Chapter Text
It is early in the morning, the sun just cresting the horizon, and George is briskly walking through the backstreets of London. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, so he isn’t really paying attention to the turns he takes. He just lets his feet guide him, taking him down the roads to his destination.
The gentle snow falls from the sky onto the hood of George’s hoodie, steadily melting into the multicoloured cotton-polymer mix. It is winter, finally, a cold first day of December. It’s unusual for it to snow this early, typically London got the most snow in January. But, this year decided to surprise him.
He tugs on the black hoodie strings absentmindedly as he walks, regretting not choosing to wear a thicker jacket. His mom swore that the hoodie would be extremely warm, and he had believed her until he stepped out into the frigid air outside his apartment. His mom got him the hoodie as an early Christmas present, and he felt he needed to wear it at least once, show it to the world as thanks.
She didn’t live in the area, and had to send it to him by mail, so she would never know if he wore it or not. But either way, George wanted to do it justice before he threw it in his closet, never to be seen again. It isn’t really his colour. It is a mix of white, black, and yellow. He definitely would’ve preferred a blue hoodie, but he thanked his mom profusely over text when he got it in the mail anyways.
His short, brown fringe is getting dusted by the snow, but he isn’t bothered by it. Periodically, he would need to shake his head to clear the snow from his hair.
His feet sink into the snow with every step; it requires slightly more energy from George, but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s just happy that there’s the possibility to have a white Christmas this year. Though, he really should’ve dressed for the weather.
He veers to his left, ducking under the awning of a nearby bakery to take quick refuge from the snow. There aren’t many people out at this time, George could count the people nearby on one hand. He was planning on going to his friend Sapnap’s house, but now he was really reconsidering that decision. The snow is beginning to pick up, and it might get dangerous soon. He just hopes it won’t turn into a full-blown blizzard, which is unlikely for his area, but he still worries.
Sapnap’s taunting rings through his mind, telling him he should get his driver’s license. He leans against the brick outer wall of the bakery.
Well, now he’s just loitering, isn’t he?
Part of him wants to go inside, take advantage of the warmth, but he would feel bad for not buying anything. He didn’t even bring his wallet, which was yet another foolish decision of his to add to the ever-growing list.
The smell wafting from the vent by his calves was amazing; the fresh bread being baked inside made his stomach growl. It also warmed his legs, which was better than nothing. It did mean that he was standing in a puddle of grey slush, but his boots were waterproof and his legs were warm.
He pulls out his phone, his numb, red fingers barely able to type out Sapnap’s number. They hurt to move.
He is intending to call and cancel their meeting, or at least for Sapnap to pick him up, but his thoughts are interrupted by shouts coming from the alleyway to his right. He almost checks it out, his curiosity growing, but decides against it. There were enough stabbings in the area recently, George doesn’t want to become the next victim.
Staying neutral was the safest way to go; it minimizes harm on yourself and others, as far as George was concerned.
But, just his luck, a man bursts out of the alleyway and immediately fixes his gaze on George. Or at least, he can assume it does. The man’s face is completely covered by a white mask with a crude smiley-face painted on it.
It’s a terrifying sight, like nothing George has ever seen before. The man’s build is slightly larger than his own; he could definitely get beaten to a pulp by him, if he wanted to hurt George in even the slightest respect.
George’s fight or flight instinct begins to kick in, but before he can turn to take refuge in the bakery, the man rushes right towards him. George’s muscles freeze up, choosing to freeze against his will. His trembling fingers drop his phone into the snow, Sapnap’s contact open on the screen.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” The man hisses angrily, and before George can react, there is a hand gripped firmly around his left bicep, and he is being pulled away from the bakery.
They are running extremely fast, and George doesn’t have a moment to register what is happening before he gets punched in his right arm. He yelps and tries to stop running, his resistance unnoticed by the strong man pulling him, when he realizes that his white sleeve is blossoming a dark shade of brown. The man’s hand is clamped down on his other arm, there is no way he will be able to pull away. He resigns himself to his new fate of probably being sold on the black market or some shit. He glances behind himself at the loud shouting, afraid of what he’ll see.
They are being chased by a group of maybe 6 people, all with guns. His stomach balls into knots when he realized that they were all the king’s guards. He can’t exactly make out what they are yelling, but there are a shit-ton of swears mixed in.
George is abruptly jerked to the side, and down another alleyway. He is stumbling over his own feet now, completely losing track of where they were going, which only serves to make his anxiety bubble over.
He is crying now, whether he realizes it or not. Hot tears pouring down his cheeks, blurring his vision.
After a multitude of twists and turns, the man pulls him into a hole in the wall and slams him against the side, smacking his hand over George’s mouth. George feels abused, slammed around and weak compared to this man. It terrifies him. The man’s hand takes up half his face, covering both cheeks as well as his mouth. It is heavily calloused, George notices.
They are pressed together, chest to chest, both of them heaving for air. It’s dark in the alley, but George can now finally take a good look at his captor, though his vision is impossibly blurred with tears.
His face was covered by his mask, but George could see dirty blonde locks coming around the edges of the ceramic. He wonders how that could possibly be comfortable to keep on one’s face, though that should be the least of his worries. The mask was scuffed in many places, it looks like it’s been through a lot. It is held onto his face by a thick leather strap, disappearing into the hood of the man’s yellow hoodie. The running temporarily warmed him up, but the cold bite of the outside started to weave its way around his bones.
“I think they went down here,” someone barks from the alleyway, and he turns his head to see the group run past them, not noticing George or the man. George wishes he could yell out, ask them to save him from his demise. They did shoot him earlier, but he assumes they were aiming for the man.
Speaking of the man, his head turns towards George. The smiley face is oddly menacing, George can’t even see his eyes through the black mesh where he assumes the man can see.
“Will you scream if i remove my hand?” the man whispers, his voice oddly soft. George inhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head reluctantly. There isn’t anyone around as far as he knows, and he would rather the smiley-face man not shank him in this alley, never to be found again. It was best to keep him happy, until he found a chance to escape. The man slowly lifts his leather gloved-hand away from George’s mouth, and nods curtly. He lets out a shaky sigh, before peeking his head out of the hole they both stood in.
The air felt stale and suffocating, they were almost in a vacuum. They were safe from the growing levels of snow, only small flakes drifting in to land on George’s black boots.
The alleyway seemingly clear, the man turns back to George. “You are so fucking dumb,” the man laughs, before dropping his backpack and rubbing his face under the mask.
“I-I-” George stutters, but when the man jerks his face up to George, he shuts up. He resigns himself to carefully watch the man as he digs through the backpack, his body awkwardly pressing against George’s legs. The man tears off his yellow zip-up hoodie, and his black and white striped shirt. George feels his face grow red, embarrassment growing in his chest.
This guy is straight-up shirtless in the middle of the earliest and coldest winters that London has ever had. He stuffs his clothing into one of the pockets of his backpack, before looking up at George.
“Are you going to take that off?” the man asks sharply. George hesitates, before pointing at his hoodie.
“This?” He manages to get out. The man stands back up, his bare chest now against George.
“Yeah, what else would I be talking about? You’re one of the dumbest people I have ever met,” he said, sounding pissed. George bristles at that, he doesn’t like being insulted by someone he has never met before.
“Why would I do that?” he asks, raising his voice, becoming shrill. He wasn't really expecting to be asked to strip by a random man in an alley when he woke up this morning. Bitterly, he remembers his phone lying in the snow in front of that bakery. His nose twitches, wondering if Sapnap is worried.
“Shut up,” the man chastises, “unless you want my hand back on your mouth again.” He slips his hands under George’s hoodie, near his hips, and swiftly takes it off George. George jumps in surprise, a squeak escaping his lips. The hoodie fabric stuck to his arm lightly, making him hiss in pain quietly.
The man just chuckles, throwing George’s hoodie into his backpack as well. George begins to shiver even more, the adrenaline and warmth from running almost obsolete at this point. His nose begins to run, and he wipes it on his good arm absentmindedly.
“What’s your name?” George asks between chatters of his teeth. The man crouching in front of him hesitates, before responding with a simple:
“Dream.”
“Dream? That’s not your name.”
“What, you wanna see my birth certificate? Get off my back idiot,” he says, rummaging through his backpack again. George huffs and grabs his injured arm, digging his nails into bare flesh, trying to distract himself from the stinging sensation which continues to wind its way up his arm.
The blood from his bullet wound is running a path down his bicep, down his elbow, and dripping steadily onto the ground. It splashes onto the snow, making little fireworks in the ice. Maybe if he really does get kidnapped, someone could find his blood or something. Analyze it, or whatever. Find him.
Maybe it would help, I don’t know, he thinks to himself. He shakes his head, not liking to contemplate his own demise.
“I’m George,” he says. Dream doesn’t respond, and instead stands up with a small first-aid kit in hand. They are pressed up against each other again now, but Dream shifts so that George’s injury is in the light. Dream hisses in sympathy when he sees the wound, before patting away some of the blood in order to see exactly what happened. He is muttering to himself inaudibly.
Probably about how dumb he thinks I am.
George tries not to look, the sight of his own blood making him sick. He was moderately fine with other people’s blood, but not his own.
“This might sting a bit, George,” Dream mutters. George doesn’t get a chance to hover on the way his name was said so tenderly by a stranger, and potential kidnapper, before the stinging gets excruciatingly bad. A strangled shout escapes his throat, his vision goes white, and he collapses against Dream. Dream seems to be prepared for that reaction, and holds George up, safe away from the snow. “I’m almost done,” he says assuredly.
George can’t think straight, and resorts to clamping his teeth around his knuckles to muffle his cries. He feels a cloth being wrapped around his bicep, and soon enough Dream is back to his backpack. George feels lightheaded, too weak to deal with any of this. He feels like he is in a dream, rocking back and forth on his heels dizzily.
Dream stands and slips a plain black hoodie over George’s head, and puts a second one on himself. George is grateful for the warmth; he still doesn’t have a thick jacket but this was ten times better than a plain tee.
Dream steps out of the hole in the wall, extending a hand out to George. George takes it hesitantly, what other option does he have?
It’s impossibly warm, a juxtaposition from the weather. Dream slings his backpack over his shoulder and tugs George along.
Dream is careful as they walk, being sure to check around every corner before they go. George absentmindedly wonders how many people that he has kidnapped, if he is so good at this. He honestly has no clue where they are. George used to pride himself in knowing all the ins and outs of London, but Dream had pulled him into an absolute maze.
After a while, Dream halts in front of a door tucked into the wall of yet another alleyway. He drops George’s hand, and reaches into his pocket, but quickly freezes and whips towards George. George is absentmindedly playing with his hoodie sleeves, waiting for Dream to get the door open.
“You’re not going to run?” Dream asks carefully.
“Why would I? I have a literal gunshot wound and I don’t know where I am. It’s cold too. I’d appreciate it if you would get the door open.”
“We don’t have heating,” Dream simply responds, and pulls out a key. He slips it into the lock, and turns it, before holding the door open for George.
The second George walks in, he hears the safety click off on a gun. He freezes, tensing up, realizing his mistake when he feels the dark barrel pressed up against his temple.
“Jesus Christ, Tommy! He’s harmless,” Dream shouts, and the gun drops slowly. George glances over to see a tall, angry-looking blond boy standing a couple feet away, a handgun by his side. Dream locks the front door and walks around George, motioning for him to follow. Tommy stares at George as they walk away, analyzing him, before disappearing into another room. The main area of the building had a few couches in a ring position, with a coffee table in the centre. There were a couple weapons on the table, sitting abandoned. The walls are all a medium-toned grey, complimenting the dark flooring. I should really take my shoes off, George thinks, but decides against it when he realizes he might need to run soon enough. Now isn’t the time, though.
Dream leads George away from the main room, and he finds himself in a medical-looking area. The room itself matches the main entrance, with grey walls and scratched hardwood floor, but in the corner there is a cot with shelves of medical supplies surrounding it. Dream points at the cot, and George hops on, happy enough to rest his legs. Dream wasn’t lying, the place was just as cold as the outside. There was a small space heater in the corner of the room, but it wasn’t on.
“So, George,” Dream says as he sorts through various equipment on the shelves, “why were you in our clothes, in the area and time of our attack?”
“Your- what?” George asks dumbly. None of that made sense. This morning, all George wanted was to go see Sapnap to hang out for a while, and maybe play Minecraft. He was not asking or even expecting to be shot, of all things.
“The hoodie,” Dream motions to his backpack. “It is white, black, and green. Like mine. Those are our colours. If you don’t want to be shot, don’t wear them. How did you not get that memo?” Dream asked patronizingly.
George feels a pit of annoyance grow in his stomach. His mom had bought him that hoodie, not that Dream would know, and this was the first time he was wearing it. She wasn’t from the area, of course she wouldn’t know about this fucking terrorist group.
And George? He was fucking colourblind. So, he told Dream.
“I’m colourblind.”
That makes Dream cackle loudly. “You’re colourblind? Holy shit,” he says between wheezes. He sounds like a hyena crossed with a tea kettle. George didn’t appreciate his mockery.
“I don’t think it’s funny, your dumb group got me fucking shot,” George narrows his eyes.
“Oh it's funny. But, I’m sorry it happened. Our group aims to only target who needs to be targeted, we don’t wish to hurt the public,” Dream says, more serious now. He walks over to George, dropping a pile of medical supplies on the cot next to him. “Don’t go anywhere. I don’t really expect you to, but still. I’ll be back,” he says before exiting the room swiftly.
He was right, George had no plans to leave. He wasn’t sure how far he would get, or if he believes Dream. But, it seemed like his best shot at survival was to go with the flow. That, and he still felt like he was dreaming.
He reaches for his back jean pocket, only to be met with empty fabric. He curses under his breath when he remembers, yet again, that he dropped his phone in the snow. He wonders if the people at the bakery picked it up, or if he could beg Dream to get it for him (if he wasn’t ever allowed to leave).
Soon enough, a tall man with long pink hair walks in, followed by a shorter guy in a toque and hoodie. The one with pink hair is adorned in jewelry, necklaces decorating his neck and earrings of all sorts decorating his ears. He is wearing one of those pirate-style white shirts, all flowy with puffy sleeves. It is tucked into brown pants, which George has a suspicion might be red, based on what he knows about tones. It’s intimidating, to say the least. The other one is more unassuming, small and quiet looking. His hoodie was black, so were his jeans. His toque had stripes on it, the same colours as George’s hoodie. He rubs his jaw carefully, giving George a steady look.
George recoils slightly, wishing for Dream to come back. He doesn’t necessarily trust him more, but at least he told the kid at the door, Tommy, to put the gun down. They shut the door behind them, and wordlessly get to work.
“Who are you?” he asks, but barely gets a glance in return. He huffs, and lies down on the cot, giving them access to his arm.
“Barely a graze,” the man with pink hair says to the other. “Get Dream, he’s being a coward.” The one in the toque nods, and leaves the room. The pink haired man looks down at George, observing him closely. His voice is deep and monotone, and it scares George, if only a bit. He thought Dream was intimidating, until meeting this guy.
“How did you know where we would be?”
“I didn’t,” George breathes gently, exasperated by all the doubt and questions. The man looks unconvinced, but turns his attention away from George when the door opens again. Dream walks in, one arm wrapped around the back of his neck.
“Take care of it yourself, Dream. And get him out of here,” the man says, before leaving George’s side.
“Techno, wait, how bad does it look?” Dream asks, grabbing his arm. His voice sounds almost desperate, but George chalks it up to his dreamlike-state that he perceives it that way. Techno glances down at Dream’s hand, before shooting him a glare.
“Let go of me,” he says simply, and Dream complies. Techno leaves the room, without any more words exchanged. The other guy follows, giving Dream a quick pat on the shoulder as he passes. Dream looks back to George, who is still laying down on the cot.
“Okay, George, let’s get an actual good look at this…” he mutters. He periodically needs to wipe away the blood in order to keep the wound visible, but he works steadily. “You need stitches, but not a hospital,” Dream says, changing his gloves and grabbing a suture kit.
“Why aren’t you British?” George just asks, which makes Dream falter.
“What?” Dream exclaims. “Oh come on now, you can’t be serious.”
“I am? We are in London, and you’re a terrorist. A Brit terrorist.”
“O-kay, first off, not a terrorist,” Dream chuckles. “I already told you we only hurt people who deserve it. And secondly, I wasn’t born here. How crazy, I know” he says sarcastically. “Now bite down on this,” he adds, shoving gauze into George’s mouth.
Without warning, he begins to sew George’s skin back together, causing George to scream. It is muffled by the gauze, but it is still a sickening noise. Dream doesn’t hesitate, continuing to sew the flesh. He doesn’t need to hold down George’s arm, as he manages to keep it still enough for Dream.
“Almost done,” Dream mutters, but George can barely register it through his screams. The pain begins to fade slightly, and George manages to look over at Dream, whose hands are now hovering above George’s arm, still holding the needle and thread.
“Is it over?” George says, spitting out the gauze. Dream nods, and George nods back before swiftly vomiting on the floor. On Dream’s shoes.
“Oh my god,” Dream shouts, standing up abruptly. George mutters half-hearted apologies as Dream exits the room quickly.
He comes back soon enough, with new shoes on his feet. George isn’t sure how long he was away, but he’s glad he is back.
“Can you stand?” Dream asks.
“I’m sorry for ruining your shoes,” George whimpers. Dream just shrugs, and extends a hand, slipping it behind George’s back, helping him sit up. George winces, but manages to keep himself calm enough.
“Techno wanted to keep you here initially, but I told him that I want you gone. Hope you understand,” Dream says, and George gives a small nod. “But, George, you say shit about where we are, or who we are, you are as good as dead. You hear me?” he adds, his voice dangerously low.
George nods once more, which seems to satisfy Dream. Or, at least he hopes it does. He shifts off the cot, stumbling a bit, before Dream catches him. He sets him up on his feet, and helps George into a sling.
“I will take you home, George. My one condition is that you forget about me, and the organization as well.”
“Okay,” George whispers in response, but he isn’t sure he can quite promise that.