Chapter Text
It’s a stupid obsession. Of course it is. George is nearly 25 years old with thousands of other things he should be doing. But when the little notification bell goes off on his phone he runs to his computer, if his schedule allows it, and opens twitch using the bookmark. His hand moves the mouse without a real thought. It takes him right to the streamer’s page, pops up the screen and plays the melody that can only be described as comfort, familiarity, and refuge.
He loves Dream’s voice.
He doesn’t know what Dream looks like, just like the rest of the world, but he imagines it more than he would like to admit. It makes him bashful, timid, scared to draw any line too dark in his head so as to not to become attached to something that doesn’t exist, fantasizing about meeting him in person, shaky hands extending in question. His room is dead quiet, his headphones wrapped comfortingly around his skull, shielding him from everything outside of this stream these next few hours. George could stay here all day. In fact, he would if he had the option to. But life is not a wish granting factory.
Dream’s voice isn’t loud enough and the headphones aren’t dense enough to cover up the polite knock that comes to George’s bedroom door. His stomach jumps into his throat, hands flying to close the browser. He turns himself around to face the door just in time for it to open.
“George, we are leaving in twenty minutes. You were supposed to be in your suit nearly an hour ago.” His mother’s voice is prim, too proper, eyes glancing to her son up and down with a hint of frustration. “You will not miss another of these. It is your responsibility. Your duty, to the people of England.”
It’s a speech George has heard a million times, ten thousand variations, each about honor and family and duty and the expectations the entire country, no, the world has for him. If he weren’t an expert and digesting these feelings the look from his mother would snap him in half, a twig under the foot of an angry giant. He stands up and runs his hands down his thighs, as to flatten the wrinkles that have surely formed on his pants since sitting down at the computer.
“Yes, of course,” He can’t get himself to look her in the eyes, “I won’t miss it. I’ll be ready.”
She doesn’t say anything as she closes the door behind her. George rushes towards his closet, the suit for today already laid out in front, hanging like a flag from it’s hook. He feels sick to his stomach. He would give anything to stay here. Anything to open that video tab on his computer and hear Dream’s voice again, on repeat, for the rest of forever. He bites his lip, pushes his nails into his palms to throw the thought out of his dense head, undresses in a flurry, clothes piling up on the ground around him, like an old version of himself that he has to shed in order to fulfill the desires of everyone else.
For once he wishes he could just fulfill his own desires.
If only he weren’t the Prince of England.
***
It’s late when George returns from the event. Somewhere, about halfway through, the suit becomes like a cage. His undershirt is soaked with sweat when he starts to rip it off of himself, embarrassment coursing through his veins icy and hot at the same time. At least the suit was black, surely covering up any sweat that may have gotten through. He can’t even bring himself to hang up the suit again, just leaves it discarded on the ground outside of his bathroom. The maids will surely be around to get it later this evening anyway. Let them take care of it.
He showers using a rose petal shampoo he doesn't remember, surely left by his mother. It smells too strong, and leaves him with a headache even after he towel dries his shaggy hair.
George is thankful he is allowed to go to bed, thankful once again for the safety of his room, his own space. He grabs his laptop from his bedside table and curls into his duvet, just a shirt and boxers. It’s the closest thing he ever feels to being a real person.
It takes him no time at all to open the VOD of Dream’s stream he had to miss earlier, falls into his pillows, takes a deep breath that stretches out his ribs like rubber bands as Dream’s voice graces his ears again. Laptop in his lap, phone in his hand, he nonchalantly scrolls twitter, half paying attention to both things in front of him, as if one thing isn’t enough to distract him from how much he can’t stand his uptight and futile life. Of course, the twitter he currently scrolls is not his official twitter. It holds no blue verified checkmark, no uptight photos of him wearing uncomfortable and strangling clothes. Instead, it’s followed by people who don’t know who he is, people who he actually feels like he can relate to. On this account, he follows who he wants and says what he wants. No one realizes they are interacting with Prince George of England. And it’s exactly what George wants.
Dream had tweeted while George was at the event today. It’s short and all lower case but George can’t help but feel intrigued. He sits up further in bed and puts his laptop aside, as if he needs to get his face closer to the screen in his palm.
make me laugh in two words or less and i will follow you back
4:55 pm
George doesn’t even know where he would start, but the idea of making Dream laugh, being the cause of the tea kettle phenomena he obsesses over, day and night, completely thrills him. Goosebumps rise on his skin and he immediately opens his camera roll and searches for an appropriate meme, no words needed at all. He feels like a child, an idiot, bumbling over himself for this chance. The prince of England completely awestruck by a faceless American, thousands of miles away.
Eventually he settles on the dumbest meme he can find. It’s unrelated to Dream or minecraft, or anything really, but it always manages to put a smile on George’s face, so he replies to Dream’s tweet, and feels like he might die when he pushes the blue button.
It’s hard to move on, after that. He should be sleeping. A distant relative's wedding will fill his entire day tomorrow, all cameras and reporters, in his face, dreadfully suffocating. But the prince is expected in attendance and his mother would be damned to let him take a day off. George tries to put his phone down, time and time again but he can’t, can’t get past the idea that at any second Dream could reply to his message. Any second. He refreshes until the light of his phone numbs his eyes and his body eventually slumps, falling into a deep slumber.
***
The wedding is even worse than George thought it would be. He hates talking to relatives. It’s all formality, far too much acting and memorizing names and titles. Most of the day he tries to hide by the table covered in food, snacks and teas and cakes. There is a corner covered by w hite tent that offers peace, even if just for a few moments. He finds a seat and pulls it further into the corner, allowing himself a moment to be on his phone. George has been at this socializing thing for hours. If he doesn’t allow himself a short time away, there is almost no chance he makes it to dinner without pushing a Duke into the tower of champagne.
He switches his twitter account to his preferred account, and can hardly breathe when there is a new follow notification. George would recognize that profile icon anywhere. Sweat starts to build under his suit again, palms beginning to sweat. Dream didn’t respond to his reply yesterday but must have enjoyed the meme enough to at least let a small laugh slip. George is honestly a little surprised Dream actually followed through on his word. No one would know if he didn’t.
Immediately, George becomes hyper aware of all the tweets on this alternate account. He scrolls through them furiously, screaming at himself for not checking it before. Twenty tweets down the page and it’s clear that all George really spams about on this account is subtweets directed at his family. It could be worse of course, but reading over his past tweets makes him nauseous at how whiny he sounds, how ungrateful he would look to the world if they ever knew that account belonged to Prince George.
Nausea takes over and he forces himself to put his phone away. He will deal with this later. Soon he will need to show his face again. He stands and walks, robotically, distantly, towards a small group of people socializing, flutes of wine in their hands. George bows to them, introduces himself, shakes their hands, gloves and all. He lays it on thick.
If he wasn’t so busy being a prince, he would make a damn good actor.
***
George is in bed again. This time, he is staring at the notification. Can’t get over the fact that Dream follows him, and he doesn’t even know who George even is.
He wonders what the world would think if they realized Dream was following the Prince of England on twitter.
Part of him considers sending Dream a message, a joke, or maybe even an insult in making him laugh so easily. Something, anything to start a conversation, a sorry excuse for an introduction. But George still can’t quite understand how he got to this point to begin with. Instead, he gets out of bed, and logs into Minecraft.
***
George is leaving a school when his phone buzzes in his pocket. The kids in the school had listened to him read a book, one the King and Queen had picked out, and asked him questions about being a Prince. They were all so young, and George found himself wishing that he could have a second chance at his own childhood.
He pulls the phone from his pocket, concealed in the back of the car - his driver almost always kept the dark screen partition up - and freely unlocks his phone.
There is a message from Dream.
He opens it, his vision going slightly blurry, heart pounding, fingers trembling.
it was a dumb meme and i’m still pissed it made me laugh
11:48 am
George doesn’t know what to say, or do. Responding is on his list of course, but it feels ridiculous that this could even be happening. His fingers type out an embarrassing reply.
It was a good meme. Admit it.
3:21 pm
George wonders how Dream has the confidence to message someone at random, knowing nothing about him, other than the most basic bio George barely ever updates. 24. Angry at the world. That’s what it read when he last checked.
To his surprise, a message pops through again.
Ok. it was decent. I actually thought you were someone i know. It is a meme I joke about all the time. And ur account is obvs an alt account
3:23 pm
Then just seconds later.
Who are you?
3:23 pm
George finds himself laughing out loud, roughly, intensely. The situation is almost so unbelievable he thinks he must be hallucinating. Even if George answered the questions truthfully, Dream would never believe him anyway. So he does, types out exactly who he is. Exactly how Dream could find him.
I’m the Prince of England. Feel free to swing by if you are ever in the area.
3:25 pm
It almost feels freeing, typing it out like that. Of course, Dream will never believe it. The world will continue to spin, his life will continue the same way it did before. Suffocated clothes, bowing, reading to children at schools.
He wonders at what point his life becomes his own.
***
Days pass, and strangely enough, Dream continues to reply and interact with George’s alt account. It feels fake, but he always responds, desperate for the interaction to continue, desperate to not let himself get too caught up in it either.
But it’s on a stream one night, Dream and his friends and talking about twitter, that Dream says aloud for everyone to hear, “I’ve been talking with someone who says he’s the prince of England.”
They laugh, and it’s all a joke, and George can’t help but to feel satisfaction spread through him, warm and thick like honey. Idiots. Complete idiots who have the full truth right in front of them. This life is becoming more freeing, more fun, than George could ever imagine.
***
If you are the prince then video chat me. PROVE IT
8:45 pm
George laughs at his phone screen, nostrils flaring, eye rolling. He types a reply he knows will shut Dream up.
Sure. But you have to show your face first ;)
8:46 pm
No reply follows immediately. Exactly as expected.
But then.
Voice call then.
8:49 pm
Do you have discord
8:50 pm
Heat rushes to George’s face. He can’t call Dream. If his voice sounds even anything like his own, it won’t be too hard to tell. Sure, it could be any British lad. But there are thousands of videos of George talking to the public. Thousands of interviews and press conferences and events. If there is even some similarity, the fun behind this will shatter, ice crackling, millions of pieces falling to the ground.
George knows he can’t risk it.
He doesn’t reply.
***
I don’t actually think you are the prince of england you idiot
11:15 pm
I would still chat with you though
11:16 pm
Is that weird
1:57 am
This is not what George had expected. Dream continues to message him late into the night. He knows that where dream is, it isn’t almost two in the morning, but for George it is. And he has at least five very important meetings tomorrow, his mother made sure he knew about them, and missing them or sleeping through them is absolutely not an option. George can’t fall asleep though, his eyes are glued to his phone screen. Addicted. Utterly entranced.
He tries to not respond, the same way he told himself earlier.
Sure, he and Dream have been chatting a lot since the first message, more than George ever thought they would. It’s easy, Dream is so easy to talk to, and he seems to find the same with George. They click, they get along, they go together. Maybe it isn’t weird that Dream asks for a voice call. Or maybe it is. George can’t decide, but doesn’t let himself think about it too much. All it will do is lead to disappointment.
***
“George,” His mother hasn’t stopped talking since George entered the meeting room an hour ago, “Did you hear what I just said to you?”
“Yes,” It’s a weak reply, “Yes, mother.”
She looks at him roughly, “We will not have a repeat of two years ago. You will not do that to this family again.”
It takes everything for George to not roll his eyes, lose his mind, yell in her face. It’s been two years since he fucked up, of course she still hasn’t let it go.
“At the wedding, Edward said he saw you with a flute of champagne. I thought we agreed you wouldn’t even carry alcohol with you.”
“Every single person I spoke to asked why I didn’t have a drink. Do you know how exhausting that is? I didn’t even have any, just played it off as if I did.” George has to strain his voice to keep the frustration away from the surface. He had single handedly blown up the royal family already once this decade and he promised himself he wouldn’t do it again. It meant biting his tongue so hard he could taste the rough metallic tang of blood. The unbearable tension in his jaw from grinding his teeth, back and forth like a machine.
His mother doesn’t respond right away. She looks towards the King, whose eyes have been on the documents in front of him since George entered the room. He had no interest in this, that much was clear.
“May I be excused, mother?” George says finally, “I would like to have lunch before my evening fitting. The garden party in next week and if I don’t get this fitting done I’ll have to wear the same thing I wore-”
“Yes, yes, of course,” The Queen smoothes her dress, “You are dismissed.”
If anything would drive George back to the bottle, it would be his mother and her erratic qualities. He curses under his breath, rushing up the stairs and straight to his room. He doesn’t stop in the kitchen as he said he would, doesn't even think he could stomach food. Anger surges through him, fresh and hot. Coals under his feet and in his stomach.
Smoke must be coming out his ears.
He knows a bottle of tequila sits under the foot of his bed. It’s been there since the last time he had a drink. An emergency stash. As much as his body begged for it, for once, he had something else reckless he could do.
He picks up his phone and opens discord. He and Dream had added each other ages ago, but never used the app to speak.
Until now.
“Hello?”
Dream’s voice is as good as the alcohol would be, violent and burning, all the way down. It’s rugged and low, as if he just woke up, and he probably did. The hours of time difference are always lost on George. He always forgets.
“You wanted to chat. Here I am. This is my voice.” George says as confidently as he can, though there is a waiver as his sentence trails off.
There is rustling on the other end of the line and Dream clears his throat, “So, this is the voice of the Prince of England, huh?” A laugh follows, so melodic and sweet.
“Perhaps. Perhaps it is.” George can’t help but laugh right back.
“So, what, I can call you Prince George then?”
“I suppose you can.”
Dream wheezes now, laughter full blown, “Alright, alright, Prince George of England .”
It makes George dizzy, hearing his name from Dream’s lips. And Dream doesn’t even know it.
“I can hardly believe that a prince watches my streams and follows me on twitter. I feel awfully important.”
George falls onto his bed, a smile spreading across his face, happiness, if he has ever known it, “You are.” Is all he responds.
“I would think the prince would have tons of other stuff to do, you know. Events, meet and greets.”
Now George is the one laughing, boisterously, “Oh my God, meet and greets? What do you think I am? A youtuber?”
They laugh together then.
It’s total bliss.
The honey and warmth returns to George’s limbs and he sits with the gentle silence, when realization hits him. What he has done. How easy it would be for Dream to determine that George was telling the truth, that he really is the Prince of England.
Fear replaces the warmth.
“I have to go,” He says suddenly, “Thanks for the chat.”
“George, wait, I-”
George leaves the call.
He has a fitting to go to anyway.
***
It’s three days later that George gets a notification on his official twitter, blue checkmark and all. It’s from Dream.
It’s not weird, Dream and his friends tweeting celebrities, the president, you name it. But this is the first time he’s ever received anything like this.
Well, on this account.
The problem is that his account is watched and monitored by two different employees of the royal family. There is about a zero percent chance they will let him reply.
And God , does he want to reply.
Dream
@PrinceGeorgeofEngland
Blink once if it’s really you.
11:02 pm
He isn’t sure how things got to this point, not really. He wishes he could go back in time and chug the tequila instead. He understood the feeling of alcohol.
He doesn’t understand the feeling of this.
George is called to a meeting only hours later. Everyone is sitting around the table. He is grateful his mother and father are absent.
“Have you been speaking with this account?”
They show screenshots of Dream’s earlier tweet. George has to steady himself with a deep breath and gulps down the air.
“No.” The lie seeps through his teeth. Well, the partial lie. Not on this account.
They nod, “Americans are so strange. We will just ignore the tweet for now. Why don’t you log yourself out for a while. We can handle it from here.”
Of course they will. They always do, don’t they?
Only an hour after that Dream is trying to voice call him in discord. George uses his anger as fuel and picks up the phone without a second thought.
It’s either this or the tequila, he thinks to himself.
“George, George, George,” Dream’s voice is low, and it sends chills through George’s body, “If you want to prove to me you’re legit you better respond to that tweet.”
There is only one way to handle this. Continue to tell the truth and expect Dream to read it as lies. It has worked so far.
“I want to, really I do,” George says with a disappointed air to his voice, mocking it up all silly, “But I can’t, even if I wanted to. You think Princes really control their own accounts, Dweam? Not everyone is as lucky as little Dweamy baby.”
Dream laughs at the voice he makes, “You’re just going to leave me on read, in front of the whole world?”
“I’m afraid it’s the only choice I have.”
But it’s not, George knows. It’s not really the only choice. He could log in right now, reply whatever the fuck he wants, blow the entire royal family apart with stupid tweets. He could do anything, everything. But shame, guilt, and panic are always right under his skin. A reminder of last time. The promise that this time he will be sent away.
It’s not that he wants to stay in London, not really. But it is the only thing he has ever known. Other than a boarding school for a brief time in his teens. And he hated that. What is out there for a disowned Prince? When does he ever get to make decisions and not feel regret? Shame? Embarrassment?
He thinks the answer is never.
“How will I ever get my official proof then, hmm?”
George laughs again, “I suppose you never will.”
“Oh, I will,” Is all Dream says, “I will.”
It’s a threat, a promise, a bone chilling phrase. It makes George feel hot, like his clothes are too tight, like his head is going to explode.
“Listen,” Dream continues, “I have to go. But...I’ll call you again. I’ll call you... tonight?”
The prospect makes George feel as though he has truly caught flame. He manages to mumble, “Yes, sure, if you’d want.”
The call goes dark.
***
The call comes late. Nearly too late. But George is forcing himself to stay up, just in case Dream pulls through. He does, of course, but night for Dream is practically middle of the night for George. He yawns, fumbling with his phone and accepting the call.
“Took you long enough.” George answers.
He thinks he can practically see the smirk when Dream replies, “You have to wait for good things.”
Silence etches itself there then, a pause. George hears his heart in his head, ringing his ears with each powerful thud.
“I’ve been studying,” Dream says at last, “It’s eerie how much your voice sounds like the actual Prince George.”
“Well, that makes sense, because I told you. I am him.”
“Shut up,” Dream laughs, “What in the fucking world would be those odds?”
“Probably slim,” George acknowledges. He has thought about that plenty himself, completely shocked at the prospect of what his life has become.
“I just wish you would let me know the real you, that’s all,” Dream admits, “Talking to you is, shit, I don’t know. It’s so easy.”
It is so easy. It’s something George can agree on without a second thought. They are practically made for each other. Their jokes, their humor, the way they know what the other means without having to ask a second question. It’s nearly too much, how perfect they are.
“Well, I’ll always be here,” George starts a promise, one that seems maybe too far, too deep, he backpedals with, “To talk. Send me a message any time.”
“Right,” Dream sighs, “Listen, can I be crazy?”
“You already are, idiot.”
“I’m coming to the UK next week for something. I figured while I was there...well, I want to meet you.”
***
The world has never been fair to George. He cannot fathom a way to make this work. Sneaking out in the middle of the night is the only thing he can think of, and he is an adult. That shouldn’t be his only solution to this very teenage problem. But days pass and it’s all he can think of, all he can conjure up in his mind to solve this. Because he is going to meet Dream in person, if it’s the last thing he does as a prince.
It turns out the Dream is in the UK meeting some of his friends in person for the first time. He still hasn’t revealed his face to the world, but he slowly is showing his friends, opening up. To think that George would get to be one of the first people to see him makes him nearly sick.
“I’m bringing Sapnap with me, when we meet up,” Is all Dream says, “In case you’re like, I don’t know. A serial killer, or something.”
It’s a valid fear.
The day is here before George can even come up with a proper plan. He has been so busy with events that he hasn’t even had time to consider what he is going to wear, and as evening starts to fall, he grabs the least princely outfit he has that isn’t sweats. He still feels overdressed.
Discord brings his phone to life, and George answers without a second thought.
“Ello, tea and crumpets,” He answers loudly, “How are you enjoying our fine country?”
Dream wheezes, and a voice in the background, George assumes Sapnap, joins in. “It’s decent. Can’t complain too much. But I’ve only been here a day. I’ll be sure to write some notes. I know the prince, after all. It’s always good to get some feedback.”
George smiles and shakes his head, “Did you get the address I sent you?”
“Yeah, we are already there. A bit early, I know. We finished something sooner than we had thought.”
“Alright,” George says, his voice practically a whisper, “I’ll see you soon then?”
“Soon isn’t soon enough.”
Dream’s words catch George off guard. He stops moving suddenly, nerves getting the best of him. Disbelief that he actually agreed to this. What is Dream hoping to get from this? What if he has known who George was the entire time and is just stringing him along to say he knows the prince, to ruin his reputation. Fear rears its ugly head and he is frozen to the spot, unable to even breathe right. The discord line has been dead for a moment now, but George doesn’t know what to do.
The bottle of tequila under the bed calls out as if it were liquid luck. Repressing the temptation, George grabs his wallet and stuffs it in his pocket. He will do this. He will allow himself this. He has to see what this is, what this could be.
It’s only fair that George lives, even if just a little.
The night air is cold, nearly too cold for the outfit George picked. The park they agreed on was blocks away from the palace, close enough to not need a driver. The security guard at the gate gives George a hard time, but lets him through after he reminds him, “I’m nearly twenty five fucking years old, Harold. Let me out.”
George will take the fall if this goes poorly. He’s willing to take that risk.
His hands are stuffed in his pockets, walking leaning into the wind, hair blown back to the sides. The glasses he had opted for the contacts block some of the wind from his eyes, and he’s thankful for the last minute decision.
The park lights are on, and two figures stand in the middle, under a spotlight. They are both wearing hoodies, bodies hunched forward just like George’s, hiding from the cold.
“Look,” He hears one of them say, and then they are turning.
George can hardly believe that this is actually happening. To think, he used to fantasize about a moment exactly like this.
“Jesus fucking christ,” It’s Sapnap talking now, his hands going to his head, where the black hat covers most of his hair. “Jesus christ, Dream, it’s actually-”
“George?”
Somehow, Dream is everything George imagined but just a little bit more. He’s tall, not too lanky, not too buff. His hair is dirty blonde, long enough to cover a bit of his forehead. And his smile. Shit, his fucking smile is so good. That familiar warm, honey-like feel, coats George. He no longer feels so cold out in the wind.
He forces himself to smile back, keeping himself from trembling. “Hi.”
“This, this isn’t happening,” Dream is laughing, losing it, hands on his stomach, face blissed with humor, “You are seriously, actually, Prince George?”
“It’s almost like I was honest with you from the beginning,” George shrugs, “I don’t know why you’re so surprised.”
“I mean, I don’t know! Your voice was so similar, but I just couldn’t believe, I mean, you actually used to watch my streams?”
“Still do.” It’s an easy thing to admit. George would watch every stream, multiple times, and it wasn’t something that embarrassed him anymore.
“Well…” Sapnap’s voice trails off, “I’m gonna just grab an Uber and head back to the hotel, if, well, I think you two are alright?”
Dream waves a hand at him as if in dismissal, and Sapnap disappears into the darkness.
“Well, now you have your answer,” George says, “And I know what Dream looks like.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, feel special. My face reveal will happen eventually.”
“Yes, but I was intriguing enough for you to be willing to show your face, to a complete stranger, might I add.”
Dream shakes his head, face suddenly serious, “I could never think of you as a stranger. Never. Not even after one day.”
The confession makes George weak in his legs suddenly. Disbelief still makes his voice thick, still makes him feel heavy. He doesn’t know what comes next, didn’t think past this moment, right here.
“You live a life people could only wish for,” Dream says at last, “What has you looking for escapes?”
George snorts, face scrunching up, “Yeah, right, being a prince is so much fun. And I assume being a famous streamer is everything other people think it is too, huh?”
The point is proven, Dream moves towards a bench and sits down, patting the open seat beside him. The park is empty, the streets nearly too. Cars passing rarely, on their way to unknown destinations. Maybe they too are meeting a stranger, a friend, for the first time. Maybe they are on their way to change their lives.
“How long are you here?” George says as he sits. Their bodies are so close, he can feel the heat radiating from the black hoodie that swallows Dream’s frame.
“A few weeks, nothing too crazy. We are actually staying not too far from here.”
“Cool.”
“You know, I watched a ton of videos of you, trying to figure out if this was real or not. Analyzing your voice,” Dream admits, “I feel so stupid now.”
“What did you learn?” George never watches anything about himself in the media. It terrifies him.
“A lot actually. More than I wish I had. I wish, well, I kind of wish you were able to tell me yourself.”
It’s probably one of the nicest sentiments anyone has ever shared with George. He turns towards Dream and finds him already looking his way, their eyes lock.
This doesn’t feel real.
“Your alt account on twitter,” Dream says, pulling his eyes away, “it makes more sense now, though. All those painful subtweets.”
“Shut up,” George nudges his shoulder into the other, and can hardly breath, the way it feels to touch him. For him to be real.
“But it’s true then. You don’t control your own real twitter?”
“Nope.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it...it sucks to be honest.”
“Have you ever just thought about doing it anyway?”
George wants to laugh in his face, but holds back and just says, “All the fucking time.”
“You should have just been faceless, like me,” Dream tries to lighten the conversation again, “Easier this way.”
“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind time travelling to my birth and slipping a mask over my face, I would appreciate it.”
They chuckle, despite the raw feelings that lie underneath. George isn’t lying, and he suspects Dream understands.
“I can’t be out much longer,” George says at last, “I have to get back.”
“Can’t keep the palace awake, waiting on you?”
“Something like that.”
They stand, and before George can even think of what to do or say, Dream is wrapping him in a hug. It’s not a fake hug, not a bro hug, a real, true hug, palms pressed to his back, engulfing him. George returns it, allowing his hands to snake around Dream’s form. He doesn’t trust his voice to say anything at all. So instead, he just takes it all in. The feel of it, the smell of it, he is high on Dream.
“Call me,” Dream says, locking eyes with George only once more, before jogging in the direction Sapnap had gone minutes ago.