The Blood Games || Dnf || Book One

21

It's been days.

Days of disbelief, days of questioning silence. Days where Dream and George just cry, others where they just sit in numbness, unsure of what's next.

There are drones, maybe half a dozen, that hover around them. The machines witnessed Karl and Sapnap's deaths in the days earlier. They watched in nosy silence, seeming to see everything. George hates it.

He's laying on his back, hands on his stomach as he stares at the rising sun. It moves slowly, the faux rays touching everything in their path, caressing the tree leaves and the dirt. George doesn't look away.

"Do you think they're together?"

Dream's voice comes out broken, raw. George doesn't look at him.

"Yeah," he whispers, "I think they are."

Dream exhales through his nose, and George can see him rub his eyes in his peripheral. A hand tugs through dirty―quite literally―blond hair. After the rain stopped days ago, they were left in soaked clothes. Their clothes accumulated dirt, clinging to their skin and irritating them. They don't care, though.

It's hard to focus on something so inconsequential when something bigger and more tragic has just happened.

George sees the mute button flicker off on a nearby drone and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes in apprehension.

"Are you two done moping? It's time for one of you to win."

George grits his teeth and doesn't respond. He lets the female voice, through the speaker of the drones, sigh in disappointment.

"Many fans are saddened at the loss of your friends. Even more of them lost a significant amount of money― all of which was betted against you."

George recalls the very first day he met Sapnap. He remembers how the lumberjack seemed to have the most fans. The thought makes him sigh, a heavy exhale leaving his mouth.

Dream replies, his tone bitter, "Fuck off."

"Dream," George mutters, "don't engage with them. You'll make it worse."

"No," Dream spits, venom lacing his words. George opens his eyes and sits up, studying Dream. "They can fuck off before I rip the cords from their bodies."

A drone gasps, causing Dream to laugh darkly. He glares at them, seething, "Leave us alone."

"It is within our rights to ask players questions."

"'It is within our rights,'" Dream mimics, his tone high. He mutters, pointing a dagger at the camera of one, "Once we win, I'm gonna track down you drones specifically and find whoever is talking, and I won't hesitate to show you what I can do."

The drones pause. Dream doesn't break his stare, hand unwavering.

"And there you have it, folks," one of the drones says to its audience, "from live television! A threat by―"

Dream jumps up, cursing at the drone, which flies higher and continues to speak to the audience. George stands up and rests a hand on Dream's forearm. A muscle flexes from under his grip, anxious. Dream's jaw is clenched as he glares at the drones, his chest breathing heavy.

George murmurs, "Leave them alone, Dream. You're just giving them what they want: a show."

Dream looks at George, eyes softening. He sheathes his dagger and clasps George's hands between his own. Hands raise George's to Dream's mouth, where he brushes his lips over George's knuckles softly.