The Prince that Wore a Mask (DNF & Karlnapity)

Part Ten - BadBoyHalo's Mansion

A/N: Again, the places I use in this fic have no correlation back to DSMP's original lore. Thanks :)

"What do you mean, 'disappeared'?"

George felt himself starting to shake, his hands found themselves fiddling with the seams of his shirt from the nerves.

Tommy didn't let this go unnoticed. He knew how George could be, and he saw how his brother seemed to be panicky, so he insisted, "George, I think you and your friends should come inside and sit for a moment."

"Sit? Why would I–we need to si-" suddenly, George felt a hand on his shoulder.

He inhaled, and he realized where he was, and how he was feeling.

Dream.

Again.

...

I have to stop. I need to be strong and get to the bottom of all this madness.

With the unspoken encouragement, George changed his response to a simplistic nod, and entered his childhood home.

The scent of vanilla was still evident as ever, each wall stood sturdily.

The smell was the same.

The rooms were all the same.

Nothing much had changed.

Nothing except for the emptiness.

Dream followed closely behind George, and the other's after him. Alex whispered something into Sapnap's ear, but Geroge didn't catch it.

They sat around the coffee table complacent in the living room.

George took a deep breath, the hand depicted on his shoulder earlier, never failed to leave, and only comforted him.

He'd thank Dream later.

"First, this is Alex, Karl, Sapnap, and Dream," George's finger stops at Dream as he speaks, then he puts his hand down calmly.

Tommy nods as he sits down across from the group of boys. It felt like the boys were a family going in to see a professional for some group therapy, all squeezed up on the couch together, Tommy sitting across from them, preparing to ask and answer questions.

"Please, Tommy, explain..." George felt wedged between Karl and Dream, but he made no effort to move.

Tommy sighs, looking over to a nearby bookshelf full of memories–photographs, books, some of the things Wilbur or Techno wrote through the years, or Phil's books on combat...

"It was exactly a month after Will died," Tommy began, his hand gripping softly to the arm rest.

George kicked his foot up and down unnoticeably as Tommy spoke, anxiously awaiting for some damn answers, "I woke up that morning and no one was home. But there was a note that said, 'we'll be back'."

Tommy watched his feet, "So I waited, and waited...and more time passed."

George was so lost, he bawled his clothes into his fist out of frustration, "Why didn't you contact me?"

Tommy frowned–letting his head sink further, the tension grew, "It's hard to mail things from here to Kinoko, you know that. I also didn't wanna worry you until I was absolutely sure."

George didn't persist, he didn't continue asking questions about why he was just hearing about this, no–it wasn't time for that. It didn't matter now. All he knew was that he needed to get to the root of all problems here. And to do that he needed to be patient.