Chapter Text
George wakes up with a start at a rather abnormal time of the day, retreating from his slumbers at around five in the afternoon. He rubs his eyes and slips out of the comforting sheets of his mattress, lazily heading towards the door of his bedroom to enter his newfound office.
The cold winter breeze of England snuck its way through the window of George’s office before he manages to close it, resulting in goosebumps to trail their way up his pale arms. Shivering, he retreats back to his desk to power up his sleeping monitor. His phone buzzes across the room with a new notification from Twitter, but he doesn’t bother to check it.
Shaking his mouse a little, the PC lights up with a sudden bright flash of color, illuminating George's face. Squinting, he opens up Discord and relishes in the darker shade it occupies. Much better.
He glances across the screen and sees that he has two new messages; one from Dream and the other from Quackity.
Something warm stirs in his senses when he read’s Dream little Discord username, rushing through his body and pooling into his heart like golden honey. That was new, albeit he was not opposed to it.
Opening up Dream's first then Quackity's, he reads them to himself and sighs.
Dream
today at 4:20 PM
i’ll clear up some of the hysteria on twitter in a bit. do the fans have to overreact at every little thing that happens? lmao
quackity
today at 4:36 PM
heya george! up to join my stream later today? just some jackbox with the gang
Ignoring Dream's message, he types out a quick reply to Quackity.
George
today at 5:16 PM
sure, give me a time and i'll be there:]
In all honesty, George really didn't feel up to joining any sort of stream today. Last night had definitely taken a toll on his motivation and simultaneously sent Twitter into shambles. On top of all that, it probably was the answer to how he felt when he read out Dream’s stupid little username too.
______
He Dream, Karl, and Bad had been messing around on the SMP, as per usual. George was streaming and everything seemed to be fine for the time being.
Then, the donations started rolling in.
George appreciates his donations and devoted fans so much. Besides Dream and the others, they're the reason he has fame and can keep a stable financial life whilst rarely ever leaving the comfort of his own home.
But sometimes, the fans definitely get carried away. And last night was undoubtedly one of those times.
The first few donations were kind and simple. George had no trouble answering them, and he reverted back to fooling around with the other SMP members straight away.
Then, the next donation came through.
It was a generous donation, actually. A large sum of one hundred dollars was given to George on top of the rather unsettling message it contained.
"Insert Username Here- creative name, says: ‘We see the way you act around Dream, George-’ hah- what? ‘just admit it, you’re ho-hopelessly in love with him?’”
George's tone had started off carefree and relaxed as usual, but as he read off the rest of the donation he faltered and stuttered at his words.
His facecam was an embarrassing sight to see too. His face had involuntarily turned a bright shade of pink, abnormally standing out against the natural pale shade of his skin, and his chocolate eyes widened, momentarily unblinking.
Time seemed to stop as he processed what he just read out loud. Hopelessly in love with Dream? His head would automatically deny it, but the stuttering of his heart and the fluttery feeling in his stomach says otherwise.
Then it hit him. Hard. The excruciating amount of fondness he’s felt over the years for his best friend. The way his eyes always soften and his mouth always curves upwards into a smile when he joins a call or a server with him. The constant flirtatious banter they throw back and forth for the bit, but it still unintentionally makes him feel something more than his natural serenity. How he always wants to talk to Dream, and would choose him over anyone else in a heartbeat, despite how rude that could seem. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so unbelievable anymore.
Hopelessly in love with Dream. Huh .
His body had turned into a blizzard; the flurry of snowflakes blocking his capability to think properly and the incoming storm freezing up his body like a popsicle.
So there he sat. Abnormally still on stream, unable to process anything that was happening around him, save for the tsunami of thoughts drowning the inside of his head. For over 50,000 viewers to see.
"George!" Dream suddenly exclaimed, cutting through George's headphones and snapping him out of his trance. “Are you AFK or something? Get over here!” George sobered up immediately and laughed it off like it was another joke.
"No- right, of course. Thanks for the hundred.” His voice was shaky, but it deemed normal enough to keep up his false façade of serenity.
Unfortunately, his chat wouldn't let it go. It was running at a rampage, all of them either spamming "DNF" or commenting on George's expression. The poor moderators had to keep it on emote only for the rest of the stream.
George definitely felt uncomfortable after that slip up. He abruptly ended the stream around half an hour later and promptly collapsed on his desk, head in his hands and groaned.
"George, you good?" Karl's voice spoke up and George regretfully remembered he was still on call.
"Yeah, 'm fine," he muttered, hoping it was believable enough.
He grabbed his water bottle from his desk and took a large swig while Karl continued speaking.
"You still up for streaming with me?"
"Of course." That was a lie.
He heard Karl clap his hands together in excitement. "Awesome! Dream? Bad? You guys joining?"
"I wouldn't miss it," Bad happily replied. There was silence from Dream's end.
"Dream?" Karl inquisitively asked.
"Right- sorry," Dream replied, sounding distracted. "Twitter is kind of a mess right now."
"Why?" Bad inquired.
"See for yourself."
Dream screen shared his Twitter page and George had opened it up on Discord only to see, to his horror, screenshots of his face paired with curious excitement or stupid theories. His breathing hitched and his face went ten shades paler than usual. How stupid could he have been? Of course everyone was going to freak out about that.
"Huh," Karl murmured, seemingly lost in thought. "What's up with that?"
"Yeah," Bad agreed. "George?"
With the conversation directed towards him, George had panicked. Blood rushed to his face at high speeds at the mere thought of talking about what was going on in his head during the stream.
"I-" he started, then stopped. How was he supposed to explain to them what had happened if he barely could understand it himself?
Instead, he muttered a lame excuse about being tired and left the call.
Ignoring the plethora of messages that came from the group, he instead opened up Twitter and stared down at his face from the stream the majority of his sleepless night, thoughts plagued with his mess up and a certain green and white skinned speedrunner.
______
quackity
today at 5:22 PM
it’ll be around 5pm my time! i'll let you know like 20mins before i start
Eyes glazed over, George shakes his head to clear out the memory and begins to process the jumble of vowels and consonants Quackity sent splayed out across his screen.
He types out a curt "see you then" and hits send.
Yawning, George stretches back against his chair and sprawls his arms out over his head and up in the air. He really should work on fixing his sleep schedule.
At risk of dozing off, he retreats from his desktop and starts to head towards the kitchen, but stops at the window upon realising it was open again.
"Strange," he murmurs to no one in particular, and closes the window again, shrugging the obscurity of it off and heading in a beeline towards the tea kettle.
While brewing his tea, his phone pings again, signifying another Twitter notification from Dream; he's the only person he has his ringer on for.
And then another.
And another.
And a few more.
Belatedly, George retreats the tea kettle and picks up his phone from the windowsill it sat upon.
As expected, it was a Twitter thread on his second account discussing last night's events on George's stream in an attempt to calm everyone down. Props to Dream for dealing with an issue which was solely George's, but George really didn't feel the same gratitude he usually perceived when Dream took the hit on things like these.
It was strange, to say the least. Dream's words always calmed him down in a sense. Whether with problems like these, casual banter, or something more, he always felt soothed at how his words stitched everything together back into a sense of perfect normalcy. But looking at the Twitter thread now, the words make him feel bitter while the person behind the words makes his heart flutter. George doesn't know how to feel about it.
george and i aren’t dating and have no plans to.
Sighing, George pockets his phone away and resumes making his tea.
As he listens to the kettle’s whistle, it distantly reminds him of Dream’s famous wheeze. As he shuffles around the kitchen impatiently, it makes him recall the countless times Dream has complained about the RNG in Minecraft never satisfying his needs and thus taking a toll at his time on speedruns. As he fiddles around with the hem of his hoodie, it helps him remember that he ordered one of Dream’s merch hoodies a few days ago, perhaps as a way to help himself feel closer to the man. And as the tea kettle coughs out its last Dream-like wheeze and readies his tea, he can’t help but wonder why his thoughts have been plagued with Dream, Dream, Dream .
Shaking his head, he pours himself a cup of tea, spilling some of the warm auburn liquid over the countertop. He curses his clumsiness and himself.
______
Hours later, George was busying himself by finally editing a video he’s been putting off for months. His tea sits idly by his keyboard, it now being room temperature and thus not as enjoyable as when he first made it. His monitor reflects a past recording of him, Dream, and Sapnap, where they try to beat Minecraft, but they were always swarmed by silverfish. It was a fairly difficult challenge, actually. But they did manage to get a lot of good content out of it, deeming it to be an entertaining video once George edits the clips together.
Just as he was about to go into hyperfocus mode to get this over and done with, he hears the ping of a discord notification.
Dream
today at 10:35 PM
hey, you okay? felt like it was worth asking cause you did just disappear on everyone last night lol
Time seems to slow as he registers that Dream messaged him again.
George wanted to tell him no. He wanted to prattle on and on about how he couldn’t stop thinking about what happened on stream last night, couldn’t stop thinking about him ; he wanted to tell him everything, talk to him about anything; he wanted to talk to him, and no one else. He wanted to rattle on for ages with him; talk about his dreams and nightmares, how his day is going and how his past ones went, new video ideas and reminisce on his favorites.
He wanted-
George facepalmed and groaned. What has gotten into him?
He relaxes his hands on the keyboard and hastily types out a reply.
George
today at 10:37 PM
hey, i’m okay. just tired, nothing unusual! thanks for checking in, i appreciate it:]
Normal enough, he decided.
Dream responded almost right away.
Dream
today at 10:38 PM
okay, good! just checking in <3
That stupid heart emoticon; it does something to George that he can’t quite name.
He reacts with a thumbs up emoji and leaves it at that. He can’t bring himself to reply; his mind is running a marathon, on its way to break the world record. His cheeks are flushed and dusted in a pretty pink tint, and his heart is practically thundering inside of his chest. He has never felt this much before towards his best friend, but that donation and Twitter mess last night set something in his mind aflame. Never in a million years would he dream to be feeling this way, thinking about this sort of stuff, when it came to Dream.
But was it really so all of a sudden?
Looking back on it, it should have been obvious. The way George’s cheeks always tinted the same familiar hue at his suggestive jokes, or the way George’s smile changes when directed at Dream; when his eyes crinkle at the edges and he maneuvers his lips up into a jovial semicircle, delicately enraptured with a gentle fondness reserved for Dream and Dream only. The way their dynamic together is completely different from anyone else, and how the fans devour at it and have it blossom into thousands of works of pure art; something so unique and beautiful that was inspired by their duo alone. The fans have seen it for months, and George is just now learning to open his eyes at it.
And realise that he is truly, utterly, fucked.
George pays no mind to his tea placidly cooling by the second, or the fact that the damned window opened on its own again, instead suffocating inside of his head and trying to make amends to the haphazard debris littered across his mindscape.
______
At around one in the morning, Quackity’s stream starts. George joins the Discord call last, where the others were waiting for him. Greeted by a plentitude of greetings, he loosens up as best as he can when the stream chat starts filing in.
The stream starts off fine. The five of them, George, Quackity, Bad, Sapnap, and Karl, are all messing around and having a good time making stupid jokes and pandering around on Jackbox. Luckily, no one brings up what happened on George’s stream the other night, neither from his friends nor the chat.
George relaxes against his chair, relishing in the soft comfort it generously gives to his back. He takes a sip of his now ice cold tea and grimaces. Despite its lackluster taste, it did its job of keeping him conscious throughout the evening and now in the middle of the night.
"George, you're up!" he hears through his headphones. Grabbing his phone and getting back into the game, he reads off his poorly planned out rap versus Sapnap with as much false arrogance he can muster. Going off the crude lines of him 'wrecking his mum', he isn't too confident he'll beat Sapnap's surprisingly well thought out rhyme of 'British bean who can't see green.'
"That was terrible, George. Absolutely awful." Sapnap mocks.
"Really? I didn't notice." he deadpans in return, resulting in a multitude of laughs.
Predictably, Sapnap wins that round, making George last place between the five of them. Gentle teasing ensues, which George immediately reciprocates with his own offhand comments. The stream chat eats it up like candy.
During the brief intervention between games, a distinct melody echoes in the call, signaling someone else has joined.
“I heard we’re playing some Jackbox?” Dream’s voice says, announcing his entrance to the group.
"Dream!" Quackity enthusiastically greets.
"Hello!" Dream replies in the same tone.
Multiple greets follow. George tunes everyone out but Dream and harnesses in the way that his smooth Floridian accent laces his pronunciation in such a way that makes the Brit's heart stutter and legs feel like jelly. Zoning out, he succumbs to the flurry of emotions rising and blooming in his heart and releases out a sigh of content.
Hopeless.
"-orge?" he hears once he grounds himself back on the grasses of reality.
"Hey! Hi, Dream," he panics.
Dream chuckles at that, and George swears he can hear ringing in his ears.
"Hiya, Georgie."
Before George can even register the nickname, Sapnap's voice picks up.
"Damn, there's literally four other people here and we're all still third wheeling."
"Language!"
Ever so grateful for Bad’s familiar comment and the resuming of normal conversation, George escapes the friendly discussion and instead tries to focus on what his answers will be for Quiplash. Determined to redeem himself from the rather embarrassing last place he acquired on Mad Verse City, he tries to think of something clever and witty to say.
But upon realisation of his unhealthy pining towards his best friend, his mind is still stuck on a broken record of just Dream, Dream, Dream.
Unsurprisingly, all of George’s answers are filled with something Dream related. No one comments on it, because why would they? The group always does things like this; leveling their answers to match the ideals of the audience, and trying to rack up as many votes as possible. George played it off as just that, despite it being an outright lie. But he is not about to let thousands of people know that he can’t seem to get the Florida man out of his head.
“You, so cheated George!” he hears Quackity complain, after George racks up the highest amount of points after the first two rounds.
“How so?” he asks, playing dumb.
“All your answers were Dream related, you clout chaser!” he lightheartedly snaps.
“Dream, Dream! Do your shoes need shining?” Karl mocks.
“They do, actually.” Dream replies. George and a few others giggle.
The final round starts, which has everyone answer in sayings of three instead of just one. George couldn’t focus. He was doing so well the first two rounds, but everything just plummeted from there.
He was an active volcano. This close to erupting; this close to blowing everything up and destroying whatever border stood in the way between his feelings of molten lava and revealing them to the world. It felt all so sudden, but it really was a build up after months of hidden pining. He was going to spout, going to gush out the spiels of what he has been keeping to himself the entire day. Similar to a volcano, it would ruin everything. Damage cities and houses alike, injure anyone in its path and serve no mercy. This wasn’t child’s play - it was the cruel, harsh reality of realisation and recognition. George despised it.
The round was over and George had nothing. He left the prompts empty, a huge contrast to everything locked inside his mind. The key to reveal was in his reach.
“What the honk, George? Why didn’t you put anything?”
“Maybe he went AFK and forgot to tell us.”
“George literally just died on us here.”
“Georgie poo? What’s wroooooong?”
“Gogmeister! You will reign this game no longer!”
“George?”
The metaphorical key shines. It glimmers underneath the starlight of desire and want, ensuring new opportunities and gentle promises. George can not fall for it. He will not.
The voices of everyone mushes together until only one was comprehensible.
“George, you’re kind of being a bit silent here.”
Dream, that Floridan fucker. Once again, his tone laced with concern and rooted at the stem with years of friendship that hardly ever fails to soothe George, in more ways than one. The fact that he cares, and the fact that George cannot hear him or see his Minecraft character without thinking of how infatuated he’s been with him and how naïve and dense he was in the past without figuring it out now, is all too overwhelming.
I think I love you, he screams, but it is only heard and echoed inside of his brain.
George puts his hands on either side of his head and tugs harshly on the roots of his hair, headset falling off in the process, and ducks down as if that was a viable way to escape it all. He wants to scream, to let out his frustrations and emotions all the like. He wants to do anything to just be out of this situation and back in the comfort of his own quiet home, away from the masses of fans and his friends. He wants out .
But his voice pulls him back in. The key shimmers and makes fun of him in the moonlight of divulgence. The window remains open, breezing cold air around him. His tea remains half full and frozen. He’s frozen.
The Twitter threads repeat in his mind like a cursed mantra, snippets of it popping up and forcing him to remind himself of the obvious.
quit pestering george about what happened on stream, it isn’t any of your concern.
you’re allowed to ship us. but don’t throw it in our faces like this, it isn’t respectful towards us or anyone you do it towards.
george and i aren’t dating and don’t have any plans to.
They aren’t dating. They never will date. Dream doesn’t like him in that way. George needs to set everything aside and stop with the false facade of reassurance and hope relentlessly pooling in his mind.
The key continues to mock him. He finally retaliates and throws it away into the abyss of self doubt, now proving to be completely and utterly untouchable. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Earth to George?”
George snaps back. His entire body jostles and his knee hits the desk, resulting in a sharp flash of pain. He grimaces, and pulls his headset back on.
“I’m here, sorry.”
He will play the game with his friends, if it kills him. He will log off at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, if it kills him. He will continue his daily routine of wake up, edit, record, stream, if it kills him. He will keep these feelings tucked away, locked up safe inside the deepest roots of his heart, if it kills him.
He sits, and does just so. He finishes up the game, and promptly collapses on his desk and lets out muffled sobs of despair and regret. His tea mocks him, and the windowsill beckons him. He gives in to neither, and wrenches there, lost.
It may just kill him. But would it really be that bad?