Speaking of this, has anyone noticed that everyone besides the people who fit perfectly into the ‘soft uwu twink boy’ trope gets canceled? I feel like the stans are trying to do...something here. Like, Ranboo, George, and Dream are pretty much stan magnets right now and they’re the only ones not canceled by the stans.
Damn, you’re good at this type of stuff, eh?
Carrd literally says ''any pronouns''
"I dislike jschlatt"Carrd literally says ''any pronouns''
They are getting compared to Schlatt right now and they are pissed off.
I don’t know if what I was suicidal thing is serious because that phrase is from a popular tiktok audio so they may be joking."I dislike jschlatt"
>Your pfp looks similar to his
"I will kill myself"
"What if I was su1c1d4|" should be a random.txt, that shit's funny
You love to see it, there are 2 big groups of people from the dream smp. Tommy, wilbur and friends, and you have Dream + his simps. Tommy group tweeted immediately to defend Scott and dream team spent the last 30mins crying about whats unfair. They were like "dOn'T sEnd hAtE gUyS", but continuously shit on Scott. I mean Scott did cheat but he's just taking a page from dream's book.
Fans taking something too seriously is hardly anything new, just think back on all the fistfights you saw outside of football stadiums and whatnot. Seeing someone getting pissy over their faves not winning at a blockgame is funny, but only marginally more than people getting mad about a ball game.
Wasn't everyone here at the beginning of the Dream thread saying "it's just minecraft I don't care" in regards to the speedrunning drama?
Heat Waves stats:Fuck it, here is the entirety of the Heatwaves DNF fanfic
Source [can't archive wattpad, ao3 is locked behind a 'you need an account' wall]
Wiki Page | A
Dream has always held a gentle admiration for George, but when their nuanced friendship trickles into his sleeping mind, he awakens to a new world of conflicting emotions and longing. Lost in the midst of a heat wave, he continuously listens to a song that works itself into the very core of his heartache. Floridian nights, unsent messages, spiraling infatuation, and terrible, terrible weather.
A breath of frustration escapes George's lips. "I don't do that."
"You do. It's okay," Dream says. He feels pinpricks of warmth building in his chest. The words rise up faster than he can temper, laced with soft honey, "you're so cute."
The call falls silent.
They heard it. The affection in the tone of his voice, different than usual, no trace of humor. The way it came from the hearth below his heart, glowing with secrecy and shame-for George, and George only. They had to have heard it.
--
inspired by the song "heat waves" by glass animals
A gentle glow from the computer screen washes over the dark desk, colors flickering in rapid motion. The monitor whirs in self defense of the growing heat. The ceiling fan lays mockingly silent in the stifling air. Reclined in his seat, Dream's head is tilted back to watch the wooden slats for the slightest tremor. Betrayal. Beads of sweat collect near his hairline. He tugs absently on the sticky plastic of his headphones, where they rest around his neck. The small light on the exterior blinks green.
"Dream?" He hears George say faintly.
"Wait, did he leave?" Sapnap asks.
"It says he's on the call still." George's voice slowly grows closer. Dream begins to unattach his eyes from the fan. "Dream?"
The concern in his voice makes Dream sit up. He pushes his headphones back on and wipes his face. "Yes, yes, hello, sorry. I zoned out for a sec." He blinks to register what's on his screen, seeing green grass blocks and Sapnap's avatar crouching in front of him. "Shoot, did you end the stream?" He quickly tabs out just in time to see George laugh.
"No, but I'm about to. Couldn't end it without you saying bye," George says. The small considerate act was enough to bloom a warmth in Dream's chest.
He smiles. "Oh, alright. Bye stream!"
"Bye!" Sapnap yells.
George waves to the camera. "Bye you guys, thank you so much. Also, pray for Dream's air conditioning."
"And my broken fan," Dream adds.
"Bye bye,"George repeats, then disappears from Dream's view. This stream has ended. A familiar feeling creeps into Dream's chest whenever that message appears post-stream; disappointment clouded with confusion. Today, it is accompanied by trickles of regret.
He frowns. "Sorry I spent so much of your stream complaining about the weather," he says, clicking back to the server. Sapnap has placed an oak sign before him that reads: wee waa dream can't take the heat. He rolls his eyes and breaks it.
"It's fine, really. I just feel bad for you," George says. His avatar bounds over and starts placing doors on the ground. "Any idea when it'll be fixed?"
“Soon, I hope," Dream answers with a huff, opening and closing the doors to appease George. “I don’t think I can take much more of this.” They’d been playing for the past three hours, meaning Dream had been accumulating enough sweat in his boxers to stick to his chair for much longer than any man should. Physical comfort was a key component for him to stay mellow, and not much could distract him from itchy tags and blistering heat. Not much, that is, besides gaming. "Seeing you was nice, though, something about your cheerful face distracts me from my agony," he confesses, words leaving his mouth before he can attempt to filter. He cringes. What was that?
"Oh my god, shut up," George says. He sounds embarrassed.
Sapnap coos. "Maybe I should stream with my camera on too."
Dream laughs, running away from the two of them to ease his sudden spike in nervousness. "That would keep my attention."
"Oh yeah, are my streams not interesting enough for you Dream?" George says, flying after him.
"What?" Dream says, feeling a pang of guilt. "What makes you think that? I love your streams."
George continues to act offended. "If you loved them you wouldn't zone out randomly."
"I didn't mean to," Dream whines, which only makes the other two laugh. "I just got distracted by my misery, and tried to airbend a breeze in here."
"Yeah right," Sapnap says. "You couldn't have been doing just that for ten minutes."
"Ten minutes?" Dream repeats, bewildered. He didn't feel it had been that long; he was exploring the map and then clicked onto George's stream to see where he was, and of course George was smiling and yelling, but somehow so full of energy and spirit, and the hot air started to seep into Dream's soul...
"You were AFK for a while," George says. "We were still talking to you though and thought you'd muted yourself or something. Chat thought it was embarrassing."
"Oh," Dream says.
"Hold on, did you mean to mute yourself?" Sapnap asks, laughing at his own insinuation. "Lil too excited watching George?"
Both Dream and George explode in disgusted yells. Good lord, Sapnap.
"Sapnap!" George sends a series of hits raining down onto his avatar. "You are so inappropriate off-stream."
"You're gross," Dream says with a laugh, but it's feeble and half-hearted. His pulse is rapidly drumming inside his skull. He is not lost to the strange dilemma of why he faded from their call for so long to stare at his George-less ceiling. Why did George have anything to do with it? Envy, perhaps, of his friend's ability to be wearing a hoodie in the middle of summer. He brushed it off. "It's true, though. George's face does get me excited."
George groans, making Sapnap and Dream laugh. "Now you're just trying to make me uncomfortable."
"Flustered, you mean," Dream inputs quickly.
"Okay, no, I'm sick of you two." George says, immediately exiting their server. "Consider this a rage quit."
GeorgeNotFound has left the game. Dream sends ainto the chat.
"Noo, Georgie," Sapnap pleads.
"You did a great job today," Dream says wholeheartedly, "I'm going to re-watch what I missed of it later." George laughs.
"I seriously have to go. I'll talk to you soon," he says, a small sound
emitting from Discord signifying he's left the call. The feeling returns to Dream's chest—it's akin to the cold rush that follows when he removes his hands from a steaming coffee mug. Some nights after their friends have logged off for good, he'll do anything to avoid giving in and going to bed. Twitter, mini-games, coding, creating playlists. His favorite nights, though, are when George wakes up early enough to keep him company. Their conversations radiate with the warmth of both the Florida night and the English sunrise. So whenever George jokingly becomes angry with him, Dream can't dispel the tiny tremor of worry that maybe he's gone too far. He doesn't like to mull over the thought of them really fighting; it would terrify him like nothing else. He knows George will call again tomorrow, and that he isn't nearly as upset as he lets on. Yet he still finds himself carefully watching the dot next to George's name switch from green to a pale grey.
"I think I'm gonna hop off too," Dream says to Sapnap.
"Alright, seeya."
After disconnecting, he swivels around in his chair to face his bed. The dark comforter has been kicked to the floor, sheets askew. The window above his bed is shut tight to keep out the humid air and insects, but he can see the soft orange streetlights in the distance. He sighs and wishes for rain. He remembers running barefoot on his neighborhood streets as a child when storms would roll in from the sea, splashing in gravelly puddles and letting the cool raindrops dampen his hair. That space was always euphoric—a brief temperance from the smoldering air, green palm trees swaying in the wind, the hint of thunder and lightning—but it feels so far from him now. Especially in this dreadful weather.
He turns off his computer and begrudgingly gets in bed. He's nearly grown accustomed to the dark when his phone vibrates, the notification lighting up the room. He squints. A text from George.
I feel like this song is a good way for me to get back at you, it reads. Dream clicks on the link, opening his Spotify to a new Glass Animals song.
"Heat Waves," he responds, smiling. Very funny.
He'd listen to that in the morning. As he sets his phone back down, Dream finds himself warmed by the gesture, even though it was an insult on his behalf. George was a thoughtful guy. Nothing wrong with appreciating that. Not that Dream found it unnerving that interacting with George had a direct correlation with his general contentment and moods; in fact, it wasn't worth the trials and tribulations of overthinking.
Settled by his own logic, he allows his body to focus on sleep. He slips in and out of shadows, occasionally tossing and turning in irritation at the cotton sheets. The fabric clings to his dampened skin up to the moment he sluggishly kicks it away. Something clatters to the floor, but Dream rolls onto his side. Eventually, the night cools enough for him to sink deeper, and deeper, until he turns his head from his soft, warm pillow to a cold pile of sand. Confused, he grasps at the foundation beneath him only for the rocky grains to slip through his fingers.
He sits up rapidly, glancing at the beach now surrounding him. Although the image is narrow, he can tell there is a murky-purple lagoon lapping a few feet before him. The moon ripples across its ominous surface. The night is quiet, a taunting breeze brushing the back of his neck and bringing chills down his spine. He looks down at his hands, seeing his bright sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. Bright green. A sinking feeling begins to rot in his stomach as the familiarity sets in. He's been here before. He shifts his head cautiously, realizing where the shadows at the edge of his vision are coming from, and raises a hand to gently graze the ceramic covering his face. He doesn't need a mirror to know what the mask looks like.
He pulls up his hood, tensing as he anticipates the next subject he'll recognize. At any moment, behind his right shoulder, a voice will call from the edge of the trees that'll say—
"Dream?"
He freezes. That's—that's not right, it wasn't supposed to be—
"George?" He asks quietly, turning around with caution. George stands a few feet behind him, goggles perched atop his head and an axe in his hand. He's looking around their location, dazed. The starry sky reflects itself on his lenses.
He walks across the sand towards Dream slowly. "Where...are we?"
"Um," Dream considers curling in on himself, but can't help fighting the comfort of honesty, "my head, I guess." He knows from experience that this place values integrity more than anything. Facing it head on, so to speak. He just doesn't know why he'd let George in here—it isn't safe.
"It's pretty," George says, sitting on the sand next to him. Dream's heart aches faintly at his remark. Once, he'd thought it was pretty, too. He couldn't find the words to tell George that after so many years of frantically slipping on the sand, coughing up lung-fulls of the dark water, and running from the woods—it had become a thing of nightmares. He stares at George. Could he feel the memories here? "So is this," George gestures around with his axe vaguely, "Florida?"
Dream cracks a smile. "Yeah, you finally made it:' he teases softly. George's grin is bright enough to make him look away. "It's a lagoon I used to come to as a kid."
"Do you see those?" George points at the water. Dream turns his head, and small glowing blobs appear near the shore. Their light blue color is stark against the darkness as they float idly.
"They're moon jellies," Dream says in disbelief. He'd never seen them here before.
George hums in approval. Dream looks at him again, grateful for the mask covering his own features. Pale moonlight makes George's skin glow a soft porcelain, pink lips pressed together in a delicate brush stroke. The word bubbles up from deep in Dream's chest, winding into his bloodstream and landing gracefully in his head.
Beautiful.
He wants to back away from it, to shove it deep down. But for once, it felt safe here, safe to admit it to himself without needing an air of humor to skate by on. Here, it wasn't a joke.
"Why are we here?" George asks in a murmur. In his large brown eyes Dream can see the faded reflection of his sloppy black and white smile.
"I know why I'm here:' Dream says, "but I don't know why you are." A brief rustling of leaves and twigs behind them causes him to tense again. "It's dangerous here, George. We should go."
"Why? Don't you want to stay in this memory?"
Dream ignores the comment and lightly wraps an arm around his shoulders to help him up. George doesn't try to stand. He looks at Dream with a confused frown.
"Nothing is going to hurt us when I'm here," he says. Dream feels his face grow hot. "Knock it off, this is serious." George looks at him earnestly. "I'm being serious."
Now that his arm is draped protectively over George's small frame, Dream becomes extremely aware of how close they are. He can sense George's body heat, watch his chest rise and fall, see the goosebumps on his neck. Dream's heart begins to pound. For how long had he wanted to meet him? To hear his voice in person? The fear inside him slowly begins to ebb away into fondness. The moon jellies rapidly multiply until the lagoon is dappled blue, and gleaming.
George grins. "I told you it's pretty."
"Because of you," Dream says warmly. Even though George rolls his eyes, he means it. They laugh lightly at each other, sparks blooming as the moment passes.
George lets go of his axe, and raises his hand to reach for the ceramic mask. Dream freezes as his eyes follow the motion. His hood falls when George runs his fingers gently through his hair—he can't remember the last time he let someone do this. It feels intimate. It feels terrifying. His eyes shut when George finds the metal clasp on the back of his head, he exhales when he feels the weight of the mask drop from his face.
The breeze is cold on his cheeks. He can smell the saltwater nearby. He opens his eyes, and sees twice as many stars as usual.
"How did you do that? I've never..." he looks at George, who is smiling softly.
"I know honesty is important to you," George says coyly. His hand moves to gently touch Dream's cheekbone.
Dream reaches and delicately takes George's hand in his. He feels alive. He leans closer, studying George's eyes until he slips down, further, to his soft lips. His breath is trembling.
"And what if I kissed you right now?" He murmurs, heart racing. "How honest would that be?"
George's eyes grow wide. "I—well, Dream—you—" he stammers, giving Dream exactly what he needed.
Their movements happen nearly all at once—the inclining of George's jaw, the slide of Dream's hand into his hair, the connection of their lips. The kiss is raw with emotion, and gentle. Hot embers rise from Dream's chest to heat his face, George's lips surreal against his own as they override his senses. His hand rises to softly cup George's jaw. Dream
pulls his face closer, breath hot, heart stuttering. His nervous energy quickly ebbs into a strong hearth of longing and want as he kisses George again, and again, and again. George emits a soft noise, and Dream melts. He can feel George's hands in his hair, then on his neck, then on his chest.
Dream pulls away for a moment. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he looks at George's flushed cheeks and mouth kissed red. Because of him. A low feeling stirs in his stomach, the first flickering of a dangerously hot flame. All of it, all of George, just for him.
Dream parts his lips to say something, anything—and promptly wakes up.
The grip Dream has locked into his dirty blonde hair is barbaric enough to rip out the roots. Sweat stains drench his collar and lower back, turning his grey shirt a dark black. His chest heaves uneasily. The harsh morning light tears through the blinds with the promise of returning the temperature from yesterday. Sitting up in bed, elbows on his knees, he stares hollow-eyed at the opposite wall.
What the fuck was that dream?
He isn't sure how long he's been petrified into this state; the thought of George's lips and his smile and his sounds overwhelmingly on loop. The fury of panic and confusion flash behind his eyes nearly all at once. What was George doing in his nightmare? Why did it make him feel so safe, and warm, and wanted? Why, good god, did he kiss him? He can feel the liberation still coursing through his blood, heart pounding, skin tingling where George's hands had been. The heat trickles down his back. He hadn't experienced a dream of that caliber in a very long time. To be touched, and kissed; to feel the deep embrace of lust that leaves a firm afterthought in his boxers. Yet guilt undermines the euphoria he feels. His teasing with George is fun, and lighthearted—but having an erotic fantasy with his subconscious projection of his best friend is crossing a line.
He slowly lets go of his taut hair. The glaring sunlight lays slices of heat across his shoulders, and he can hear faint chirps of birds outside his window. A small nest had been forming for the past week in the nearby rain gutter. He'd caught glimpses of them before; blue-feathered and spry creatures. Sapnap had teased him when he learned Dream spent several hours researching their species: the purple martin. Normally, the birds started fussing early in the morning. He checks the time, 8:05am.
"Disgusting," he says.
He looks at the towel hanging on the back of his door, and sighs. A cold shower could refresh his muddled brain and rinse off the thin layer of sweat.
Once in the bathroom, he reluctantly opens his phone. His text chain with George is still waiting patiently on the screen. Maybe that's why he showed up, Dream bargains, the last person I thought of before going to sleep. His thumb hovers over the song recommendation for a moment, then presses play before he steps into the shower.
Streams of icy water race down his chest, shocking his skin. His ribs tense and he resists the urge to shiver. He thinks of his mask lying in the cold sand; he thinks of George's breath on his face. He deserves a miserable shower or two. He attempts to relax into the water as it slowly becomes a refreshing wash. The soft soap lifts the feeling of grime that had settled on his body, his stink finally down the drain. A breath of contentment escapes him. He's grateful to have cold water in the absence of a working air conditioner. Maybe the weather behaved like a fever dream, giving him outlandish thoughts that now fade away with each scrub. Clean hair, clean pits, clean mind. Right? The muffled music begins to grow louder from beyond the clear curtain.
Road shimmer, wiggling the vision, heat heat waves, I'm swimming in a mirror...
He closes his eyes.
Sometimes, all I think about is you
Late nights in the middle of June
Heat waves been faking me out
Can't make you happier now
His eyes fly open. The lyrics crawl into his chest, bass line tangling with his heartbeat. Warmth floods his face despite the goosebumps on his skin.
I just want to know what you're dreaming of, when you sleep and smile so comfortable...
His trembling hand reaches for the shower knob.
I just wish I could give you that
That look that's perfectly unsad
His mind is flooded with memories of Georges smile. The water shuts off with a terrible squeak.
He lets the rest of the song play out as he slumps down in his towel to the bathroom floor. Wet droplets cling to his hair. The past few months he'd been living in a haze, routinely gaming and eating and sleeping without much else to make him feel awake. After repeating the same days over and over again, new interests and emotions were few and far between. Yet here he is, stunned by Georges recommendation. The last notes of the song gently transition into stark silence, their vibrations fading from Dream's hollowed out soul. He hadn't felt a deep, meaningful connection to music like this in a long time. He hadn't felt a connection to a person like this in a long time.
He scowls, quickly grabbing his phone, and heading to his room. Sour collections of frustration and shame churn in his stomach. Nothing has changed besides him finding a new anxiety to unnecessarily wrap his head into knots over. Sometimes, he felt that his mind would grab onto any spike in emotion and play with it just to keep him busy. Not this time. Not with George. Perhaps it would be best if he kept his distance until his brain tires itself out.
His phone vibrates while he's getting dressed. Hop on froggy, Sapnap texted. How did you know I was up, Dream types back. Also, why are you awake? He sits down at his desk while Sapnap is typing. George wants to test stuff out before he streams later, you'd never miss that
Dream is beginning to grow irritated with his friends for no discernible reason. He puts on his headphones and waits for his computer to hum to life. He drums his fingers on his mouse. A strange feeling tightens in his chest when his screen lights up and the Discord window appears. It takes him a moment to realize—he's nervous. He'd never been anxious about joining a call before. He glances at the names under the voice-channel. It's only Sapnap, Bad, and George.
"Dream! Hi!" Bad greets happily once he's connected.
"That was fast," Sapnap says.
"Hey," Dream replies, voice flat.
"Hello," George says, is your heat wave any better today?"
His question is met with silence. Dream feels his words die in his throat at the sound of George's voice. He really doesn't want to talk about the weather.
"Dream? Hello?" Bad says, exaggerating his vowels.
"It's fine." Dream watches their icons lose the green ring after catching the tone of his voice. He rubs a hand over his face. This isn't how he wanted to start the call. "Sorry, guys, I'm still a little tired?
"No worries: George says, but he sounds cautious, "were on the test server if you wanna join. Sapnap and I are going to try out the chess board, I think I've got the coding down but you always find something I've missed."
Dream hesitates, a small smile forming. "You're finally doing the chess stream? Sure He opens Minecraft.
"Might have been a bad idea to let him play," Bad says.
Dream joins the server and bounds over to where they're huddled in an open field. Beyond them is a large chess board, the pieces several stories high made out of dark oak and birch. "No, George normally beats me."
Sapnap laughs. "That might be the first time you've admitted that George is better than you at something."
"That's not true," George says, "Dream is honest with me?
All the air in Dream's lungs rushes out in one breath. I know honesty is important to you, Georges teasing voice echoes in his mind. He remembers how it felt to kiss him, to touch him. How honest would that be? He glances at Georges avatar, with his stupid little glasses, how they'd held the whole night sky to him when sitting on that beach. Is it fair to ask for honesty from everyone else while not being transparent himself? George isn't entitled to know what he dreams about, but keeping it from him feels...wrong.
"But he still hasn't given you a face reveal," Sapnap says, voice proud.
"You're so smug," George hits Sapnap's character. "I can't wait to beat you later." He pauses while BadBoyHalo tosses several flowers on the ground and hops in place. "I'm not going to try and force Dream to do anything. Though I am waiting for the day I open a Snapchat he's sent me and it's of his face."
Dream laughs nervously. "I'm too pretty. I'd break Georges mind?
"Oh please," George says, "didn't we learn from my stream yesterday that its the other way around?"
Dream's heart skips. "Yes," he mumbles, "We did." He hears laughter in the call, and clears his throat so that he can fine-tune his joking tone. He can't afford to slip up. He says, "George, you are beautiful"
"Oh my god. You're annoying."
Dream grins. "You can dish all you want but the second I turn it around
"Yeah, that's so true," Sapnap says. "George gets so uncomfortable." "I don't," George says, sounding uncomfortable.
"You do. It's okay," Dream says. He feels pinpricks of warmth in his chest. The words rise up faster than he can temper, laced with soft honey, "you're so cute:'
The call falls silent.
They heard it. The affection in the tone of his voice, different than usual, no trace of humor. The way it came from the hearth below his heart, glowing with secrecy and shame—for George, and George only. They had to have heard it. He doesn't move.
"I should really start muting you: George says. He sounds...normal. Embarrassed, but normal.
He didn't hear it.
Dream tilts his head back against his chair in relief.
"Right...so, should we try to use this thing?" Sapnap says. Dream feels a singe of embarrassment. It's likely that Sapnap could read the inflections of his voice better than anyone from many years of listening, and Dream expects to receive a confused message in his inbox at any moment. He waits, and nothing comes.
They mess around on the server for a while, shifting pieces and testing out the take-system which involves explosions. Dream lets himself sink into the comforting familiarity of days like these. He discusses a few strategies with George, comparing skill, and plays one game against Bad where he narrowly wins. He can't catch any mistakes George had made in his coding it is perfect. Dream is surprised when it gives him a wave of admiration. Watching his friends grow and change as the years go by is a humbling and exciting experience; seeing them mature, learn, lose, and keep moving forward. He didn't know when he started seeing himself as older than George, but every once in a while he is reminded of the truth.
Eventually, Bad disconnects from the call and Dream leaves the server to catch the beginning of George's stream
"Hey guys! Hi, hi," George says, a large smile on his face. "Welcome to the stream! Today, we're going to..."
As he continues to speak, Dream eyes are drawn to the corner where George's face beams happily. He takes in the curve of his mouth, his high cheekbones, his eyes. George had looked surreal in the moonlight, like it glowed from within him, and shined through his skin and voice. Dream reaches his hand up to his own face, and traces over his lips gently where George had kissed him. He flushes immediately, clenching his hand and dropping it into his lap. Way too far.
"I'm going to go make some food," he says, and Sapnap groans. "Right when I need you the most?" Dream glances at the game, seeing Sapnap is hurting and George is up several pieces. "You'll be fine."
He pulls his headphones down to his neck and heads for the kitchen. When he opens the fridge, he lowers his head for a blast of cool air to greet his face. He hums happily. He sets a few items on the counter to make a breakfast sandwich, and feels a soft rub against his calf. He looks down to see Patches peering up at him.
"Hi there lil' girl," he says sweetly, "are you hungry? Let me get you some breakfast."
"Aww," George's voice comes quietly from his headphones and he half-tugs them back on, "Dream, you're not muted."
He rolls his eyes. "I don't care. Kitty says hi: He pours her some food and fills her water, then goes back to his meal. He cracks the eggs into the pan, listening to them sizzle with satisfaction. The smell is nice; Patches takes a break from her bowl to mewl in curiosity. He can hear Sapnap and George talking faintly. He smiles to himself, then pulls out his phone and sends a snap of his meal to George.
"Ooh, Dream sent me something," George says. "Chat what do you think it is?"
"I don't think that's a good idea to ask," Sapnap says, and after a pause, starts laughing. "Yeah, exactly."
"What are they saying?" Dream asks, muttering a small' ow' while moving his hot sandwich from the skillet to his plate.
"Feet pics, mostly," George replies.
"Mostly," Sapnap says.
"Oh no, people are getting angry with each other. Guys, it's fine. Here, let me see what it is," George says, and Dream watches as the delivered sign changes to opened.
It was a photo of the sandwich, but Dream had added a text that read: bet you wished it was my face, didn't you? He's flooded with anticipation instead of the humored confidence he normally feels. His pulse races. Maybe he shouldn't have sent that.
"George is blushing!" Sapnap calls, cackling. Dream's heart soars. "I'm not! You're so dumb: George says. "It was just his breakfast, chat, calm down. Alright, Sapnap. It's your turn."
Dream thinks that'll be the last of it—George often leaves him on read anyway—but when he's carrying his plate of food out of the kitchen, he gets a notification.
Goog is typing... He waits. The typing stops, then starts again. The sandwich looks good, but I bet you look better, George texts.
Dream's eyes widen and he nearly drops his plate. He yanks the mic on his headset close to his mouth. "George!" He yells. George's laugh is quiet but still adds to the redness on Dream's face. He can only imagine what the chat must think.
"What—stop texting Dream, okay, we have a serious game going on: Sapnap says.
Dream can't help rereading the text over again while he goes back to his room. He keeps the door open slightly in case Patches wants to hangout. George doesn't compliment him much, and avoids making comments that Dream considers "forward" behavior. The reciprocation brings a feeling of satisfaction and nervous embarrassment—does George really think that, even without knowing what he looks like? Dream tries to ignore the low warmth it gave him, little webs stretching out in his mind, connecting his emotions to George's friendship to his dream. He wants nothing more than to bat them away and break the ties all together. He munches on his food remorsefully.
"Oh my god, no," Sapnap says, "I didn't see that What the hell, George."
Dream looks at the screen, sitting down in his chair. In the time he'd been gone, George set up a fork, and recently exploded a rook Sapnap was using to try and break the castle defense. Additional pressure is on Sapnap's queen, possibly a take in the next move, which Dream is sure Sapnap saw.
"George, don't do it, come on. I can see you hovering around your bishop, move the pawn instead, please," Sapnap says. "Dream, help me!"
He laughs. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Distract George, I don't know!"
George rolls his eyes. He seems confident, and bright, and happy. Dream remembers seeing that look up close, feeling his friend's presence next to him. It hits him all of the sudden how badly he wants to meet him—in person. The thought alone makes him lightheaded.
"Do something!" Sapnap pleads.
George scoffs, beginning to move his bishop across the board. "That's not going to work—"
"I had a dream about you," Dream blurts.
Georges eyes widen and his head turns sharply to look at the Discord window, letting go of the piece in the wrong square before taking Sapnap's queen.
"Yes! Yes!" Sapnap screams. You already placed it, you placed it!" "You what?" George's voice is complicated by confusion and surprise. Dream's head falls into his hands. Why. "You were in my dream last night," he says slowly, through his teeth. Sapnap laughs, exploding the misplaced piece with his queen. "Oh my god, that was perfect. Thank you." Georges attention is brought back to the game, and he groans. "I don't think we should count that, that's cheating." "Was so not," Sapnap says happily.
"A cheap trick, shame on both of you: George complains. "Oh my god, chat is freaking out right now." He clears his throat, awkwardly. They want to know what the dream was."
Dream's face burns. It is time for some gentle damage control. "You were in Florida: he says, keeping his voice even, and it was cool. I normally have a recurring uh, dream, about the beach we were at but you showed up instead. You had your goggles on."
"Oh," George says. He pauses briefly. "Well, did I have a weapon?" Dream lifts his head quizzically. "Yes, actually. An axe." "Metal," Sapnap says. "It's a weird thing people tell me whenever I'm in their dreams, I'm always holding a weapon or something," George clarifies. "That's actually facts," Sapnap inputs, "I once had a dream we went to England and George greeted us at the airport with a bow and arrow."
"What..." Dream begins to laugh, "a ridiculous coincidence."
George giggles. "I like to think its because I'm so threatening."
Dream wheezes. "More like you need to be protected: he says.
"Are you kidding me? You are watching the same game as us, right?" George voices with acute confidence. Dream watches his stream with a smile, completely lost on how he managed to escape that conversation. He'd been surprised by Georges immediate reaction, and feels a faint flicker of hope. Hope? Hope for what? He wipes the look off of his face. Nothing, he assures himself. He hopes for nothing.
George has a valid point, though. He is, in short, defeating Sapnap by a landslide. They continue playing, George winning the first three games and barely losing the fourth, where Dream and Sapnap combine forces to try and take him down. As time passes by, the clock slowly shifts from early morning to mid-noon; the hottest part of the day. Dream doesn't notice at first when the air around him grows stagnant, and sweat begins to lightly ghost his upper lip. He unknowingly drains his water bottle, and it isn't until he wipes his clammy hand on his shirt absently that he realizes.
"Oh my god," he says. George and Sapnap both ask him what happened. "It's back," he whines, slumping in his chair in defeat, "I was so naive, so ignorant. I thought I was safe."
"Sounds like it's hot again," Sapnap says. "Sorry dude."
"I might cry," Dream feigns.
"So it really is a heat wave," George says, "I was just kidding about it earlier. I hope I didn't curse you." Dream tries to not look at the small smile on his face, to think of how the song numbed his mind and cut him open.
"That was a good song," he mutters. George says nothing, and they
carry on.
Eventually, the stream ends and Sapnap tells them he's going back to sleep, exhausted from carrying so many losses in a row. Once he leaves the call, they are alone. With no other tabs open on his computer, Dream sits there staring at his keyboard as the room slowly turns into a swamp. George is being rather quiet, like he often gets after streaming for a while. Dream thinks he becomes burnt out by talking so much, but it's secretly his favorite time to be on a call with him. George is a little tired, so he speaks softer and more contemplative than normal. Dream finds it very comforting. It's a space where most of their profound conversations have come from so far.
"The chat kept trying to make me ask you about your dream," George says, breaking the silence. "I feel like that's going to be clipped everywhere."
"There's not much else to know: Dream lies. I kissed you. "Nothing really happened: I wanted you. He can hear George start and stop typing on his keyboard—and then nothing. Is George idly sitting there, staring at his computer, too?
"You mentioned that...I showed up instead," George says. "What?" "You said I showed up instead in the recurring dream," George pauses. He's speaking carefully. "Instead of who?"
"Oh," Dream says. He wraps his arms around himself subconsciously despite the heat. "Uh, well...me. Instead of me."
"You? But I thought you were already there."
Dream feels his chest grow tight. "I...yeah. There's normally two of me."
The seconds of silence that follow terrify him. He hears George inhale, then speak very softly, "What kind of dream is it normally, Clay?"
He closes his eyes at the sound of his name coming from George's mouth—it is rare, like he only saves it for the moments when Dream feels most vulnerable.
"A nightmare," he mutters, pinching his eyebrows together. "I've been having it for so long I've memorized every second of it. I wake up on the beach in the middle of the night; a lagoon with the edge of a forest about twenty feet behind me. I always have my mask on and I can't see very well. Out of the tree's shadows comes me—another me, except...his mask is covered in blood. He gives me a few seconds, and then..:' His voice dies. He's never told anyone about his nightmares before.
"Then what?" George asks.
Dream grips his arms tightly, fingernails digging into his skin. "I run. As fast as I can, but it's never fast enough. You know, dream logic." He pauses, letting himself take a breath. "We fight. We always fight. Sometimes he stabs me, sometimes we drown, and sometimes I...1 don't run. I just stand there, and let him get me."
"Do you...ever win?" George's voice is serious and low.
"Every once in a while," Dream says. "But then the next time I'm back there, I'm the one at the edge of the woods, seeing myself by the water. It's fucked up." He hates those nights the most, because he understands the fear of being chased. Sitting on the sand, waiting for the slightest quiver in the leaves to start sprinting, heart in his ears and terror on his tongue. Yet there's a frenetic burning he feels standing in the woods with a weapon in hand—a sense of raw duty, urgency, survival. It's as if
only one of them is supposed to exist in that space, and he's never been able to figure out who.
"Why do you think I was there?" George asks.
"I don't know, honestly," Dream says. "It took me by surprise, but when you were there it...wasn't a nightmare anymore." He prays he won't have to explain any further.
"I'm not sure what to say to that," George admits, falling silent. Dream winces, forever fearing that he's gone too far, until George adds, "I kind of feel like it was a compliment?"
His hands gently let go of his arms. "It was."
"Okay," George says, the smile in his voice audible.
Dream finds himself starting to grin, too, as the quiet space between them grows warrn. The dust suspending in the hot air floats idly by, his empty plate radiates a faint smell of bread and eggs, and he reclines into the comfort of his chair. Not speaking for long moments on calls tends to make Dream anxious, and it is only when he and George are alone that he finds solace in it. He wonders if the feeling passes through his microphone and permeates George's world, too. He wonders if they really could be connected in the way that both frightens and calms him.
"You know," George says finally, "you were once in a dream I had, too."“You know,” George says, “you were once in a dream I had, too.”
“Really?” Dream leans forward in his chair, a confident smile creeping onto his face. “What was it about?”
“I can hear your ego inflating right now.”
“No you can’t,” Dream defends quickly.
Perhaps midnight visits from platonic friends is a universal experience. Sapnap had said he’d dreamt about them too, anyway. He can’t help letting himself feel it—relief, was it? Relieved that George was thinking of him? For a moment, a heat as strong as burning coals begins to smoke inside his skull: he has to know what George's dream was about. Why hadn’t he told him about it before? He recoils from the ferocity of his own thoughts.
“Yes, I can. I think you owe me some kindness for how you treated me on my stream today,” George says, voice touched by a playful twinge that Dream knows so well.
“I owe you something?” Dream gently, gently stokes the embers.
“What exactly do you want with me?”
“For you to be nice, chill,” George laughs, but sounds nervous.
“Freak.” Dream’s heart races.
“You love me,” he mutters, “c’mon now.”
“Stop being weird,” George says, “this is exactly why I never told you about it.”
“Well you dreamt about me first!”
“What? You’re so hypocritical—oh my god. Nevermind, Dream.” “George, no,” Dream says, trying to regain a serious tone despite being deeply amused by their turn of conversation.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, I promise.” George definitely doesn’t buy it. “Y’know, I think I won’t tell you. That’s a much better punishment for you being mean to me.” “Oh, a punishment?” Dream repeats, unable to stop himself from laughing again.
George groans. “That’s it, have a nice rest of your day, I can’t deal with you anymore.” “
Wait, no—,” Dream is cut off by George disconnecting from their call. He raises a hand over his mouth. He wants to fight it off—his grin, the flutters in his stomach, the need to hear George’s voice again—but can’t. His cheeks are warm and flushed red. He feels himself slipping deeper into the place that keeps calling his name. It feels something like desire. It feels something like a challenge. It feels so familiar. Shame side-steps his rising happiness. He is bound to be taking advantage of George to a minor degree, withholding the truth from him and skating by with loose humor. His remarks used to come absently from his mouth, a way to make George complain or smile. Now, he’s taunted by flurries of emotions and thoughts that come after—the line between a joke and a confession becoming obscurely blurred. It isn’t fair, is it? He checks the temperature on his phone: 102 degrees. He groans. Clicking on Twitter, he begins typing slowly. Never underestimate the power of a heat wave, he tweets. He scrolls for a few minutes, liking and replying to followers. He catches a few of his tagged tweets that are about their chaotic chess games, many viewers questioning why George would have made such a simple mistake during an intense match.
He responds to one with a “I’ve been wondering that too.” He suddenly gets an influx of likes and mentions. @GeorgeNootFound has replied to your tweet. He clicks on it. Petition to keep Dream’s AC broken for good, it reads. He votes “no.” He types out a response, but hesitates upon rereading. Perhaps it was better suited for a Snapchat instead. So you want to keep me sweaty? He texts. He watches George’s icon appear, lurk, then type: Yes. Dream stares at his phone. Maybe it went over George’s head.
I like you better that way, George adds.
His stomach drops and he immediately shuts off his phone. “What?” He says, running a hand through his hair, “what?” His phone rattles against the dark desk —Sapnap has texted him. He doesn’t bother picking it up. It was a joke. He pulls the fabric of his shirt away from his damp chest, leaning back in his chair. If anything wasn’t fair, it was this: he could throw as many sleazy lines at George as he wanted, with or without intent to kill, but this, this, the low feeling stirring in his stomach, the burning in his face, his mind rewiring for the fourteenth time today—all because George happens to toss back. He leaves the room. Unfair. He drinks four glasses of water in two minutes. Cruel. He settles to watch a movie on his couch, spending most of it fighting the urge to go back to his room and grab his phone. Downright criminal.
When the credits roll, and the bright screen turns to black, he locks eyes with his reflection. He’s silhouetted in the dim room, but can vaguely make out the fluff of his hair; the slope of his shoulders. Patches is curled up gently at his side. Is this what he looked like when George dreamt of him? A hollowed shape on a monotone screen? In his dreams, George was everything to him. He wonders how much he’d pale in comparison if they were side-by-side in this moment. George would make his couch look even dingier than normal, and his laugh would light up the room. They could be sitting and talking, or watching television, and Dream wouldn’t be able to take his eyes away. He could forget about the heat; sit closer, make him blush, pull him in. He abruptly rises, startling Patches. He feels like screaming. No matter what he does, his thoughts drag him back there: the beach, warm hands pinned into the sand. Where he’d made out with his friend, his best-friend, and loved every tantalizing second of touching his skin and feeling him tremble. He’s furious with his own mind as much as he’s addicted to the idea of returning to it. He takes in a deep breath. He thinks of the many nights he’d seen himself, masked, bloodied, chest heaving by the shore. To confront himself head-on is the only healing he knows. I don’t just want to go back, he lets the thought surface, and exhales slowly. I want to kiss him here, and now.
“So fucking stupid,” he mutters, but the admission alone was enough to settle his heart. Patches sits in front of his feet, and meows. He bends down to scratch her head, and she follows him on the way back to his bedroom. When he picks up his phone, a few hours worth of notifications blink on his home-screen.
Maybe we should talk about some stuff soon, Sapnap had texted.
He ignores it. Similarly, George hadn’t said anything since Dream left him on opened. He switches to their iMessages, and clicks on the link to the song from their previous thread without much forethought.
Hi, he texts George.
He shuffles to grab his headphones.
Hello, George responds almost immediately.
Dream presses play; types, I missed you.
I thought you were taking a nap or something, George says.
He reigns himself back from making another nightmare or kissing-his-best-friend related joke.
I was watching a bird documentary, he sends instead, keeping it civil.
His headphones begin whispering a soft melody. He watches George pause before responding with: That’s cute.
“Come on, George,” he breathes. He’d just gotten over the last heart attack he gave him.
It was actually pretty cool, he replies, now stubbornly keeping it civil.
Was it another evolution of parrots movie? George asks.
He’s touched by the knowledge that George cares enough to remember such small tokens of him.
Maybe, he texts, wbu what are you up to?
The music swells in his ears, and he takes in a deep breath of contentment as he reads George’s next message: Nothing really, thinking about hopping on since Bad is streaming. Are u gonna join?
He glances at his sleeping monitor.
Computer so far away. Bed cold. Chair hot, he says.
The three dots signifying George is typing appear, then disappear.
Read at 9:07pm.
Dream waits, resting his phone on his chest as a minute passes. His eyes shut as the lyrics eerily mimic his own descent.
Usually I put somethin’ on TV
So we never think about you and me
But today I see our reflections clearly In Hollywood, layin’ on the screen—
The song is cut off by his ringtone blasting in his ears as his phone vibrates against his rib cage incessantly. His eyes fly open as he’s shook from the trance Glass Animals lured him into.
George is calling him.
He looks at the name, the contact picture a cursed selfie George had taken, and the green and red buttons that would change the course of his carefully collected mood. He’s calling him; not on Discord, or to make him play Minecraft, or to ask for his mother’s cell. Dream picks up.
“Hello,” George says again, his tone casual, but soft. Dream’s heart races.
“Hi.” “
I figured this was easier than texting,” George explains, and Dream’s mind passes over each inflection of syllables in his endearing accent. He sounds closer than usual. Dream suddenly remembers the last time they’d been on a phone call, he’d hung up because the change in George’s mic made him uncomfortable. He tries to not let himself over-analyze that memory.
“Okay,” Dream says, “cool.”
“Why do you sound nervous?”
His cheeks redden. “I’m not. You interrupted my music so I’m still adjusting to being back in the real world.”
“Oh, sorry. What were you listening to?” Dream hesitates, wondering if he shouldn’t disclose that information. He worries George will be able to tell how obsessed he is with the song he’d sent him as a gag. He frowns. What is he thinking? George is as dense as a brick.
“Heat Waves,” he says, “I really like it.”
“Nice, me too,” George carries on, “though I do think you enjoying it while being a baby about your weather is ironic.”
“Isn’t that because you have a thing for me being sweaty?” He jokes. It’s all a bit overwhelming; George calling him out of nowhere, the strange intimacy of their exchanges, his strained filter breaking under the pressure.
George laughs. “Oh yeah, definitely. My Twitter poll lost, by the way. I guess our followers don’t want you to suffer as much as I do.”
“You’re a dork,” Dream says fondly.
“Come on, sending that song was funny, you said it yourself,” George teases. Dream can hear him chuckle on the other end.
“I remember when I first discovered it I kept listening to it for like, a week straight.”
Dream’s throat tightens. Do the melodic words sink into George’s skin the same way they consume his? Does he think about the song when he feels the lightest grace of sweat trickle down his back? When he’s lying in bed, on the phone with his best friend, fighting back the urge to say:
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“...What?” Dream sits up immediately. Fuck. Did he say that out loud? Fuck.
“I said I can’t stop thinking about it too,” he lies quickly.
His heart thumps erratically. “I don’t normally find songs that I enjoy this much, so thanks for that.”
“Yeah...no problem,” George says. Dream can’t tell if he bought it or not. Terror drains the color from his face as silence isolates him in the imprisoning walls of his room. He’d naturally ran into this painful stoicism from George before when he’d made comments that landed awkwardly, but he knows this one could be the worst yet. He prays George believes him.
“So,” Dream says, “are you going to join Bad’s stream?”
“Probably not, I don’t really feel like getting up.” He swallows. “Are—are you in bed?”
“Yeah,” George says slowly, “why?”
“Nothing, just...me too.” Dream glances at the pillows lying next to him, wondering if they both could fit on his mattress, or if he’d have to wrap his arms around George’s waist and pull him to his chest—he winces. He thought he’d regained more control by accepting he non-platonically wants to kiss George, but is beginning to think it might be the opposite. Heat waves have been faking me out, he scorns.
“Is it still hot there?” George asks.
“Yeah, I called someone to take a look at my AC and stuff but I’m not too hopeful. It’s only supposed to get hotter and they might force a brown-out.” He’d die if it came to that. The last brownout Orlando had was a few summers prior, and he’d attempted to live without electricity for all of twelve hours before giving up and driving a stifling two hours to his parent’s home. His sister had been delighted.
“I’ve never had one of those here,” George muses, “what’s it like?”
“Well, it’s pretty miserable. Dark, stifling heat, I have to cook everything on the stove. I have a collection of candles, just in case.”
“And no Minecraft,” George adds.
Dream rolls his eyes.
“Oh yeah, that too.”
“Why don’t you just go to the beach to cool off?” Dream laughs shortly. “I don’t really like the beach. Remember my nightmare?”
“Oh,” George says quietly, “of course I do.”
Dream softens at the concern in his tone.
“Hey, look, you really don’t have to worry about all that stuff I said. I can hear you frowning. I’m fine,” he assures.
George sighs. “I don’t know, Dream, that’s a fairly disturbing experience to be numb to.”
“I—,” his voice falters, “I know. But for the first time ever I...find myself wanting to return to it.”
“Why?” George asks, exasperated, “I thought it terrifies you.”
“It does.” Dream reclines back into his bed. Please don’t push me, George.
George pushes. “Then why?”
“Because I want to see you again,” he says, words ghosting past his lips with the remembrance of moon jellies and soft sand. He rests a hand on his chest to feel his heart pound heavily against his palm.
George pauses. His voice is faint, “do you really mean that?”
“Yeah.”
The blinds hanging in Dream’s screened window shift slightly, the hint of a breeze trickling into his stuffy room.
“I’ve kind of realized how much I want to meet you.”
“I...know what you mean,” George says, “I felt that after I dreamt about you.”
Dream stifles his sharp inhale. He’s messed this up before; scared George away. He tries to calm his unsteady nerves, biting back anything that could damage the careful approach needed for his friend’s Bambi-like demeanor.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Dream asks, voice successfully mellow. George hums.
“Will you try to mess with me?”
“No, I promise,” he says earnestly. In the quiet moment that follows, he doesn’t move.
“Alright.” George clears his throat.
“I had it about three months ago, so I don’t remember everything clearly. Just pieces here and there.”
The breeze in Dream’s room gently picks up.
“It started with me in my car, I think, waiting alongside the curb at the airport near my house. I parked and went into the baggage reclaim—I knew I was meant to pick up someone, but I couldn’t remember who—but it was completely empty. I was just standing there, until one carousel turned on, and a bright green suitcase dropped onto it. When I went to pick it up, someone else grabbed it before me.” George pauses.
“You grabbed it before me.”
“How—how did you know it was me?” Dream asks, unable to bring his voice above a murmur.
“I just knew,” George says softly. “You were tall, and polite, but…”
“But?” Dream repeats, knowing what’s coming.
“Your face,” George speaks quietly, “I couldn’t see it.”
“Did I...have the…” He can’t finish.
“Yes,” George says, “from what you described to me, it looked the same.”
Dream’s heart drops, falling silent. He feels forever haunted by that ghastly thing.
“Clay?” George checks gently. It floods him again; the comfort of his name passing from George’s lips, and the embarrassment that he can tell by the slightest change in Dream’s tone when he’s feeling unsafe. He loves and hates the way George’s voice brings him home.
“Keep going,” he grunts.
“Okay,” George says, proceeding cautiously, “we walked around the empty terminals for a while. I don’t know why we didn’t leave. We talked the whole time, and you sounded like yourself—just all close up, if that makes sense.” It did.
“I was so happy to see you,” George’s sweet excitement is audible, “I remember that the most, feeling so happy. At some point I told you that, and—and you hugged me.”
A small smile forms on Dream’s face. He would definitely hold George tight for a frustratingly long period of time when they first meet. He wonders if George’s head would fit under his chin, if he would smell the shampoo in his dark hair.
“Then I—I pulled your mask up,” George stammers, voice taught, “just a little bit. Enough to see your mouth.”
Dream blushes. He remembers the weight of his mask dropping from his face. His scalp begins to tingle where he’d imagined George stroking his hair. Why would George, in both dreams—
“And you, well, you uhm—,” he breathes, “you kissed my forehead.”
Dream freezes. He did what?
“That was it, I woke up,” George says quickly.
He huffs, quietly adding, “you’re never going to let me live this down.”
Dream’s chest swells with a torrent of emotions; pride, confusion, ambition. He presses his knuckles to his burning cheek. George had a dream he kissed him. He had a dream he kissed him.
“Wh—,” he tries, and fails to still his breathing. He hopes George can’t hear the tremble in his voice.
Floating above his body, he finds himself asking, “what was it like?” He hears George’s breath hitch.
“It felt safe,” he whispers, “and warm. So warm.” Dream screws his eyes shut, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He wants to tell him everything—how George had touched his mask in his mind too, how he’d kissed his mouth, and wanted to kiss him everywhere. He knows he could. He’d even blame it on the slip of his unruly tongue. Yet there was a boundary he had to walk upon, teetering from side to side, never choosing to cross in fear of losing George. He knows he won’t.
“...I’ll put that on the list of things to do when I meet you for the first time,” he says instead. To his surprise, George laughs. The sound alleviates the tension in his muscles.
“Shut up.” Dream smiles.
“I’m serious.”
“No, you aren’t,” George says, “I know you’re not actually like that.”
“You have no idea what I’m like in real life.” George scoffs. “You’re all talk.”
Dream raises his eyebrows. “Oh really?”
He opens his phone, navigates to Snapchat.
“Yeah,” George says, confident.
Dream takes a photo. Send to Goog.
“Wait,” George says after a moment, “what did you just send to me?”
Dream giggles.
“Dream,” the snap opens, “what—”
It is hardly a selfie, a quick shot aimed close to Dream’s face. It didn’t show anything except part of his jawline, his neck, and tufts of hair sprawled on the pillow beneath his head. Dream can’t stop laughing at George’s silence, wheezing when he watches him replay the image. He knows where this fit is coming from—it’s surreal that their conversation has made him feel such tidal waves of emotions so far. He was nervous, and exhilarated, and starting to consider that maybe George was, too. Maybe.
“I hate you,” George utters with a breathy warmth that shuts Dream up immediately.
“You did the same thing to me already today.”
He remembers what he’d sent during the stream, the power it gave him.
“Why, are you blushing again?” His voice is low. George’s response is amorous.
“Do you want me to be?” The air is taken from Dream’s lungs. His eyes, wide open, pointlessly search his room to check he’s still awake. George sounds just like he had on the beach, and it burns in Dream, red hot, as he swallows the euphoria whole. He grips onto his bed sheets. Patches stares at him with judgement. What the hell is going on?
“Yes,” he professes, deciding to use George’s words against him, “I like you better that way.”
What are we doing?
“You’re too much,” George says, winded.
“I—I think I should go to bed.” Dream feels a pang—he fully expects to feel empty without George’s soft voice in his ear—but sympathizes. In the duration of their call, he’d overheated to the point where he’s concerned for the melting of his brain.
“It was nice talking to you,” Dream says, though he’s still catching up to their last forty seconds.
“Yeah, you too,” George rushes, “whatever.”
He hangs up. Dream wrenches his headphones off. He isn’t sure what to make of it, any of it; the friendly flirting that slithers into his gut and coils warmly among the pooling torment he’d already been subject to. He can easily convince himself that George is screwing with him, a revenge so to speak for the years Dream had spent irritating him. But there was something in his voice when he murmured soft replies that Dream desperately wants to believe was raw honesty. His face falls as he accepts his second terrible truth of the day: I want George to want me. He can’t bring himself to leave bed, or to bother with distractions. All he can think about is carefully taking George’s jaw in one hand, sliding into his dark hair with the other, and pressing his lips gently against his forehead.
He doesn’t sleep at all that night.
Might copy/paste all the chapters here if I have the time
Fanfic PDF
-3/10 not enough hot yaoi seks
Fucking Spongebob made that joke, why can’t Punz?
As expected, all the people deemed “problematic” are labeled cisgender lol
