The Death That Follows

Boyfriends

TW: WNF, Mention of Violence

Two years later

Wilbur 

I have never really thought of myself as a boyfriend. Sure, I envisioned dating someone, but I always thought it would be bimbo blondes with too much spray tan. Not someone as sweet, and kind, and loving as George.

That first night, almost two years ago, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I had had a crush on George, sure, but I never, not in a million years, thought he would ever like me back. But it was a rebound. By the time George had woken up, I had come to terms with that. It was okay. We could still be friends, right?

But it wasn't just a one time thing. He was broken, and empty, and astray, and I helped fix him back up. Even when he thought he was beyond repair.

In the beginning, Tom asked me why I bothered. George loved Dream, always has, even after the acid Dream spat at my boyfriend. But I didn't care. I would still be his friend, so I stayed with him. Even when he yelled at me, even when we fought, even when he broke down crying, both wanting me to stay, and pushing me away because he said he wasn't good enough.

I didn't force him to do anything. We didn't kiss again for months, and only when he was ready. I didn't force my feelings on him, I wrote them into songs. I loved him, even before that night.

He said he didn't want to get married, at least not yet. Not after Dream. But we moved in together, sharing a little cottage-like house with our Newfoundland, Deek. And that was okay. We could date for two more months, or seventy years. I loved him more than anything I had known.

But there was something that could bring my perfect little world crashing down. Dream. No one had seen him since the accident, but George still hadn't gotten over him. Not fully, anyway. I saw him take out his ex-fiance's ring when he thought I wasn't looking, how he looked at it with such sadness that my heart broke for his suffering. Though I was jealous of what George and Dream once had, I was not bitter about it. Many nights, even years after the accident, I heard George talking in his sleep, held him late at night when he was crying about it.

He didn't outright tell me what Dream had said until we were living together. I never wanted a person to die more than that night. I wanted to wring Dream's scrawny, conniving little neck for what he had done to my George. Dream didn't know that George couldn't stand being called Gogy anymore, or hated the color green with a passion. He told me he thought he was safe with Dream. He told me, when Dream told him he didn't love him, that he, George, stopped loving himself too.

If Dream ever shows his face here again, I will personally obliterate him.

"Wilbur!" George yelled, laughing hysterically from the kitchen. I pushed past the swinging door from the light, tile lined kitchen to the homey, fire lit living room. George was on his back in the middle of the brightly colored rug in front of the fire, Deek wagging his tail as he stood over my boyfriend.

"I will save you!" I said, and Deek barked happily when I joined the wrestling.

"Ah, he's dripping!" George laughed, and Deek bounded away when he was overpowered by my strength, leaving me planking over George. "My hero." He said, the smile on his face getting smiler, turning into something more meaningful.

"How could I not save you?" I asked, and a faint blush tainted his cheeks. I kissed his forehead softly, gently, but was suddenly thrust forward when Deek jumped on my back, ready for round two.

"Get a two hundred pound dog, they said. It will be fun, they said." I mumbled from where my face was smashed into the floor, and I heard, and felt, George laugh under me.

"Weren't you the one that begged to get him?" He said, and I shrugged.

"Minor details lose meaning when I'm with you." I said, and he pushed me off him playfully.

"You are a simp." He said, and I helped him up.

"Only for you." I said, and the blush came back stronger. We walked back to the kitchen, the faint aroma of lunch, grilled cheese, still lingering in the air. George sat on the tall, wood countertop, while I went to work at the sink, trying to finish dishes.

"Hey, I have a friend who wants to stay over for a bit, only like two days, or so, is that alright?" George asked, slightly nervous, as I filled the dishwasher.

"Of course. Who is it?" I asked. Ever since HE had left, George had changed. He was quieter, more reserved, and pushed away most of his friends, even those who had been with him throughout his whole life. If he wanted the reincarnation of Schlatt to come over for drinks, I would welcome him with open arms.

"His name is Quackity. He lives in Las Nevadas, and hasn't been back for a while." George said, and I smiled up at him from his vantage point on the counter.

"Sounds good. I will have to pick up groceries, though." I said, and he smiled slightly. Just then, Deek came in, his great mound of fur making him hard to miss, and tried to jump up on the open dishwasher, spraying George and I with water.

"Deek!" George squealed, and I laughed, picking up the huge dog.

"Who trained you, boy?" I asked, and he licked my face, his big, chocolate brown eyes sparkling mischievously.

"You did." George said, and I put the big floof ball back on the ground.

"Oh yeah." I said, and George rolled his eyes, running his hands through his thick, black hair. Two years ago, when I knew I couldn't have him, I thought George was the epitome of perfection. With his big smile, soulful eyes, thick —-, and dark hair, I thought no one could even dream of reaching his level. But now, with his hair long, brushing against his chin, and face more open than I had ever seen, I knew I was wrong. And that I would keep being wrong forever, because George would just keep getting more and more perfect every single day.

"You know, we could put Deek in dog training lessons." George said, and I sighed.

"I know. But I want him to be ours, not some random person with a clicker." I said, and George nodded.

"Yeah. But we only have so many vases that aren't colorful trash thanks to that fluffy tail of his." He said, and I shrugged again.

"That one from my aunt, though? I don't know how I didn't smash it personally." I said, and George agreed, smiling slightly. I finished the dishes, wiping my hands on my already dirty jeans, and leaned over George, hands on either side of his legs.

"I love you, George." I said matter of factly, something I knew he loved. He hated it when I responded to him saying it with the same exact thing. He thought it was redundant and fake, so I made sure to say it at the most random of times.

He leaned down, his dark lashes practically covering his eyes, even though we were at about the same height.

"I'm glad." He said, the joke dying as I leaned closer, minimizing the space between us. But, just as my lips were about to meet his, the front door banged open with a crash, causing Deek to explode into a round of loud, frenzied barking.

"Hola, mi amigos. I'm back!" A voice said, and I groaned internally. I knew that voice, even if I had forgotten his name. Big Q had returned.