind the glass panes window. He has to be okay.
The clock chimes.
A week, four days and thirteen hours.
George pulls out a chair by the dining table – the chair that's usually Dream's, the one with the smiley-faces and chicken scratches of their initials – and collapses onto the wooden surface, burying his head into his crossed arms as he tries not to give into the burning behind his eyes.
Dream comes home the next day.
It's a perfectly fine afternoon, as most of the other afternoons in his absence have been, and as Dream saunters back into their cabin, George remarks in the irony of it all.
He looks the same, George thinks. If not for the golden-brown stubble on his chin and the way his bangs have now reached the ends of his brows, no one would even be able to tell of his absence.
He stares up into those eyes, those eyes that have appeared in all of his dreams in the last week and five days, those eyes that simultaneously ignite a dangerously hot fire in his stomach and fill him with an immense, cooling relief and calmness, and doesn't move.
"George," Dream says, and the timbers of his voice, the familiarity and the velvet-like smoothness of it all threatens to make every emotion George feels overflow and spill out, and the emotion on top of all the others, frothing and bubbling beneath his ribcage, is a white-hot anger.
Anger at how he can just walk through that door like nothing's wrong, like he hadn't just disappeared off to nowhere for no one to find and left George here, pining, waiting for a man that might not come back, anger at how he’d lied, broken his promise and left George here in pieces, nothing but sheer hope and trust – that he wouldn’t just go and never come back – keeping his body functioning.
George breathes in, squashes down the hurt and the rage and the questions – Where have you been? Why didn't you come back sooner? Did you mean to lie? – and speaks. “You’re late.”
Dream wets his lips. George hates how his eyes follow that movement intensely, hates the part of him that starves for Dream, for his touch and his laugh and his kiss–
“Yeah,” Dream chuckles out, the lilts of nervousness not going unheard, “sorry about that.”
“Sorry?” George echoes, words virulent and biting. Molten lava moves, slow and blistering, through his heart and along his ribcage, filling his lungs with magma and searing tears into his eyes. “Are you really, Dream?”
Dream’s shoulders droop.
"I just…" he looks away, shuffles his feet and clears his throat. "I went to the Nether."
George's blood runs cold.
"The Nether?" He forces out, hurt clogging his senses, "You know how dangerous it can get in there, and you know how time works differently–"
"I found a ruined portal," Dream blurts, and guilt seems to bring his brows together. George tries to pretend it doesn't affect him. "And I just couldn't resist, and..." Dream makes a vague gesture, eyes trained on the floor as if to say you know the rest, and a certain painful kind of knowing settles in the pits of George's consciousness.
George has always known that Dream is untameable.
He is untameable in the way that only he is, in the way that only he can be, with his forest-crafted eyes and sun-bestowed smile, his thunder-loud laugh and dew-like tears. He belongs to the world.
George knows he had been being selfish when he'd first wanted Dream to belong to him too.
It had been foolish of him to expect Dream to give up this part of him, this adventurous, wild part, in exchange for what they have now.
Besides, he thinks, as a resigned calm spreads through his soul, as he observes the angles of Dream's jaw, he doesn't want Dream to give up that part of him, either.
Wordlessly, he steps forward. Lets the burning hot eruption in his chest cool.
His arms snake around Dream's chest and he tries to focus on the way Dream relaxes into him, presses almost eagerly into his touch as they make physical contact for the first time in almost two weeks, and this. This is what George's missed — the skinship between them, the mutual knowledge that they'll want each other forever and always, and George doesn't know how he's gone this long without it.
"I'm sorry," Dream buries his head into the crook of George's neck and murmurs the words into his skin, and the meaning behind them reverberates across George's shoulder to ripple across his heart.
"I missed you," George says in return, and everything is okay.
Dream laughs. The little sound gives George relief. "I missed you too."