#anyway I’m done whining about two dnfs

[emeraldcreeper]

Soemday I’ll read a book where the characters don’t grate against my brain for 200 pages too long and I’ll like a book again holy shit the last two books I read part of were total garbage fiction

[patchessolostan]

vertigo

a snippet of a dnf fic i’m kinda working on. 1.8k, canon-ish

Isn’t it strange, how sometimes, certain smells can inspire old feelings, can awaken memories that seemed to be forgotten? The delicate pathways in our brains weaved together in unintended ways, so tight and durable, and yet completely slipping past our radar.

For example, love, to George, smells like oranges.

It’s one of his first ever memories: a Christmas morning two decades ago, the faint tickle of his wool sweater, the subtle warmth of the sun spilling down his back. And his mother’s hands, skin soft and unmarred, neat, rounded nails digging into the orange, carefully peeling it and then splitting its tender flesh. It’s hazy at best, but the smile on her face, his father’s laughter, the sweet juice spilling past his lips—they’re as clear as day still.

He thinks there’s no amount of time that could fade the memory of that warmth from his chest.

 So, perhaps George should’ve known his fate since the day Dream told him his shampoo is orange scented.

But then again, who's to say he would've wanted to change a single thing?

 “I’ll wear the brightest blue clothes I have,” Dream promises, and George can hear the grin in his voice. He always can, whenever the topic of George’s approaching visit comes up. “So much blue, you’ll want to vomit when you see me.”

“That seems counter-productive,” George answers, giggling when Dream sighs dramatically.

“Fine,” he relents when George quiets down. “It’ll be a mild headache. I’m sure you can deal with that.”

I think I could deal with anything, as long as I get to meet you, George thinks, and despite his fluttering heart and shaking hands, he doesn’t say it.

“I hate you both. This is unfair,” Sapnap speaks up after staying silent for five solid minutes while they talked about the upcoming trip. George practically jumps and starts giggling again. “It is so unfair, you both suck, and I’ll fucking block you. Try me.”

“Oh no,” Dream wheezes out, and the sound of both his and George’s laughter easily conceals Sapnap’s muttered insults and protests.

“C’mon,” George says eventually. “At least you know how he looks like. I’m crossing the ocean to meet a fucking stranger.”

“...fair enough,” Sapnap agrees, and Dream just wheezes harder.

George bites his lip before letting his grin fully unfurl as he stares down at his fidgeting fingers.

I’m meeting him.

He wants to scream. Instead George just gently smacks his forehead on his desk.

 Ever since the plans get made, the ticket bought (Dream insists on paying, despite George’s half-assed protests), time seems to move both incredibly fast and insanely slow.

Still, soon enough there’s only a week left to his flight. And yet... George feels like every waking hour takes three more to pass. And it’s not like he can waste the hours away by sleeping, like before.

Now every time he lays down and closes his eyes, all George can think of are warm arms around him. All he can see in his mind is that still blurry face and a mess of dark blonde hair. That wheezy laugh in his ear, the Hello, George that Dream will inevitably whisper, so close that his breath will brush past his skin and set George alight from inside out.

It's already driving George crazy, and he's still almost 7 thousand kilometres away.

 He packs his bag, and then pulls it apart while looking for a charger, and packs again, and again, and again, in a seemingly never-ending cycle of anxious fidgeting.

He starts planning three different videos at once and scrapes two of them once he's almost done.

He turns Twitter notifications off, and tries to keep his phone face down on the desk, but as the date creeps closer, it's getting harder and harder. Somehow, he seems to spend even more time talking to Dream, even if before it seemed almost impossible.

Despite his big words, Sapnap isn't actually upset. In fact, he's possibly just as excited as George, which he finds hilarious and annoying at once. And though Dream seems to agree with George, he doesn't try to calm neither of them down, instead just feeding the flames.

Surprisingly, the trio manage to keep the meetup plans from fans; that’s not to say that they don’t sense a new kind of tension between them. Every worried, questioning donation and tweet is hard to ignore, with the way George’s tongue itches with impatience.

For now, it feels too fragile, too private to share, at least until he plants his feet on the Florida soil, until he hears Dream laugh in real life and watches the way his face lights up in real time.

 And then, as if no time at all has passed, it's here.

 Tomorrow, Dream texts in lieu of goodnight. George flops over in his bed a few times, legs uncomfortably tangled in the sheets, bottom lip between his teeth.

Tomorrow, he answers, and it feels like a promise.

George curls his fingers around his phone, pushing it under the pillow, and then buries his face under it too, cheeks hot from the force of his smile.

That night is full of fitful, anxious sleep, and when George wakes, it’s with a start. He jumps up and stumbles out of bed in panic.

It's so quiet in the apartment—too quiet, too still, like the world itself has paused. His heart is racing as he scrambles through the sheets for his phone.

Did he oversleep? Did he miss the alarm? Did he even set an alarm? The memories of last night are hazy, and George thinks his heart will push out into his throat when his fingers finally brush against glass.

All breath rushes out of him when the screen turns on, a clear 6:41 AM on his lockscreen.

He's fine. The anxiety pulls back, leaving George's muscles weak and sleep-tired, so he slumps on the ruffled sheets.

Thought I overslept, almost had a heart attack, he sends to Dream, fully expecting him to laugh at his expense when he finally wakes up.

To George's surprise, the message gets read immediately.

I would’ve called you :), comes through, and before George can answer, Dream writes again.

I’ll have to call a cab for us. Haven’t slept since yesterday.

George huffs out an amused breath.

Would be a shame to kick the bucket right after meeting you, he replies and closes his eyes, placing the phone on his chest.

Now that the panic from before has subsided, another takes its place, slowly rising up and overtaking his pliant body like a tide.

There it is, the final dance, the last conversation where George can’t imagine the face behind the words; it’s just as frightening as it is thrilling. It’s bittersweet on his tongue, a piece of rotten fruit in his mouth.

He can’t help but wonder—what if it changes everything? What if it’s nothing like he expects? What if Dream realizes he can’t stand George when he can’t just leave the call?

George’s not a kid, he’s not all that naïve, and he’s well aware that people who work perfectly when there’s an ocean between them, can clash horribly once they share personal space. Life isn’t a fairy tale where everything works out perfectly, with a happy ending for everyone tied up in a neat bow.

His phone vibrates, scattering the restless thoughts, and George opens his eyes, pausing for a moment before finally lifting it.

At least I’d die a happy man.

He stares at his phone for a while, heart fluttering so hard, George barely manages to breathe in.

Perhaps he’s stupid enough to believe in good endings anyway.

 //

 Anxiety, however, smells like sweat and gasoline.

It didn’t always, but now George doesn’t think he could ever be in an airplane and not remember this day. Sitting in a packed airplane, left leg jumping up and down, fingers tightly gripping his elbows, as George stares through the window and waits for the plane to take off. Begging, pleading his mind to change gears, think of anything else but the upcoming moment.

A child whines behind him, some lady argues with the flight attendant, the doors close, the engine starts, and then UK is just a smear of colours underneath him.

He leans back and lets time and space run its course.

 The Orlando airport is a mess of sounds and lights that grate on George’s groggy mind as he slowly makes his way to the baggage claim. His phone is quiet, and he can’t help but keep glancing at it, knowing full well there’s no answer to his short I’m here.

Fear firmly grips his throat in a fist, a cruel voice whispering dreadful forecast, no matter how hard George tries to not listen.

He’ll take one look at you, and he’ll see, it promises as George waits for his suitcase to show up. He’ll figure it out, now that there’s no screen to hide behind. And he’ll be disgusted. He’ll ask you to leave.

Dream wouldn’t, George wants to argue; but then again. Just how well does he know Dream?

This is the first time he’ll see him, and they’ve known each other for years now. There could be a stranger behind the screen, one not as kind and wonderful as the Dream he’s used to. One that would—

“George?”

The all-too-familiar voice stops George in his tracks, and his muscles lock up, brain painfully blank as he worries his bottom lip.

Eventually, perhaps after way too long, George turns around.

And there he is.

 He’s wearing a navy t-shirt and blue jeans, just as promised, and his smile is so wide it takes up half of his face, and George can’t tear his gaze away from it. He knows he should be exploring the face that’s brand new to him, committing all the features to memory so even weeks later, they’d be perfect and fresh.

And yet, it’s those peach-pink lips he can’t stop staring at, like some stereotypical fool.

“Dream?” he whispers, though his feet don’t dare to move.

“I knew I should’ve worn something brighter,” Dream says. His voice is light, and happy, and he’s coming closer, and George can’t quite breathe in, his chest seized in an iron grip.

He wants to answer with a quip, a joke, the way he could when it was just the two of them in a Discord call, but he realizes any words would be followed by tears; and that’s just not the way to make a first impression.

So, George stays quiet and lets his suitcase drop when Dream wraps his arms around him.

Dream is so warm. The cotton of his shirt is soft underneath George’s palms. He smells like summer, like citrus fruit and the ocean, and George almost instinctively buries his nose in his shoulder.

Dream’s breath stutters near George’s ear.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers, lips brushing over George’s skin and sending waves of heat and cold down to his toes.

“Me too,” he answers, and pulls his best friend even closer, feeling complete and safe for the first time in a long, long while. “Me too.”