Prime's day
Sunday.
Another day of Prime-approved suffering.
George sat stiffly in church, hands folded, eyes glazed over, as the sermon dragged on.
“Oh Prime, let thou into each soul present here. Let thy heavenly love nurture the spirits of our youth. May thy wisdom guide our steps, and may we never stray from thy divine path. For the world is ever-turning, and the storms of fate are relentless—only through thy grace may we find shelter. Let no soul be lost, let no heart grow cold. In the shadow of uncertainty, be our lantern, Prime, and lead us home.”
George side-eyed Wilbur. “Do you actually believe in this?”
Wilbur hummed. “Prime speaks to us in our dreams. That has to mean something.”
George resisted the urge to groan.
Of course.
Wilbur probably liked the mystery of it, the divine whispers in the night, the feeling of being chosen.
Tommy, sitting beside him, was mimicking Phil’s serious expression.
Techno was stoic as ever.
And Dream—
Ugh.
George turned his head slightly.
Dream was sitting near the front, legs sprawled, arms crossed, looking like he owned the whole damn church.
If anyone didn’t belong in a sacred space, it was him.
After church, the family returned home, the scent of roasted meat and vegetables and fresh bread drifting from the kitchen, but Phil had something else in his hands. A letter. He extended it to George with a small, unreadable smile.
George hesitated before snatching it. His fingers trembled slightly as he tore it open, expecting a desperate plea, a heartfelt cry, something—anything—that might tell him he was missed. That he was wanted back home.
Instead, he read:
“We hope you’re enjoying your time in the countryside!”
“It must be a wonderful break from the stress of the city!”
“We’re sure Dream is just a little shy.”
George’s eye twitched.
Dream was not shy.
Dream was a demon in a cowboy hat.
George wanted to scream.
Instead, he folded the letter very carefully and shoved it in his pocket, determined to forget it existed. But his hands clenched at his sides, and his face burned with betrayal. No apology. No reassurance. Just a flimsy, cheery dismissal, as if he were on holiday rather than exiled. He exhaled sharply, blinking fast against the sting in his eyes. Phil was still watching him, a quiet question in his gaze, but George turned away, jaw set. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing just how much it hurt.
Later that afternoon, George sat slumped under a tree, reading.
For the first time all week, he was relaxed.
The sky was blue, the air smelled like damp grass, and no one was bothering him.
Until.
A hand snatched his book.
George looked up just in time to see Dream smirking, his book in his stupid dirt-covered hands.
“What the hell? Give it back!”
Dream flipped through the pages. “Wow, you actually read?”
“Of course, I read! Give it back, you idiot!”
Dream held it above his head. “Hmm… I dunno. Maybe I’ll read it first.”
George lunged.
Dream squinted at the cover, lips pursed in exaggerated thought. "Let's see... Judging by the fancy script and the lack of explosions, I’d say it’s either some tragic romance or an incredibly boring philosophy book. Or both."
George seethed. "It's literature. You wouldn’t understand."
Dream smirked. "Oh, so it is boring."
George lunged again.
Dream took off running.
George tore after him, cursing every cow, rock, and fence post in his way.
Dream was fast.
Too fast.
George was going to die here, in the countryside, chasing after a book.
A fate worse than death.
He finally caught up when Dream stopped near the river, laughing breathlessly.
George skidded to a stop, panting.
"Are you actually insane?"
Dream smirked. "Maybe."
"Give me my book."
Dream tossed it at George, who barely caught it before it hit the dirt.
George scowled. "You are the worst person I have ever met."
Dream grinned. "You haven't met a lot of people, huh?"
George was about to fire back a scathing insult when—
Plop.
A small stone skipped across the water.
George blinked.
Dream picked up another rock and flicked his wrist.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
The rock hopped three times before sinking.
George crossed his arms. "Why you doing that?"
Dream rolled his eyes. "And it's fun, dumbass. Try it."
George snorted. "I have better things to do."
Dream smirked. "Like what? Sulk?"
George opened his mouth, closed it, then grabbed a rock.
With precise British elegance, he flicked his wrist and—
Plonk.
The rock sank instantly.
Dream burst out laughing.
George scowled. "Shut up."
Dream picked up another rock and demonstrated.
George tried again.
And again.
And again.
After seven failed attempts, he finally managed two skips.
Dream whooped. "See? You're not completely useless!"
George shoved him.
Dream laughed.
And, begrudgingly, George had to admit…
It was kind of fun.
George did not have a crush on Dream.
Absolutely not.
The idea was ridiculous.
Impossible.
Laughable.
And yet—
George lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him.
Thinking about his stupid smirk.
Thinking about how the sunlight hit his face when he skipped stones.
Thinking about how his sleeves were rolled up, exposing his tanned forearms.
Thinking about the way his shirt clung to his chest after he had waded through the creek.
Thinking about the sharp angle of his jaw when he laughed, how effortlessly handsome he was, how unfairly good he looked even when he was being insufferable.
Oh Prime, George was going insane.
The next morning, George sat at the breakfast table, half-awake and deeply disturbed.
He had barely touched his food, pushing the porridge around his plate.
Wilbur, ever the keen observer, squinted at him. "You look troubled, dear cousin."
George sighed. "I'm fine."
Wilbur gasped dramatically. "Oh, but are you? Are you truly? For I sense a weight upon your soul."
"I said I'm fine, Wilbur."
Wilbur leaned in. "Is it… about love?"
George choked on his water.
Wilbur slammed his hand on the table. "I knew it!"
Techno, sitting beside him, didn't even look up from his food. "Here we go."
Wilbur, eyes ablaze with romantic fervor, grabbed George by the shoulders. "Who is she? Nay, who is he? Tell me at once, so that I may compose a ballad of your love!"
George turned red. "There is no one."
Wilbur smirked. "Liar."
George scowled. "I am not lying."
Wilbur gasped again. "The blush! The denial! The avoidance! Oh, George, you are in love!"
George groaned.
Tommy, who had been stuffing his face with toast, suddenly pointed a sticky finger at George. "Wait. Is it Dream?"
George nearly knocked over his chair. "WHAT?!"
Tommy cackled.
Wilbur swooned. "Dream! The rugged, golden-haired rogue!"
George buried his face in his hands.
This was hell.
Wilbur sighed wistfully. "Forbidden love… how tragic."
Techno finally spoke. "It's only forbidden if Dream hates him. And he doesn’t. Dream likes bothering him too much."
George groaned louder.
Wilbur patted his shoulder. "Fear not, dear cousin. Love shall find a way."
George wished he could crawl into a hole and die.