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It’s quiet in the forest.
“Do you hate me, Dream?”
Dream looks at him, and if the way his body jerks so suddenly to turn was any indicator, he’s surprised. “What?” He asks, sounding confused, “Of course not—“
“It doesn’t feel that way,” he interrupts. Dream visibly flinches, and again George finds himself staring at the signature mask the blond wears. It’s emotionless, and unreadable, but somehow fitting for Dream. He’s always been apathetic when it comes to these things. He’s been apathetic a lot, lately. George wonders what happened to the Dream that tossed out emotions like they were candy, unafraid to show sadness, unafraid to be weak in front of them. “I didn’t agree to this—being dethroned.”
“It’s for the best.” Dream reasons, moving forward so that he can place a hand on the brunet’s shoulder. George fights the urge to slap it away, his anger beginning to rise and bubble with every second that passes of Dream trying to justify himself. He always thinks he knows best, doesn’t he? He’s been like this for the longest time. It makes George angry, how he can’t even be bothered to pull off his mask, to show them he’s being genuine. George grits his teeth at the sound of Dream’s voice, silky smooth, persuading, manipulative. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
His fingernails are digging hard into the palms of his hands, the sharp, stinging pain a welcome distraction from the swirl of raging emotions inside him. “You think I can't take care of myself?” Sapnap’s gaze burns into the back of his head from where he stands a few yards away, waiting for an order, a sign, a call for help, anything that could indicate trouble. George won’t need it. “I’m not incompetent, Dream.”
Dream sucks in a breath. “I know you’re not,” he says, “I have enemies, George, and they’re going to target you.” His hooded head tilts slightly, glancing at the noiret placed just barely within earshot. The anger is rising again now, faster this time, boiling and crackling and threatening to burst. George knows this tone of voice. He knows what Dream is trying to do. “No matter what Sapnap says, I care about you. He’s trying to-“
“You don’t.” Blood roars in his ears, his heart beginning to thrum quickly against his chest. Dream’s grip on his shoulder falters. “You care about power. You care about the—“ he has to bite hard on his tongue to stop himself from swearing, to try and keep any semblance of rationality. “You care about Tommy’s discs. Don’t fucking lie to me.” His body is acting on its own now, fueled by hurt, fueled by the loathing that’s been building up ever since Dream stopped being Dream, his best friend, and became Dream, an ally. Ally. George hates that word now. He blinks, and suddenly Dream is stood a few paces away as if he’d been shoved. George can’t bring himself to care.
“George,” Dream starts, reaching out again.
“Shut up,” He hisses, tone harsh and unforgiving. Dream’s arm falls back to his side uselessly. “You know, for all you claim to care, you’re really shit at showing it. You treat me like—You treat us, ” he throws a hand back to gesture to Sapnap, silent for once, “like we’re inferior. Like we’re below you.” The rage is boiling over, spilling like hot lava onto his words, filling them with hate and disgust and disappointment all at once. “Sapnap has never tried to pit us against each other. That’s you. It’s always been you.” Dream moves like he wants to respond, but one scathing look silences him. “I know what you said. You told Tommy,” he’s raising his voice now, almost on the verge of yelling, every scathing word that spills from his lips allowing him to breathe a little easier, “You told Tommy that you don’t care about anything in this world! Why are we even here then, if you don’t care about us?”
“George,” Dream tries again, emphasizing the ‘G’ in that way that the other used to find endearing. He sounds desperate. Frustrated, even. “I didn’t mean that,” he stammers, “You know I didn’t. Of course I care about you—you’re-“
“—nothing to you.” George finishes. His throat feels tight, but he pushes through, thinking back to all the times that Dream showed no concern for anyone other than himself. He thinks back to Eret, the newly appointed king. Eret is a traitor and a backstabber and yet Dream chose him all the same. George swallows. “We’re just allies to you, aren’t we? Just more people to help you with your fights against L’manburg? Against Tommy? Cut the bullshit, Dream.”
There’s no response. George breathes deeply and allows himself to relax, allows his shoulders to drop from where they had tensed up, allows his nails to stop digging into his palms. The roar of blood rushing in his ears calms slightly, enough so that his head stops whirling with white hot fury and the anger calms into a little flame, flickering and alive, but not the raging inferno it was before. Tamer.
He talks again, sounding defeated, “We’re supposed to be best friends. All three of us.”
“We are,” Dream chokes out, “we are. We never stopped.”
George shakes his head, the boiling anger becoming nothing but disappointment and defeat. He’s tired, so tired. All he wants is for things to be fun again, to be carefree like they were when they first came to this world. In the back of his mind, he knows it won’t happen. Not until Dream has the discs. It’s always been the discs. “We’re not.” He says quietly, gaze dropping. “Not anymore, at least. We stopped the second you gave Wilbur that TNT and told him to blow L’manburg to shit.”
He turns, ignoring the tears that are stinging at his eyes, and forces himself to walk. Sapnap watches with a grim face—he’d heard the entire thing—and moves forward. The hand the noiret places on his shoulder is warm, understanding—they are in the same boat after all—-and George welcomes it. The air is still tense, even as they leave the small area and head towards the direction of L’manburg.
“We did what we had to.” Sapnap says after a moment, in that rough voice of his, uncharacteristically quiet, uncharacteristically resigned. “Dream is...he’s..”
“Power hungry,” George finishes. “I know.” He wishes it wasn’t true. But they both know it, and Sapnap nods. The hand on his shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly.
The trees offer some semblance of protection, shading them from the burning heat of the sun. They fall silent again, and nothing but the soft chirping of birds, their songs carried by the gentle wind, fills the air between them.
It’s quiet in the forest.
George has always hated the quiet.