Archive of Our Own

The first time Dream talks to George in a call, it’s on a whim. 

He’s young, and he’s only been talking to George for just a few weeks. He’s known of him for a while longer, since all those months ago when he ghosted his request to code a plug-in for a Minecraft server, and filled with spite he had learned to code it himself. 

It’s that same spite that fuels some of his earliest interactions with George. He always feels like he has something to prove–he’s young, and is on the brink of dropping out of high school with nothing he wants to do with his life but play Minecraft. 

George is the complete opposite of him. He’s in university, and is studying coding in school. Dream feels like he’s always running to catch up when he talks to him about coding. Feels like they shouldn’t be on the same team of developers running a server for Bad, even though George never says anything to condescend to him. 

They’d been DMing about some issue with the Munchy server that needed fixing, and George couldn’t do it himself because he had assignments to do. He was trying to explain to Dream what exactly was wrong, but none of it was making sense in the form of typed out messages. Frustrated, George had asked if they could just call so he could explain it better. 

That’s what had gotten him here, listening to George’s voice through a shitty mic as he walked Dream through how to fix the issue with the code for the server. He couldn’t help but mostly tune out the words he was saying.

Listening to his voice speak directly to him was a little jarring. It left him nervous for reasons he couldn’t understand. He had heard his voice before in videos, both of his own and of Bad’s. But it was different when George was speaking directly to him about an issue they were meant to work on together. Different when their weeks of messaging and growing closer hadn’t involved talking aloud before now. 

“Dream,” George’s tone is clearly annoyed. “Did you hear what I just said to you?”

“Uh,” He grimaces at the way his voice cracks. “No, not really. Sorry, Georgie.”

“Did you just call me fucking Georgie?” George asks, laughing with the words.

Dream feels the way his face warms with embarrassment. “Yeah? Like your username. GeorgieHD.”

“It’s just George, idiot,” He responds, and Dream can hear the sound of something moving through his mic. “The extra Es are just there because the username without them was taken.”

“Oh. Sorry, George idiot.” Dream hates the way his leg bounces as the conversation carries on, can’t help but tap his fingers against his desk in a rhythm.

“You’re so dumb, oh my god. Are you always this annoying?” And despite the weight of the words, George’s voice is light, and he’s teasing him.

“Well, people say I am.” Dream plays along, grinning as George scoffs. 

“Yeah, that makes sense. Now pay attention.” 

At that, George resumes his explanation of how to fix the code. This time, Dream listens attentively, fixing the code as George walks him through it slowly. He’s kind in his explanation, and patient when Dream doesn’t understand something.

When they’re done working, neither of them leave the call. Instead, their conversation shifts onto them talking more about themselves. About their mutual love for Minecraft, and how annoying their shared friends are. Dream even complains about his parents, and George complains about how stressful his university workload is.

The next time Dream thinks to look at the clock, four hours have passed. 

“Isn’t it really late for you?” He asks George.

“It’s fine. It’s only, like, 4.” George mutters, yawning with the words.

“4 in the morning?” Dream adjusts his headset, feeling the way his ears ache from wearing it for too long. “Don’t you have an assignment to do? Isn’t that why you couldn’t work on the code?”

“It’s whatever. I have a class in, like, 4 hours, too.” Dream can hear him shift in his chair, a sound he’s learned in just the few short hours they’ve been talking. 

“George,” Dream chastises. “Go to sleep, holy cow.”

“Holy cow,” George mocks. “You should try saying fuck. I don’t think you’ve cursed at all the whole time we’ve talked.”

“My parents are down the hall.” Dream lowers his voice, conscious of how late it’s slowly becoming.

“Simply make them not be down the hall.” His words sound tired, and Dream can hear as he starts typing something on his keyboard.

“Go to sleep.”

“No,” George replies, defiant. “Now I’m going to stay up all night. Just because you told me to go to sleep. It’s going to be all your fault, Dream.”

“Go to sleep anyways.” Dream frowns, opening a new Minecraft world to run around while they talk.

“Fine. I’ll go to sleep.” Dream laughs as he hears the sound of George clicking with his mouse.

“Goodnight, George.” Dream breathes out.

“Goodnight, Dream.” With the words, he leaves the call, and Dream is alone to breathe into the still darkness of his bedroom.

After that, they call whenever they can. It becomes somewhat of a routine–Dream unintentionally memorizes George’s class schedule, and in return George learns the times that Dream is typically working. Any moment that both of them aren’t busy, they’re in a call together. 

They join the calls under the guise of talking about a coding project, or of playing Minecraft together. More often than not, though, Dream finds himself standing still in the middle of a Minecraft world with George’s laughter filling his ears as he wheezes into the shitty microphone of his headset, knowing it has to be peaking. George never seems to mind.

For Dream, the phone calls with George help him to feel just a little less lonely.

*

Dream’s entire brain, these days, is consumed by Minecraft.

He’s always been obsessed with the game, but now turning it into a career finally seemed feasible. Instead of seeming like a far off impossibility, it seemed like something that was right in front of him. Something that was becoming tangible and that, with a little more work, he could reach out and grab as his own.

He knew his ideas would take off. He was confident after all the hours he had pored over YouTube statistics and social media algorithms. But still, there had been a small voice in the back of his mind telling him that he was holding out for something that would never happen.

He was glad to prove it wrong.

The numbers on his videos were slowly climbing. The more his views rose, and the more his subscribers rose, the more ideas continued to flow from his mind. He knew he had to take advantage of his becoming relevant, to put out as much content as possible to maintain the growth he was just beginning to see.

And, as he spends his evenings sat in call with George who has nothing better to do besides talk video ideas with him, he knows he doesn’t want to do it alone. He doesn’t mean to bring it up when he does, even if he’d been thinking about it for a few weeks.

“I’m gonna blow up, I think.” Dream breathes down the line as he stares at the line chart on his YouTube statistics page, still shocked at the sharp upturn it takes in just the past few months.

“Is someone gonna send you a bomb for that to happen?” George laughs.

“Shut up, idiot,” Dream rolls his eyes. “I think that, like–I think you should come with me.”

“Come with you,” George parrots. “Wow, Dream, I didn’t know you were looking for that type of thing.”

“Shut up, oh my god,” he blushes with the words. “I want you to make videos with me. And I think you should make your own, too.”

He has plenty of rebuttals prepared in his mind. Is ready to argue that he would pay George in case his own channel didn’t take off alongside Dream’s, since he knows George is fresh out of university with his shiny new computer science degree and his parents have been on his ass about getting a job. That he would still pay him even if he only wanted to stay behind the scenes and help Dream with coding plug-ins for videos. Has already told him before that he has a personality meant for entertaining people, and that he thinks this time could be when it finally works out for George making content. 

He doesn’t have to argue any of it, though. 

“I mean, I could,” he mutters, and Dream can hear as he taps his fingers against his desk. “I’ve definitely thought about it. I wouldn’t be against it or anything.”

“So are you saying yes?” Dream can’t keep the shock from his voice, knowing George will pick up on it.

“Yeah, I guess. But you have to help me.” George laughs, his own shock apparent.

“Of course I’ll help you,” Dream begins pulling up his spreadsheets of ideas for videos as he speaks. “It’s my idea, of course I’ll help you.”

George only hums in response, and Dream can feel the rush of adrenaline settling under his skin as he mentally starts identifying which of the ideas on his list would fit best as videos made by George.

“Nick said he would come along, too,” Dream says, distracted as he scrolls. “I think we’re gonna make it. I know we’re going to.”

“I believe you.” And Dream can’t detect a single hint of doubt in his words.

They would make it. Together.

*

The idea of being successful is much different than actually achieving it.

Sometimes, Dream is still shocked when he checks his Twitter notifications, or his YouTube statistics, or his bank account. None of it feels real–it’s hard for the numbers on his screen to translate into something that connects to his real life when the world is locked down and he can’t even leave his fucking house.

His world exists mostly between four gray walls, with his days consisting only of waking up whenever his body has decided it’s time and once again taking his position in front of his computer screen for his life to resume. Without it, his world would consist only of the walls of his apartment and the occasional company of Patches pushing her way into his lap and rubbing at his ankles.

Things are good. Or, at least, are as good as they can be without being able to leave his house. It should all be enough for now, since he’s finally in the place he’s wanted to be for as long as he can remember.

Instead, things feel off.

George was meant to visit months ago. But they’d kept pushing it off due to Dream moving, and then due to George having family stuff he was dealing with, and then suddenly the world was on lockdown and their meeting was pushed back to a distant future that was hard to even imagine.

Just a few weeks turned into an unpredictable amount of time. It doesn’t help, either, that George has been weird. 

They’d gotten into an argument on stream, and Dream had felt bad about it after. He doesn’t know why he felt so upset during it. Didn’t understand why he felt the need to put up all his walls and hide from George in a way he never had before. Because he didn’t want to show George his face, and George didn’t understand why.

Dream isn’t even sure himself why he doesn’t want to show George his face. What he does know, though, is that George still hesitates to say he loves him.

Logically, he knows George must love him. That he trusted him enough to follow him into such an unpredictable career when he had no reason to, and that he’s stayed by Dream’s side all the way to where they are now. George wouldn’t have done all of that without loving Dream.

Still, he refuses to say the words unless they’re forced out of him. It always takes Dream begging until he’s finally worn down, or a donation tricking him into saying them. He never says them of his own volition, and refuses to ever offer an explanation for why. 

It eats Dream alive. He doesn’t understand it. Showing his love in the form of words has always come easy to him. From the time he was young, his mother had showered him and his siblings with I love yous and was always the first to offer a compliment to a stranger on the street. He watched as she was always the first to be kind to her friends in conversation, and to extend reassuring words to family.

It was ingrained into him to express kindness through words. He always made sure to use his manners, and never shied away from telling his friends he loved them. He found himself ending phone calls with friends with an I love you, even when they would only awkwardly laugh or hesitantly return the words. 

George always deflected. He would change the subject when Dream would tell him he loved him, and never said it back. Dream tried not to let it get to him, but it was difficult.

He thinks all the getting into his head about it is what finally led to his boil over on George’s stream. Felt bad, too, for the way that George still said it, even though Dream hadn’t held up his end of the deal and shown him his face. 

Ever since, George has been off. They’ve barely been alone in call together, and for the moments they are after other people leave, George is quick to make excuses about needing to help his mom with something or call someone else.

Dream doesn’t understand why it makes him ache. He keeps telling himself that George is clearly just still upset, and needs time to himself. He so badly wants to push, but is afraid–things have never been like this between them. Even when Dream has been at his worst and exploded on George for reasons that had nothing to do with him, George has still only ever extended him nothing but kindness. He never avoided Dream, and was always still waiting on the other end of a phone call for the moment Dream calmed down and apologized for taking his frustrations out on him.

George avoiding him was unfamiliar. It made Dream feel unsteady. It made them feel unsteady.

When his phone rings late one night through his Do Not Disturb, at what he knows is an ungodly hour in London, he can’t help but let out a deep breath as he accepts the call.

“Hey.” He breathes down the line, relief flooding him.

“Hi.” George’s voice is timid.

“It’s really late there.” Dream mutters, shifting onto his side beneath his sheets.

“You’re in bed already,” George replies. “And it’s only 11pm.”

“Well, I don’t have anything else to do,” Dream shuts his eyes. “Usually I would be talking to you.”

“Well, we’re talking now.” Dream knows he’s in bed, too, with how he can hear the faint creaks of his mattress as he shifts.

“We haven’t been.”

“But we are now.” George responds, a finality to his voice.

“I love you.” Dream tests out.

George only scoffs in response.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice, but knows he fails. 

“Dream,” George groans, exasperated. “You’re not that fucking dumb, are you?”

Dream can picture the look on his face, even though he can’t see him. Knows he probably has his hand covering his face with his eyebrows furrowed, and is likely running a hand through his hair.

Dream can’t respond, instead putting his phone on speaker and placing it on the mattress beside him, picking at a hangnail on his thumb.

“Oh my god, you are,” George groans again. “Dream. You know I do, right?”

And Dream feels silly, but he still feels the need to be honest. “Well, I mean, yeah. I guess I do, like, deep down.”

“Dream.”

“I dunno, George,” Dream huffs out, defensive. “You don’t say it, how would I know?”

“I don’t know the last time that, like, my dad said he loved me. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t.” George mutters.

“Well, that’s just fucking depressing.” Dream can feel some of the tension seeping from his shoulders as he sinks further into the mattress.

“Whatever. You know what I’m getting at. I just didn’t think I had to say it.” 

“It’s just, like. I guess you don’t have to,” Dream murmurs. “But I like when you do.”

“That’s kinda cringe, Dream.” George giggles.

“I hate you.” Dream rolls over, burying his face into his pillow.

“No, you love me,” George insists. “And we’re talking now. So tell me what’s been going on in Dream world.”

Feeling like he can finally breathe again, Dream begins rambling about things he’s wanted to tell George for days. About how Patches had taken to hiding his socks if he left them on the floor instead of putting them in his hamper, and how he and Callahan had been talking about the logistics of coding a more complicated plug-in for a new video. George simply listens, humming along to the sounds of Dream’s voice.

After a while, Dream starts to drift, his words slurring together as he tries to keep talking. When he finally stops in the fuzzy space between sleep and wakefulness, George speaks.

“Dream?” His voice is soft, and timid. 

Dream says nothing, ready to let his mind succumb to sleep.

“Love you.” The words are so quiet he’s almost convinced he’s hallucinated them as he finally drifts to sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, it’s to the sound of George’s soft, even breathing down the line. He stays laying in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening as warmth settles low in his stomach.

*

On a cold day in early spring, Dream thinks he might lose his mind. 

He doesn’t even know if it’s actually cold outside, but guesses that it has to be based on the time of year. He hasn’t actually walked outside of his house in months to know for sure. Even though he knows the world is slowly beginning to reopen, it isn’t opening back up for him. Because George still isn’t here, and he doesn’t want to face reveal without him.

As he sits in call with George and Sapnap, though, face revealing is the last thing on his mind. Instead, he can’t do anything but stare as he watches George taking all the layers of shirts off through the small window on his monitor after they’d finished filming a video. 

“I’m so hot.” George groans out, pulling one of the final shirts over his head and running a hand through his hair.

Dream can’t say anything in response. He thinks Sapnap might speak, but he doesn’t quite register what he says. His brain has decided to hone in only on the sight of George with his hair wet and messy. He can’t drag his eyes away from the way he keeps running his hands through his hair to push the damp strands out of his face, even as he’s finally back down to a single shirt.

Dream knows he’s stopped recording when he lets out a loud fuck, and soon after Sapnap leaves the call. It’s still surreal how he can hear his footsteps trail down the hall outside of his door with how heavy-footed he walks, and knows George must hear it too with the way he rolls his eyes where he still has his camera turned on in Discord.

Still, he can’t tear his eyes away from the way George looks.

“Dream.” When he finally hears his name through the haze, he knows he must have been tuning him out for a while.

“Yeah?” He breathes out, and can hear the way his own voice has deepened.

“You’re ignoring me.” He’s pouting dramatically into the camera, and it’s the stupid fucking pout that Dream can never resist.

“I’m not,” he reassures. “I’m literally just sitting here.”

“What are you doing, then?” George is insistent, and he still has the exaggerated pout on his face.

“I’m not doing anything.” Dream mutters, leaning back in his chair and running a hand over his face to try to get his eyes to focus on something that isn’t George’s face framed by damp hair.

“Well, I know you’re not doing anything because I haven’t heard you type or use your phone since we stopped playing.” He says it casually, like it isn’t an absolutely insane thing to know by sound alone. 

Dream would judge if he didn’t have the exact same sounds memorized for George. When George had first moved into his own apartment just a few weeks ago, he had hated the way he had to relearn the sounds of George moving around his own space. Had hated that before, he had known exactly where George was going based on how long he muted for and it had all gone to waste in the move.

The new place is nice, though. George almost never mutes, not when they’re alone, and including now when he tells Dream he’s going to go shower and leaves him sitting alone in call.

These days, he takes Dream on journeys around his small apartment with him, the space small enough that he can yell from as far away as possible and Dream is still able to catch the words clearly through his mic. He’s learning new noises he never was able to when George was still living with his parents, like the difference in sound between him opening the door to his bathroom or to his bedroom. 

It’s nice. In a distant way, he can almost imagine George is here. 

It’s something he’s found himself imagining more and more lately. He’s always pictured it before–them hanging out, going out to eat together. Maybe playing Minecraft together, and sitting side by side on his couch and watching a movie they both like. Small, mundane things that he would do with any of his other friends.

More recently, though, he’s started to picture other things.

Sometimes, he’ll get flashes of him and George laying side by side in his bed. Or them brushing hands as they stand slightly too close to each other, and even the vision alone makes Dream’s heart race and cheeks heat in ways he doesn’t understand. 

The most strange of these new imagined futures come to him in dreams. 

The dreams always have similar plots. George will be laid out in front of him, clothed in his stupid oversized Dream hoodie and sweats and flushed pink in the way he is when he’s embarrassed. He’ll reach out to touch him, and George in his dreams will always let him explore.

Some nights, he just touches his arms, or his hands. Just to feel his touch and try to memorize it. Other nights, though, he’s braver.

He’ll reach out, and let his hand trail down the side of George’s neck. George in his dream will shiver under his faint touch and lean into it. When he lets his hand trail further down, dipping his fingers beneath the collar of the hoodie and pressing them into the bare skin of his chest, George will always whine out his name.

Every time Dream leans towards him in his dreams, he wakes up. Hard, aching, embarrassed, and alone in his bed.

He always feels the most guilty after those dreams, and hopes the walls are thick enough that Sapnap can never hear him on the mornings that he trails into the shower to wash his guilt down the drain.

It feels invasive and wrong. Not just to think about George like that, but for his brain to take aspects of their most normal interactions so out of context. He knows the way George moans his name in his dreams is the way he says it when they’re playing Minecraft; knows the way he’s flushed is something he’s only seen during video recordings when he’s teased him since George got his new camera that shows every little detail of his skin.

He hates knowing, too, that the image of George with wet hair will probably be a new staple of these dreams. Refuses to admit to himself that the thought will linger in his mind every time he tries his hardest to stay quiet beneath the warm spray of the shower as he touches himself, as he feels embarrassed once he comes down from the high.

Because he doesn’t like George as anything but a friend. He’s attractive, but Dream has always thought that. He’s thought it about friends, celebrities, and professional athletes alike. George isn’t any different. Dream thinks his brain is just playing some sort of sick joke on him and that he’s losing his fucking mind from staying in his house for months on end with his only human interaction being with his mom, his sister, and Sapnap. 

He thinks he would be betraying George if he knew about what Dream’s brain has been doing to him. They’re best friends. It isn’t fair of Dream to be going through this, or to be thinking of him in this way even if he so desperately wishes he wasn’t.

So, life goes on. Dream spends every day alone, locked in his office with nothing but his thoughts for company even when all they seem to do is betray him. George returns from his shower with even wetter hair and skin flushed pink from the warmth of the water, and Dream tells himself that nothing has changed.

*

They think that they’re going to be together for Christmas.

They’ve had their hopes high for months, ever since the plans had finally changed from George simply visiting them to moving in with them for at least five years. Dream had been so giddy when jokes of you should just marry me had finally turned into sitting down and researching how exactly you obtain a visa to move to the United States.

It’s immensely more complicated than they ever could have anticipated. Still, Dream spends hours-long phone calls sitting with George as they worked through filling out the paperwork together and as he watched him write emails full of important questions to send out to the relevant offices. 

It feels like all of their hard work is finally going to pay off. Just like with anything else, the visa is something that Dream and George have both devoted tons of their time to. That they’ve spent countless hours poring over the research for, and that they had carefully filled out exactly as they were meant to. Like everything else they’ve worked towards together, there’s no doubt in his mind that this isn’t going to work out in their favor.

Then, just weeks before Christmas, George wakes him up in the middle of the night with a call.

He almost never wakes him up through his Do Not Disturb, even when he knows he can. He’d said once he didn’t want to be inconsiderate, that he knows he hates being woken up so he wouldn’t want to do the same to Dream. So Dream knows the phone call must be important, since George knows they had fallen asleep at the same time and it was only 4am in Florida.

Even through his groggy haze, Dream can immediately tell something is wrong.

“George?” He mutters down the line, sitting up slowly as he blinks into the darkness. 

George doesn’t respond. Instead, all Dream can hear is his shaky breathing through the shitty microphone of his phone.

“George.” Dream repeats, anxiety rising as his heart begins to speed up. Already, he tugs at the corner of his blankets, needing something to ground him as he waits for whatever George is going to say.

“Dream.” And it’s all he says as he lets out a choked out cry.

It’s the first time Dream has ever heard him really cry. George has always made a show of being able to cry on demand, and early on had even used it on Dream in an attempt to get his way. But it had been a long time since Dream had fallen for that, so George had stopped trying. Other than that, he’s never heard George cry. He’s heard him audibly upset, but he always hid from Dream during those times by making excuses and not calling again until he’d worked past his issues. Dream knows he likes to deal with his feelings on his own, and that this must be bad that George is barely muffling his soft cries down the line, unable to say any words.

“George, I really need you to tell me what’s going on.” He can hear the nerves in his voice, and can feel pressure building behind his eyes with the want to cry with George before he even knows what they’re crying over. 

His brain is already jumping to the worst possible conclusions, telling him that George being this distraught must mean that something world-ending has happened. And when George speaks, he hates that he isn’t exactly wrong.

“Dream,” he chokes out, nearly unintelligible. “The visa.”

And without any further explanation, he knows it’s been denied.

As George resumes his near-silent crying, Dream isn’t sure how to react. A numbness settles over his body as he lays back down in his bed, staring at the blank ceiling of his room that’s lit only by streetlights peeking in from outside. The only feeling he registers is the warmth of his phone where it’s pressed into the side of his face; the only sound he can hear beyond his own heartbeat in his ears is the occasional choked sob George lets out from across an ocean.

Amidst it all, Dream just wants to hold him.

It aches in a way it never has before. He doesn’t know where they’re going to go from here, with their hopes for spending their first Christmas together turned into an even more incalculable amount of time spent apart. All he knows is that he wishes he could book the soonest flight to London to personally stop the sound of the sobs coming from George, but he can’t because he doesn’t even have a valid fucking driver’s license, let alone a passport.

He doesn’t think he’s quite hated his situation before now. He’d constantly told himself what he had was enough, that he was fine with putting his life on hold for now and that his ever-growing feelings for George he had finally grown to accept would be enough until they could sort them out in person.

Now, he thinks he might drown in it all. He isn’t sure how he’s meant to go on much longer like this, with an ocean between them and all the hopes for their shared future completely crushed in a matter of minutes. 

He doesn’t know when he started crying, but when George finally says his name again he realizes that his cheeks are damp with tears.

“Dream,” his voice is rough, but he seems to have stopped crying. “I wish you were here.”

He lets out his own choked sob with the words, and can hear the way George exhales shakily.

“Dream,” George repeats, voice unlike Dream has ever heard it before. “I really fucking want you here.”

“I know.” And it’s all Dream can choke out as he buries his face in his pillow, unable to stop the steady stream of tears leaking from his eyes.

“I really wish I could hug you right now.” It’s muffled, and he knows George must be speaking into the fabric of his hoodie sleeve, or of a blanket. 

It’s a line they rarely cross. In front of an audience, their talk of what they want to do when they finally move in together stays mild. Even when it’s just the two of them at their most awake and sane, it stays the same. They talk about wanting to watch movies together, and to try different restaurants around Orlando. Wanting to simply exist together and get to travel, go to conventions, and meet their friends.

Times like now, when their walls are lowered and they’re at their most vulnerable, they always allow themselves to indulge. To blur the lines that barely exist these days, and to imagine what existing together as them might look like.

“If I were there,” Dream finally manages, shaky. “I would hold you. So fucking tight.”

“How would you hold me?” George is brave tonight, even through his emotion.

“I would–against my chest. I would hold you against my chest. And I would, like,” Dream stutters, nervous. “Touch your hair. And just hold you really close.”

With the words, George breaks again, letting out a shaky sob. “You aren’t going to be able to touch me.”

“We’re gonna figure it out, George.” He manages, even through his own tears.

And, without protest, he agrees. “Okay, Dream.”

The rest of the night, neither of them sleep. Instead, they simply breathe together, silent. If Dream closes his eyes, he can almost picture George beside him in his bed instead of his phone coming through the speakers of his phone.

For the first time, Dream knows they hurt the same.

*

In April, Dream thinks his world might end.

George still isn’t fucking here, and the entire internet fucking hates him, and he wonders if all of this is even worth it when all he can do about it is hope he stops being misinterpreted over and over again and stare at the same four stupid fucking gray walls of his office.

He had just wanted to come out. To finally be more open about himself, and about George. Instead, he feels like the world is ending and he’s going to be crushed under the weight of it.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, when his phone rings for the first time in over a day.

He doesn’t want to answer it. Talking to anyone has grown to be a chore, and it feels like anyone could doubt the intentions of his words. The universe feels nothing but cruel, and he wants nothing but to be able to escape the torment of it. But he can’t–he keeps opening Twitter, and keeps seeing all of the absolutely vile things being said about him, and keeps having growing anxiety about how something as simple as coming out could turn into fearing for his own fucking safety. 

The only reason he answers his phone is because he knows it has to be George, and he figures it must be important. 

“Dream.” It’s all he says when Dream picks up the phone, only putting it on speaker and placing it on the mattress beside his head instead of responding.

“Dream,” George stresses, concern clear in his voice. “Talk to me.”

“George.” Dream mutters out, his voice rough from disuse.

“Oh my god, drink water.” George groans, exasperated.

Unwilling to argue, he grabs the half-full bottle off of his nightstand from the day before, not even bothering to sit up as he sips from it. When he spills water down his chin on accident, he only huffs, placing the bottle back on the nightstand.

“That literally wasn’t enough.” He can hear as George stands, hears as he opens his fridge and must be grabbing water for himself.

When he gets back to his mic, he speaks again. “Go to your computer.”

“No.” Dream runs a hand over his face, rolling onto his side.

“Dream,” George says, annoyed. “Get out of bed and go to your computer.”

“Why?”

“We’re playing Minecraft.” He can hear the way George rolls his eyes in the tone of his voice.

“We don’t have a recording scheduled for, like, a week.” Dream mumbles. 

“We’re not recording, idiot,” He can hear his grin. “We’re just playing Minecraft. So get out of bed.”

He doesn’t want to. Instead, he wishes he could just lay in his bed and cry about how terrible his week has been and keep staring at the same gray and white tones of his walls and ceiling that he can’t be bothered to decorate when he knows he’ll be moving anyways.

But it’s for George. And these days, he can never say no to George, so he finds himself climbing out of bed and hanging up his phone as he walks to his office, rejoining the call as he puts on his headset and opens Discord. 

To the sound of George laughing in his ears, he opens Minecraft, launching a random world and sending George the IP. When he joins, he hits Dream in game, and then they’re off.

He loses track of time, and next time he glances up he notices it’s gotten much darker in his office than it was when he started. They’d spent hours giggling as they ran around a random Minecraft world, switching between gathering materials to beat the game together and building silly structures of chasing each other. He couldn’t remember the last time he had played Minecraft for fun on his own time, just because he wanted to and not because it was his job.

Most importantly, it had effectively distracted him, just like he knew George wanted it to. He didn’t even think about everything that had been going on until George began yawning into his mic and his first instinct was to offer for them to go to sleep.

“No,” George murmured in response, soft with the late hour. “Because then I’m gonna go to sleep and you’re gonna open Twitter and be stupid.”

“No I’m not.” Dream huffs, even though he knows that’s exactly what he probably would have done the moment George had fallen asleep before him.

“Twitter is dumb. And also very wrong.” George’s voice is matter of fact, leaving no room for doubt.

“Well, they’re right sometimes.”

“No, they’re literally always wrong. Do you want to be dumb like them?” His voice has taken on a serious edge, and Dream can’t bother to fight it.

“I’ve got an even better distraction than Twitter, hold on.” He hears George moving around, and moments later he hears his phone buzz on the desk beside him.

When he looks at it, the only notification on the screen is one for a new Snapchat from George.

“George.” He can’t help but flush, knowing exactly what George is trying to start this late at night.

“Well? Are you going to open it?” He’s playing coy, but Dream knows he’s just trying to poke at him.

“Yeah.” He breathes out.

With the words, he unlocks his phone, taking a deep breath before he opens the snap. When it loads, it steals the breath from his lungs.

George face isn’t visible in the picture. Instead, it’s a shot of his bare stomach, his hand splayed flat across the lower half of it where a trail of hair thickens as it leads into the waistband of his sweats. Two of his fingers are hooked just beneath the waistband, and Dream can see the bright blue of his boxers peeking out over the edge. The image is cut off right above where his crotch would be visible, which Dream knows is intentional.

“George.” He breathes out, warmth settling low in his stomach.

“Dream,” he replies, a whiny edge to his voice. “Send something back.”

“You’re so annoying.” But even with the words, he begins pushing his shirt up and positioning his camera to the sound of George’s triumphant giggles.

*

In September, George sees his face.

It’s after he finished recording, and he’s still sitting in his dimly lit living room with his face bright red and eyes clearly full of tears as he stares at Dream through the shitty screen of his phone.

“I can’t believe you’re real.” George murmurs, voice still full of awe.

It shocks Dream, the way George has been nothing but soft with this. It’s a side of George he’s used to seeing rarely, only when the two of them are alone and are beyond needing to sleep. It’s the side of him that lets all of his walls down and lets Dream in to his soft, mushy core, leaving all of his soft love and adoration on display in a way he knows is only for him. Since his visa interview had been scheduled, he’d been nothing but soft to Dream. Still, it shocked him how earnest he had been about Dream’s face.

“Of course I’m real,” Dream scrunches his nose. “What, did you think you were talking to a fake person? What if I was just an AI the whole time?”

George doesn’t even roll his eyes at the joke, and instead only fondly giggles as he keeps staring. “I’ve never seen what you look like when you say stuff like that. What the fuck.”

He feels shy. He doesn’t think he’s felt any less overwhelmed since George first called him and he had run to the mirror to make sure his hair looked presentable–that he looked presentable for the first time George ever saw his face.

It also dawns on him, too, how much absolute faith George has placed in him for so long that he’s endlessly trusted him with so much of his life without even knowing what facial expressions he makes when he makes jokes, or when he’s happy, or when he’s upset.

“So, like,” Dream mumbles, nervous. “What do you think?”

“You’re, like, soft,” George murmurs, cheeks still a vibrant red and his smile ever-present. “I dunno. I wasn’t expecting it. You’re, like, pretty.”

Dream blushes with the words, and is glad to know George can’t tell. “What the hell? I’m pretty?”

“Yeah,” George affirms, unashamed. “Pretty. I like it. My pretty.”

Dream is sure if his cheeks could somehow grow even hotter, they would. Instead, he looks away from his phone, avoiding eye contact even through the screen.

“No, look at me.” George whines, making Dream turn his eyes back to the screen.

“You’re gonna buy my ticket for me. And I’m gonna make you keep your camera on while you do it.” George smiles, already standing to move to his computer.

“What if I don’t want to?” Dream teases.

George halts in his tracks, glaring down at Dream. “You are literally never allowed to turn your camera off again. I get to look as much as I want. I need to get used to it before I get there.”

And with the words, it hits Dream that this call means soon has turned into just a matter of weeks.

The only obstacle standing between them now was George packing up the rest of his life and buying a plane ticket that would mean the beginning of the rest of their lives together. There weren’t entire governments or global pandemics or an uncrossable ocean separating them anymore. Now, the future they had waited so long for was right in front of them, and Dream could finally allow himself to feel relieved for what feels like the first time in forever.

“You’re gonna be here soon.” It’s all Dream can think to say, and he grins brightly with the words.

George laughs, shocked as he sits down at his desk and props his phone up where he can see it. “Yeah. And what does that mean, Dream?”

He knows what George is asking for, and feels exposed under his eyes. He’s never had to say it while George watched before, and it suddenly feels daunting. 

“It means that, like,” he stammers, staring down at his hands. “We get to hang out. And, like, sit next to each other.”

“You really know the way to make me happy.” George mocks sarcastically, his laughter still bright as he starts clicking on his PC.

“Shut up, oh my god.” Dream groans, sinking back in his chair.

“You’re cute when you’re annoyed.” When he glances back up, George’s smile is still the brightest he’s ever seen it, even in the darkness of his living room.

“Please shut up. Or I’m gonna, like, die, and then you won’t meet me because you killed me.” Dream can’t help but laugh with his own words, George rolling his eyes.

“Fine, I’ll stop, whatever.” He’s distracted now, scrolling on his computer and looking back and forth between the monitor and his phone.

He starts reading off dates and times of flights, with Dream having to remind him that he can’t just fly out tomorrow when he has so much stuff left to handle in London. They settle on two weeks from now, with George already making a spreadsheet of everything he needs to get done before he leaves.

As he listens to George talk it all through with him, he can’t help but let happiness settle over him. True, fulfilling happiness for the first time in a long time.

If it’s this good now, he can’t imagine how good it’s going to be once George is finally in front of him. Is finally in his arms, and laying beside him every night, and always within reach rather than an ocean apart.

*

Dream thinks today has been the most overwhelming day of his life.

It had all passed by in a blur of anxiety and other overwhelming feelings, knowing exactly how much of his life was going to change in one day. Then, before he knew it, George was in their driveway, and he was holding him in his arms briefly, and he was showing him around the house. George was cradling Patches in the middle of their living room as Dream felt like his heart was going to explode, his tiny little family all finally in one room as Sapnap took his job as cameraman very seriously. 

The hours had passed in a blur, and suddenly he was posting the face reveal with George by his side as he watched it over one last time for good measure. George’s hand holding his shoulder as he hit upload had felt surreal, and the way he had hugged Dream as they watched it premiere together made his head spin.

What made his head spin, too, was the way George had pulled him in close in their backyard when the smell of firework smoke had still lingered in the air around them after Sapnap had run inside to go to the bathroom. 

As soon as the door had shut behind him, George had pulled him in close, and planted a quick, chaste kiss directly on his mouth, before pulling away with a shy grin and pulling Dream into a tight hug, nuzzling his face into his neck as Dream’s jaw went slack. 

When Sapnap had returned, Dream’s mouth was still open, even after George had pulled away and moved to stand close beside him, pressing their arms together.

Now, he lays alone in his bed, staring at the ceiling with his skin still buzzing with adrenaline. 

He knows George is lying in his own bed down the hall, where he had reluctantly trailed after Sapnap had offered to walk with him since their rooms were right beside each other. He had sent Dream apologetic looks as he walked up the stairs, waving before he had disappeared at the top of the banister. 

Dream didn’t know how he was meant to sleep tonight. He knew he wasn’t going to, and that even trying was a fruitless effort. It’s with that thought that he decides to call George.

George answers almost immediately. “This is weird.”

Not even a hello. And Dream has to agree: it is weird, speaking to George through a phone when he now knows what his voice sounds like when it echos off the same walls as his own and not just through a microphone. 

“Yeah, but I couldn’t sleep.” He mutters, rolling over in his bed.

“You’re dumb.” He knows George is rolling his eyes, and imagines he can feel it through the walls of their house.

“Why am I dumb for wanting to talk to you?” Teasing George like this is always fun, and George scoffs in response.

“Because I’m literally down the hall. And I’m not talking to you on the phone.”

With the words, the line goes dead. Before he can call back, he hears footsteps trailing down the hall. When he looks up, he sees the doorknob of his room turning.

When it opens, George stands in the doorway, the comforter from his bed wrapped around his shoulders with a sheepish grin on his face.

*

In the middle of the night, Dream is woken by his Do Not Disturb.

It’s something he’s not used to anymore, not having experienced it much since George has been in Florida. The last time he can remember is when he and Sapnap had traveled alone to Oklahoma, and George had called him panicked because Patches had thrown up and he wasn’t sure what to do.

It feels almost characteristic that another late night phone call through his Do Not Disturb would only come when they were separated again.

When he answers with a muffled hello, George is immediately sighing down the line.

“Dream,” he murmurs, quiet. “Hi.”

Dream sits up, almost immediately overcome with concern. “George? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just miss you.” George’s words are heavy in a way they haven’t been in a long time. And Dream hates it. 

It reminds him entirely too much of long distance calls from across an ocean. Reminds him of when George finally let himself be vulnerable and would call Dream late at night, sad about the visa and upset that they weren’t together.

In some ways, this is exactly like that: George isn’t just down the hall. Instead, they’re separated by an entire country, and Dream feels stuck in a way he hasn’t for months. George is upset, and he’s suddenly being thrown back into a position where he can’t help. He always hated feeling this helpless when it was their only option, and he especially hates it now that he knows what it’s like to hold George.

“George,” Dream breathes out. “Just another week.”

George’s breath goes shaky, and Dream hates how he knows it means he’s on the brink of tears. 

“Georgie,” Dream stares up at the ceiling, wishing George’s body was warming the mattress beside him. “Baby.”

The simple nickname must be what does it for George, because suddenly Dream can hear his choked cries and knows there are tears trailing down his cheeks.

“I feel fucking dumb,” George chokes out. “We literally spent years apart.”

“Hey,” Dream soothes. “You’re not dumb. We didn’t spend years apart after meeting.”

“I think it’s just, like,” George groans, frustrated. “It’s the first time since we, like, talked.”

“You mean the first time since we became, like, official.” Dream clarifies.

“Yeah.” George mutters, tears still audible in his voice. 

“Georgie,” Dream murmurs. “I miss you, too.”

He aches to hold him in a way he hasn’t since the darkest days of the wait for the visa. Hates that he can’t hold him now that he knows what it’s like to cradle him to his chest and stroke his hair, and to soothe him when he’s upset.

Becoming them had made the distance all the more difficult. Because he also knew what it was like to kiss George in the morning when they first woke up pressed together in the warm patch of sunlight on their mattress, and to bump elbows in their shared bathroom as they brushed their teeth beside each other standing at the sink. 

He ached for the simple bliss he had grown used to in just a matter of months; wished he could not only hug George but make him some of his favorite pancakes with Nutella to cheer him up.

For now, though, he tries some of the ways he spent years learning to distract George when his feelings grew so big they overwhelmed him.

“George,” he starts. “Patchy was being dumb today. I think she’s trying to kill you. She rubbed herself all over your side of the bed.”

Shocked, George giggles. “You and our daughter are plotting to murder me, I know it. There’s going to be some suspiciously large life insurance policy taken out on me soon and then I’ll know to be scared.”

Dream feels his heart swell with the words our daughter, and smiles. “Yeah, you’ve figured it out. I brought you here just to kill you. Not even to, like, marry you first or anything.”

As George’s giggles fill his ears, Dream knows they’re going to be okay.

*

One morning, Dream wakes up before George.

He tries his best to be as quiet as possible as he leaves their bed, shushing Patches as she paws at his ankles and meows at him to be fed. 

The house is silent as he trails down the staircase to the kitchen, pouring food into Patches’ bowl before sinking into the sofa to take in the stillness as he sips from a water bottle. 

As he’s sitting, it dawns on him that he could surprise George. And it’s with that that he quickly gets to work.

He starts with having to clean the kitchen, some dishes in the sink and some in the dishwasher that hadn’t been started since George claims to not know how it works. Once he’s finished, he begins preparing everything he needs for making a basic breakfast out of what slim pickings they have in their fridge. 

He can’t help the way his heart still races when he catches light reflecting off of the ring on his ring finger as he chops vegetables for omelets, even though it’s been there for months. Can’t help, either, how he takes in the sight of George’s hoodie strewn over the back of the couch and Sapnap’s shoes sitting in disarray next to the door to the patio and becomes overwhelmed with how sentimental it still makes him feel that they exist in the same space together.

He takes his time cooking, not in a rush to wake George up when he knows they’d stayed up late the night before. He even takes the time to juice leftover oranges and make a small container of juice the way his mom had showed him a few months ago, and that George had loved the one time he had done it since.

By the time it’s all ready, he decides to just call George, knowing he would be begged to stay in bed and unable to say no if he went back upstairs to wake him. 

George declines his first call, and his second. On the third, he finally answers, blinking sleepily into the bright sunlight entering their room from Dream leaving open the curtains.

“Why are you calling me?” He mutters, glaring at Dream even through the screen.

Dream can’t help but stare at him like this. The chain around his neck, adorned by a ring that matches Dream’s own, reflects the sunlight of their room and sits in stark contrast against George’s bare chest. There are dark marks covering his shoulders and the visible parts of the top of his chest, some more faded than others. Dream can’t help but smile at the one he can see in the shape of a heart at the base of his neck, which had made George fondly roll his eyes at him the first time he had looked in the mirror and poked at it.

George looks loved. His cheeks are sun-kissed with freckles and a natural flush, and his hair falls in messy curls from the Florida humidity even when he’s laying in their bed having just woken up. He’s covered in Dream’s mark and wearing Dream’s jewelry. Everything about him screams that he’s his, and that he is so loved.

“I made you breakfast.” He finally breathes out, smiling brightly at George. 

“Why didn’t you bring it up here?” George groans, stretching his arms above his head.

Dream grimaces at the thought. “Crumbs in the bed are yuck. And if I came up there to wake you up, you would have made me come back to bed.”

“Well,” George scoffs. “Have you considered coming back to bed is better than breakfast ?”

“No, it’s not, I’m literally surprising you so come down here.”

“I could literally be sucking your dick right now, Dream.” George stares into the camera, blinking slowly with wide eyes.

“Oh my god.” Dream flushes, always caught off guard by how unashamed George is in this.

“It’s literally all I need for breakfast, but I guess I’ll come down there and eat your stupid food.” 

Before he can hang up, Dream stops him. “Wait!” 

George looks at him. 

“Love you.”

It’s always worth it for the way it makes George flush so brilliantly, his eyes bright as he’s unable to keep a grin off his face.

“Love you, too” He mutters, shy as he hangs up almost immediately.

Dream can’t wipe the stupid smile off his face, even as George makes his way down the stairs.

He doesn’t think life could be any more perfect than sitting beside George at the island, ankles interlaced and thighs pressed together as they eat breakfast together in content silence.