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dear diary, still wondering if patching up your sworn enemy and trying to be his friend is going a little too far, or is it okay?

Pairing: /p dreamnotfound, romantic if you squint Words: 5718 Rating: T AU: Minecraft Manhunt Setting Warning: language and a few mild descriptions of injury Summary: Dream has an urge to hurt George at any opportunity with murderous intent, but George can't morally leave someone bleeding out on the ground. Maybe they start to get along. A/N: A very overdue gift for worddumb, whose writing kind of makes me lose my mind, as well as their titling methods. Please read their work: “An ode to needles and surgeons” first, as this is a gift sequel to that [though I supposed it can be read independently]. The styles won’t be the same, nor will the verb tense, but I hope I did the characterization justice.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42233439

–

George woke up in the morning with the feeling of aching for whatever it was that he had been dreaming about; at this point, he couldn’t really remember. His body felt sore, his back soaked with sweat from some time in the middle of the night spent under the blanket for too long, but the morning was cool as summer mornings could be. Something was warm... no, uncomfortably hot against his right arm, and it made his skin feel even more clammy because the longer he stayed lying there covered in sweat, the more he needed some kind of breeze to free him from the feeling of his hair plastered against his forehead.

Finally, George opened his eyes to the roof of his small tent. He thought he may have fallen asleep under the big oak outside, but the more he racked his mind for the memory of moving to the tent during the night, the less he was able to find it, so he deemed the whole process futile and closed his eyes again. Groggy with sleep still, George started to become fed up with whatever was so warm against not just his arm, he realized, but his entire right side.

He opened his eyes again.

Figures.

This was when he should have considered himself lucky that he had woken up before Dream did, but he kind of felt like this was worse. Dream had made himself too comfortable in his post-anesthetic sleep, now taking up at least 3/4ths of the space in the tent for himself, and leaving George with a dewy canvas wall on one side of him and an aggressive maniac smashed against his arm on the other, albeit said maniac was currently still asleep.

“You’re so annoying, you know that?” George groaned aloud in a scratchy voice… hoping that maybe he could get out of this situation with a slap and a bruise at most. He could feel sweat uncomfortably pooling under the small of his back—that, or he was just so hot and cold at the same time that he was beginning to hallucinate.

After an excruciatingly long two minutes, Dream stirred and gave George enough room to finally sit up without waking him. Looking at him now… no, despite the lengths that George had gone to befriend Dream, it was unlikely that he would give in much more than he already has. Ugh, even the sense of triumph from last night was gone, and he began to dread the moment Dream would finally wake up and become his sworn enemy again.

George took a tuft of Dream’s hair in between his fingers and absentmindedly fiddled with it, attracted to the bright, unnatural color, while thoughts raced through his head. Dream muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep and George smiled, turning his fiddling into carding his fingers through bright hair in a friendly, calming way like he did yesterday, while he was trying to get Dream settled enough to sedate.

Speaking of, Dream’s leg looked fine from above the bandages, although his clothes were torn. Honestly, George would have loved to check on it in a few days, but it was likely that when Dream woke up, he would be gone as soon as he found something to use as a crutch.

That or try to take another swing at George, which frankly, George wasn’t too excited about.

The current temperature in the tent was starting to become a little unbearable, so George abandoned his worrying and shifted in order to creep outside. It felt nice there, granted the breeze was much better than overheating next to someone who wanted to kill you. He went to pull his pack out of the front of the tent and then got started eating some of his dried food. He’d cook something else for Dream in a few hours. The food he had prepared yesterday seemed to have mysteriously disappeared. That or he had been hungrier than he thought after fixing Dream’s leg, and his leftovers didn’t stay left over for very long. George leaned his bag up against the tree and took a glance at where the area around their makeshift camp.

Dream picked a pretty good place to get his bones broken. There was a river fairly close by and on a few of the cliffs, George could spot wild berries growing pretty close to ground level in the sun. It was bound to be a pretty nice break from the dried pork he had been eating previously, so George went over to see if they were edible.

Amid all of his troubles—he did have to climb quite a ways to get some of the lower berries—he saw something move, just for a second, over at his camp. If Dream was up and about, that would undo all the work that George had done on his leg, and that would just make the morning that much worse. Attempting to stay calm, he climbed down as carefully and as quickly as he could from the rocky crag and jogged towards the tent, preparing for disaster.

Even though his assumptions were well-founded, it turned out that he was quick to suppose that Dream would make a run for it. Instead of trying to limp as far away from George as he could, Dream had instead sat by the fire George had started and looked quite pensive. That was until he saw George (who was looking a little bit flabbergasted), and Dream’s face took on its usual aggressive nature as he stared daggers in George’s direction.

“I go to so much trouble, and you don’t even thank me.” George wasn’t really looking for actual gratitude. He was fairly sure he wasn’t ever going to get it, but he liked to try anyway. He at least figured that the more he communicated with Dream, the more likely they would become friends. Why in the world was Dream still hanging around, though; it really wasn’t like him. But then again, how was George supposed to judge Dream’s character when the most they knew about each other was things gained from near-death experiences and some tense chases across the empty landscape? —and also the strange bonding experiences involving George patching up his wounds and keeping his enemy alive… for some reason… to become friends? Ah, George figured, he might be a better judge of Dream’s character than he had thought.

“Whatever.”

Dream’s uncaring sentiment knocked George out of his thoughts. He appeared as if he had simply dragged himself by his arms the few feet it took to get from the tent to the fire by way of some kind of awkward crawl, and George immediately asked about his leg, to which Dream dismissively said that it was fine.

George walked towards his backpack and pulled out the rest of his pork, intending on giving it to Dream, though as soon as he got within range, Dream swiped an arm at his legs, attempting to grab or scratch or inflict some type of harm. George could only sigh and step back.

He didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to deal with this maniac.

“Come on, Dream. You’ve got to be kidding me.” George let out something that sounded like half a laugh and half a hopeless sigh and threw the paper-wrapped pork jerky and a few stems full of sweetberries in Dream’s direction, to which Dream chuckled under his breath—in a way quite unlike him—before he caught them. In a surprisingly agile manner, George thought.

“I guess I shouldn’t give a shit, but do you feel any better?” the brunet tried again, hoping to get somewhere, anywhere.

“It hurts, duh, and no, you shouldn’t give a shit because I told you, friendship is for losers. As soon as this heals, you...” Dream gestured with his finger in a circular motion, then stopped mid-sentence, thinking for a moment before immediately starting on his food, and that was the end of it.

The sun was bright overhead, and although it couldn’t have been much later than a few hours into the morning, it was summertime, so it was only going to get warmer. George sat next to the fire, a safe distance away from his insane companion, and absentmindedly watched him. He wondered why he cared so much at all. Dream had been intent on mercilessly murdering George since they had met, and as they had somehow got to know each other throughout their manic chases, it had begun to become less intense.

Dream had stopped chewing and was looking through the smoke at George.

“What’re you staring at me for, it’s creepy.”

“Huh?” George was once again torn from his introspection, taking a second to actually perceive the space around him. Dream was looking at him now with a hint of distrust and a hint of familiarity. Maybe it was just because George had seen those eyes so many times when they were aimed to kill that he was so weirded out, but now they just looked tired.

“Whatever.” Dream dismissed him again.

They were both silent again for a few moments.

“Geoooorge, it hurts.” Dream whined softly. Obviously, he was referring to his leg, which still looked to be bandaged okay, but George was immediately irked by the change of atmosphere, and more so by whatever act Dream was pulling with a babying voice.

“Let me look at it, then,” he started, standing up but avoiding moving near Dream for now, “or I can see if I can find you some pain reliever.”

Dream didn’t respond, he just watched George with cautious eyes as George rummaged through his pack and then again through his kit. Feeling your literal hunter staring holes into the back of your head was not a pleasant vibe at all, and George swallowed harshly to try and get rid of the lump in his throat. Dream’s presence was menacing still, even if he was injured and essentially immobile.

With the pills and salve that he needed, George stepped carefully towards Dream. Dream quickly noticed the caution and made a face somewhere between amusement and annoyance.

“God, you can come over here already.” Dream rubbed at the corners of his eyes, still full of sleep. “I want those painkillers more than I want you.”

What—

“—to kill you! … or, I mean, hurt you.” Dream corrected almost immediately, stumbling over his words in a way George had never heard before. He wasn’t stupid enough to respond to the mistake, though, lest he only aggravates Dream more. Instead, he simply went with:

“Can you lift your leg up? I want to put this sheet down before I unwrap it.”

Dream complied, taking the pills and canteen in hand when George offered and settling his leg back on the ground with a wince.

George was quick, fingers moving almost habitually as he began to unwrap the bloodied bandage. His hands were gentle, and as he very carefully removed the last layer of cloth, he hovered above the stitches for a moment, observing last night’s handiwork in the form of an angry red stripe up the front of Dream’s shin. Dream’s leg was probably throbbing with coursing pain, something unbearable, and George felt a twinge of regret at not approaching him with pain relief sooner. He got his mind back on the matter at hand, and after seeing no broken threads, George donned a glove and tenderly began to apply the anesthetic paste.

Dream would occasionally grunt or wince in pain, but as the application continued, it died down into shallow, but steady breaths. Almost done. George spared a glance up at Dream, who looked more tired than anything, but whose eyes still held a glint of curiosity.

Now, this was far from the first time that they had been in a situation like this—Dream being severely injured and George taking it upon himself and his good graces to fix up his enemy’s wounds. The initial situation had arisen back when Dream was much more murderous and reckless. It was nothing but George for him, and after a moment, George thought Dream might have been obsessed with him. He giggled at the thought, and Dream looked down at him, puzzled. George could see freckles on Dream’s nose when he spared a glance back.

“Do you remember when we met?” George asked. He resumed his application of the numbing agent, and in the corner of his vision, he could see Dream’s resting hand twitch.

“Why are you asking me that like we’re good buddies or something?”

“Because I want to know.”

“Yeah, I kind of remember.” Dream doesn’t elaborate.

George scoffs. “What a thrilling recollection.” He, of course, remembers their first wild chase to the detail; he almost died, like, three times that day. It was also the first time that George had patched up one of Dream’s stupid injuries. If not for him, Dream would probably be dead at this point. He zoned into his treatment, and let his mind wander.

Something in the air was heavy, George could feel it on his shoulders, metaphorically of course. He sat crouched with his back against a slick, damp cave wall, listening with all his might for the hint of a footstep, or anything at all. Maybe he would hear the crack of a twig being stepped on or something just as cheesy, but he didn’t. All he could hear was his heartbeat in his ears—granted, he was trying as hard as he could to swallow it down—straining to catch any giveaway of his hunter.

His nerves were getting the better of him. The longer George went sitting in this silence, the more he was convinced that it was all fake, that his hunter didn’t exist, that someone didn’t want to kill him for seemingly no reason. He felt bile bubbling in his throat.

He barely had time to review his thoughts before he finally did hear something in the echoing darkness of the cave he was huddled in. Clear footsteps. Confident footsteps. A voice said something. It was George's second time hearing the voice.

"Come out, come out..." the voice cooed, sing-songy, almost carefree. It made George want to throw up from nerves alone.

The footsteps were getting closer to his hiding spot. In the darkness, it was hard to sift through his pack, but George scrambled as calmly as he could (albeit he was anything but calm) to find his flint and steel to make some light. He had dropped his sword when he was approached by the hunter initially, and he needed to get back to the surface If he wanted to find the materials to make a new one.

A ghostly laugh startled George so badly that he dropped one of the small rocks he was holding. It hit the ground, a loud thunk sound echoing throughout the open space, making the hair on George's neck stand on end. There was a beat of silence, and then the next laugh he heard was so... horrible, dripping with sick malice. George didn't even know what this guy wanted with him—well... besides to murder him in cold blood, that had already been made absolutely clear.

Sounds of splashing steps grew quicker and closer, and before long, George could see the firelight of a torch off to the left from where he had entered this branch of the cave system.

The orange glow flickered and expanded, and George slowly slipped his bag back on his shoulders, gripping the scrap of steel so tightly in his left hand he thought it might break skin. It grounded him and calmed his racing heartbeat for a moment, and as George patted the ground carefully to retrieve his flint, the echo of the hunter’s footsteps rang deafeningly in his ears.

At the last possible moment, George showered sparks down onto the wrapped-up pile of dried grass and straw he had created. It was covered in tree sap and only took a moment before it started to burn angrily, pockets of air bubbling and sparking on his makeshift torch.

The sudden light not only of his own torch, but of his hunter’s also, momentarily blinded him, but George didn’t hesitate and ran.

“There you are!” and George could hear the sinister smile lacing the words.

George’s feet pounded against rock and dirt, and he huffed as he tried to weave and turn corners as quickly as possible. While trying to consider losing his attacker and avoiding dead-ends at the same time, it seemed he failed at both, staring at the looming wall of the end of the mineshaft he had scrambled into.

“All pathetic and cornered, what’s your name?” The hunter’s figure approached, his form looming in the dimly lit corridor and shadow creeping along the walls as he let his torch fall to the ground and unsheathed his sword with a defining shhhhiiiiing of metal being exposed.

George scoffed, feigning confidence, but his hands and legs were shaking. “Why would I tell you?”

It was the first time George had responded to his hunter since the chase had begun, and the hunter raised an eyebrow at his voice, looking at him quizzically. It was also the first time George had a chance to see his face, considering every other time they had been that close to each other today wasn’t particularly the time to be curious about facial features.

George felt his stomach drop deeper with every step the hunter took toward him. He was racking his brain for any way to escape his unfortunate situation, but the fear was only settling deeper into his bones as his inevitable death loomed in the form of a tall, darkly-dressed man with floppy hair and a look on his face that told George he was going to die today if he didn’t think of something.

“It’s boring to kill someone nameless, especially because you’re the first I’ve seen in a while.”

George didn’t really see any harm in giving him his name; he might be able to bide more time if he dragged the conversation on.

“George.”

The hunter stopped pacing towards George, only about 4 blocks between them now, and no escape in sight. Before anyone could make a move, George desperately blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“W- what about you, though?”

That slight smirk and eyebrow raise again.

“What about me?” His voice deepened, and he puffed out a short burst of air, in lieu of a scoff or a sigh, George couldn’t tell. He still didn’t move any closer. “You can just call me Dream, but it won’t matter in a little bit, will it, George?”

George didn’t answer; his nerves were getting bad now, causing his knees to buckle, but he thought he might have a plan. It would only work if he had the timing to pull it off, but it was definitely better than letting himself die here. He collapsed to the floor against the mineshaft wall just as Dream took another calculated step forward. He was like a cat, moving slowly, almost stalking carefully towards George, and not letting his guard down until he completely had his prey in his grasp.

George made a fist in the dirt, grains pressing into his palm, and sand sliding between his fingers. It wasn’t much of a handful, but it would hopefully be enough. He waited, tense.

Dream stepped forward again, the space between them even less now, and George was sure he must be within sword range now. He swallowed harshly.

The timing, focus on the timing. George watched intensely for Dream to let his guard down at all. He watched, and he was running out of time to pick a moment, because now the sharp tip of Dream’s sword pressed into the skin near his ankle, mocking, but still eliciting a small yelp of pain as the metal dragged slowly and George started to bleed.

He tried to pull his leg back just a little, but Dream looked elated, staring widely at the wound and the beads of bright red seeping out of the shallow cut. Not only that, but he looked like he was enjoying this a little too much, biting the edge of his bottom lip while his eyes scanned George’s body, and suddenly he felt completely exposed on the cave floor. This guy was definitely some kind of crazy.

Metal pushed deeper into searing flesh, and George whimpered, pain thumping loudly in his ears. Dream’s eyes were wide, and pupils were blown, from as much as George could see, as both their torches on the floor flickered, slowly dying. Long fingers reached slowly out, and Dream’s hand twitched towards the cut he had inflicted. George waited for one— two beats until Dream’s eyes flicked downwards to his leg again, and he pushed back against the wall, throwing his fistful of dirt as hard as he could toward Dream’s face.

It did what it was supposed to, Dream clamped his eyes shut instinctively and flinched, and George wasted absolutely no time getting the hell out of there, launching himself over Dream’s shoulder and snatching up one of the torches on the floor.

George couldn’t hear anything but his own ragged breathing as he ran, tripping over rocks in the low light. He didn’t know if Dream was chasing him still and didn’t turn to check until he finally found the surface, a landscape covered in snow and moonlight. Stumbling out into the cold air, George threw the torch down onto the ground, the snow wasting no time smothering out the flame. His footsteps were slower and weaker now—he was exhausted and out of breath—and as George stepped forward a few more blocks to lean against a spruce trunk, he heard something approach.

His head snapped around almost immediately, shooting a glance at the cave entrance, and his stomach twisted at the sight.

“Oh, Geooorge~” Dream called in a smooth, almost sultry tone, but it wasn’t playful at all to George, it was terrifying. His knees trembled, and his wound dripped crimson into the snow at his feet. He barely had the adrenaline to get out of the cave, much less continue to run from Dream for what seemed like endless hours.

Dream lurked towards his prey, who curled up against a tree in fear, snow crunching under boots, and breath steaming in the frigid atmosphere.

It happened in a split second, Dream stepped forward to close the distance between them, brandishing his sword. George was about to clamp his eyes shut and face the inevitable, but he spied a flash of movement from somewhere behind Dream. The realization hit him all too suddenly, and Dream must have seen it in his face, because he turned just as a loud hiss filled the air and George could only fall backward, shouting “CREEPER—!” as the creature exploded, and the world burst with a short, blinding light and a booming echo.

Both men were hurled backward by the force of the creeper, but Dream was thrown harder, his body slamming against George and then the tree, both ricocheting off and into the snow like rag dolls. As soon as the ringing in his ears died down, George groaned and opened his eyes. Creeper explosions weren’t that broad in range, but they were powerful, enough so that being directly on the receiving end of one could easily kill you. There were splinters of the tree they had been standing by lying scattered on the ground. George cradled his head; he must have smacked it on the tree during the worst of the damage. His breath shook, and he pushed himself up to sit, remembering his situation and hurriedly glancing around to pinpoint Dream.

He was lying off a ways back behind the tree, in a similar trajectory as George, looking tattered and small against the clearing of powdery snow he had disturbed. George should have taken the opportunity to run, left him there, and escaped, but—damn his morals—he staggered towards Dream, feet dragging in the snow.

“Dream.” His name sounded foreign on George’s lips as he jostled unconscious shoulders.

There was a pause, and George thought for a moment that Dream might actually be dead—until he wasn’t, and stirred slightly, groaning awake.

George immediately scooted back, waiting for a reaction or a response. Instead, Dream didn’t move much and just continued to make various sounds of pain, muffled against his sleeve.

“Are you-” this was definitely so weird and so wrong, “are you okay?”

Dream started to try to get up, and George moved further back, ready to book it if he needed to, but he wasn’t going to need to run, because Dream hissed in pain and collapsed back onto the ground. George moved closer again, trying to assess the damage, but Dream was on his side, leaning almost face-down, so George grabbed fistfuls of Dream’s shirt and did his best to flip this giant over with a little bit of effort.

It wasn’t that bad until— wait, oh my god.

George finally noticed the dark stain blooming on the blinding white snow. He felt sore and bruised, probably from Dream smashing into him, with a building headache, but Dream had it quite a bit worse. George could spy several rough scrapes and splintered wooden shrapnel on the side of his torso. He dared a subtle lift of the hem of Dream’s shirt, and though it wasn’t as bad higher up on his body, he was still bleeding quite a lot.

George cursed aloud, again and again, and dug through his pack for a sheet of cloth that he began to set up as a makeshift surface for his tools. He retrieved his kit and started finding what he’d need. Dream had slowly blinked his eyes open and was staring dumbfounded at George.

“Huh?” He simply vocalized, pain numbing his senses, and George’s frustration with himself grew.

“Shut up, or I’ll really just walk away.”

“What—” Dream seemed understandably confused. Not only did he just get the harsh end of a creeper explosion, but he had also, not even half an hour previous, been actively trying to murder George, so why was George working on applying an antiseptic and beginning to pull out pieces of tree from Dream’s middle?

He didn’t know, neither of them could really figure it out, and if Dream still had murderous intent, George couldn’t tell, because Dream had actually listened to his command and fallen quiet, save the occasionally strained whimper of pain.

George moved his right hand to set it on Dream’s bicep and rubbed gentle circles with his thumb just as he had to yank a particularly large and stubborn splinter from just below Dream’s rib cage. Dream yelped and muttered a string of curses, his body jerking involuntarily, and George pressed his hand down hard on Dream’s arm to keep him from shifting too much and making himself bleed more.

When George was finally done, and Dream glossy-eyed and bandaged, he took one more look at his work before he was satisfied and began to put his kit away. Dream mumbled something and grasped at George’s ankle, squeezing hard, and George felt a zap of pain and the warmth of blood on the bandages he had applied.

“Dream, ow- what the fuck?”

Dream kept clawing at George, clearly intending violence, until George backed away, bumping into Dream’s discarded sword, abandoned by the explosion. He stared down at it, and before Dream could gain the energy to sit up too far, George grabbed the sword and left only his spare canteen and some jerky for Dream, before common sense finally returned, and he took the opportunity to scramble away as quickly as one could with an injured ankle.

Dream, of course, would end up finding him again, and occasionally, George would dress wounds, whether of his own stubborn, crazy moral code to not just abandon an injured Dream, or out of some messed up form of revenge and debt collection, he didn’t know.

George secured the clean bandage around Dream’s leg as the embers of the campfire crackled a few blocks away from them. Dream was definitely less murderous now, and honestly, in their bouts of cat and mouse, George was pretty sure that Dream wouldn’t kill him at this point—maybe.

Dream was chewing on his lip, watching George put his things away as the sun had rolled past its peak and the day was waning.

“God, I’m going to have to stay another night with you here, aren’t I?” George griped. Dream looked puzzled again, and George thought how he’d never seen so many emotions on Dream’s face in one day.

“Is that bad?”

George paused, then guffawed with a huff. “Of course, it’s bad, you constantly try to hurt me, and now you don’t have an anesthetic-induced coma so I can guarantee you won’t stab me in the middle of the night.” He trailed off, “Probably.”

Dream’s gaze seemed to falter, and George noted that his poker face was becoming worse as the day went on. Dream’s eyes were filled with some complex emotion that George couldn’t place, and before he could mention it, Dream pivoted his body and laid back on the grass, head pointed toward George.

His eyes were closed, and George just glowered at him.

“Can you,” Dream mumbled after a moment of neither of them speaking, “do that thing again?”

“Huh?” George thought for a minute, and before he had settled on a guess, Dream reached back to grasp at George’s wrist and guide it down near his ear. He rested George’s palm against his temple, leaning into it, and George sighed before tangling his fingers in Dream’s hair.

Dream made a small noise of contentment, a little hum. George found himself thinking it was endearing.

“It still hurts,” Dream said after a while, lips forming into a slight pout.

George could leave right now. He could gather his things and pack up his tent and just walk away. He had done it before. Dream would eventually gain the energy to take a jab at him, and George would flee. Today, though, something was wrong— no, not wrong… different. Dream would take a deep breath and let out an easygoing sigh, and at some point, popped his eyes open to gaze up at George.

“You’re being weird,” George said, and enough concern must have laced his words because Dream chuckled lightly and flopped his arms out to either side, clearly unbothered.

George spied the several white, jagged scars that graced Dream’s clavicle, peeking around the drooping collar of his shirt. He wondered how they got there; George had never had to treat injuries in those spots, and as George’s mind began to drift for the umpteenth time that day, Dream replied to him.

“I’m not being weird. I could get up right now and punch you or something.”

“Well, that would at least be more in character.”

“Fuck you.”

“There’s my Dream.”

George choked on his words, realizing how that sounded, and Dream’s eyes widened, a smirk creeping onto his lips.

“That’s not what I- I didn’t-” George felt hot embarrassment settle over him and burn up his neck and onto his cheeks, as his attempts at explanation only served to make Dream grin wider.

He’d never smiled like that before, or at least George hadn’t seen it this genuine. Both of them fell into silence, with minimal attempts at further conversation for the next few hours, but Dream’s smile stayed plastered on his face, at least in part.

The sun dipped its rays just past the horizon, relaxing down into the earth, and George had already re-lit the fire as the golden light faded. Dream’s features seemed to soak up the sunlight for as long as they could, and as Dream slept, his head adjusted to invade George’s lap, George unabashedly stared at him. He was so used to seeing this face twisted up with anger or animosity that seeing Dream’s chest gently rise and fall and his face press into the side of George’s knee was strange, but for some reason, not unwelcome. George had wanted to be friends in the first place—well, he did after probably the first handful of manhunts—when Dream had become less of a maniac and a little more tolerable.

Summer light buzzed into the night, and as the fire began to die, George nudged Dream to try to wake him; it would get colder if they stayed out here too long. Dream let out a long groan and tried to flip over to his other side, still using George as a pillow, but he must have moved wrong, an extended and pained “aaaaaaaaahhh—” leaving his throat as his body tensed.

George helped Dream get his giant self into the small tent, and Dream wasted no time laying down and smushing his face into George’s side. Dream mumbled something, his voice vibrating into George’s shirt. George shuddered uncontrollably.

“What’s with you? Seriously?” He asked, avoiding taking hold of a positive situation before he had confirmed that it was actually beneficial. “Are you finally done trying to murder me?”

Dream said nothing in response, just huffed.

It took a minute, but eventually, he did reply, “Maybe I’m just tired of it, okay? Not as fun anymore. Shuush.”

George’s eyes widened. He couldn’t quite tell if Dream was being honest there or not, but from the cozy heat that his companion(?) breathed onto him, George’s eyes threatened to lock shut.

The gentle white noise of nature sounded outside as nocturnal creatures awoke and further filled the air with chirps and buzzes. Dream mumbled something against George’s waist, and George finally pushed him away a few inches.

“What are you going on about?” He inquired, exhaustion from yesterday catching up with him yet again.

“-rge.”

“What?” George’s eyes were dangerously heavy, and Dream had curled up as much as someone six-foot could, arms against his chest and body pressed forward against George.

“George,” Dream drawled on sleepily. “—my George.”

George had a good feeling that he’d be alright tonight.

#dear diary...#dreamwastaken #georgenotfound #dteam #mcyt #minecraft youtubers #dream team #dnf #dreamnotfound #mc dream #gnf

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