Chapter Text
This wasn’t the first time.
Dream had been here before.
On this couch.
He knew who would be sitting to his left. He knew that everyone was in the other room. He knew that someone else would walk into the room in about 30 minutes, but then quickly leave, without saying a word. He knew that they would get closer, and he would wake up soon after.
Maybe he could delay it. Maybe he could change the outcome.
Dream got up off the couch. He’s never done that. He walked into the bathroom and splashed his face with water. After standing in the mirror, he wondered if he’d still be on the couch when he went back out there. He closed the door as he left and approached the couch. He was still there. Sitting in the exact same place he always did.
Dream sat back down on the couch. If he didn’t turn to the left, it wouldn't happen. It simply wouldn't happen. Right? He could walk out the door right now.
But he didn’t want to.
Why would he want to? It’s not that he didn’t like it...it just confused him. This isn't normal, is it? He debated getting up, leaving the room, leaving the house, never coming back, ending the cycle. Would it solve his problems? Would it fisl anything? Or would it cause more problems? Maybe he should go.
But then he grabbed Dream’s hand, and he was sure he wanted to be there. He didn’t want to leave, so he wouldn't. And once again, just like before, he turned to his left. Dream was tracing the man’s face, not only with his eyes but with his hands as well. His face was soft, his eyes were dark brown.
How did they get here?
On his couch, staring at each other in a way that definitely was not platonic. Dream couldn’t remember, only remembering the warmth they shared with each other. Somehow the most important parts were always skipped over. He could never remember the exact details. Both people ran their fingers through each other’s hair. His hair, unlike Dream's, was pretty short. Yet, it was still so soft. Dream replaced his hand on the other man’s jaw, cupping his face, pulling him closer…
f u c k
Dream opened his eyes. It was only a dream,
again.
He threw his sheets to the side, leaving them in a mess against the wall. The cold air of his house hit him like a bus. He forgot how much he powered the air conditioner up last night. Dream sat straight up in his bed, sitting so that his feet lay flat on the ground. He placed his elbows on his knees, slamming his head into the palms of his hands. He did that a few times, before letting his head just rest there. He stopped before he got nauseous, before he got a headache. Patches meowed from across the room, where she sat on his desk. she looked so precious, so innocent. He looked at the time, then got up to feed her.
She walked with him to the kitchen, Dream practically dragging his feet across the floor, jumping on the counter as he prepared her food, and ate. Dream never got used to the smell of cat food. It always disgusted him, especially after a strange dream.
He went to the bathroom and stared himself in the mirror. He studied his own messy hair, his dark eye bags. He wanted to punch himself, well, punch the mirror. And he almost did but realized it would do more harm than good.
“stop,” he told himself, “I’ve told you it isn’t normal to have those about your best friend.”
It was not the first time, and Dream was certain it wouldn’t be the last. The first time, he was so incredibly confused. He thought it had been because of the movie he watched that night since he talked to George right after the movie and the second until he went to bed. So he brushed it off, ignoring the fact that it was kinda bizarre. But the second time, and the third, and fourth, fifth, sixth, and so on, he knew it wasn’t out of the blue. He had buried his feelings the second he felt them, but couldn’t do the same in his sleep. Somehow it took his sleeping state for him to realize that he didn’t want George to just be his friend. Sapnap said he should tell George, and almost convinced him, but he never did. He continued to shut out any feelings, he didn’t want to risk ruining his relationship with George with stupid feelings that could go away in a week.
And then weeks passed, and months passed, and the feelings hadn’t gone away. Sapnap was more than supportive and was always there to talk to Dream about it, but he always became frustrated when Dream didn’t believe him. But Dream had already convinced himself it was a lost cause. I mean, George was straight, no doubt about it. If he told George, their entire friendship would be ruined.
So he’ll keep it inside.
Tommy, Tubbo, Quackity, Sapnap, Karl, and Wilbur were all hanging out in the call with Dream. They had just finished recording and decided to chill on the SMP for a little while.
Everyone knew that George and Dream would jokingly flirt with each other, especially the viewers, but Dream started to do it less as the weird dreams started. He had never minded it, but it felt wrong since he kept his feelings secret. He felt fake, so he stopped. Not fully, but mostly. George had eased off too, but they both made their jokes when the time felt right.
Their friends had noticed, and although he occasionally asked them to stop, they normally didn’t. He ordinarily didn’t mind, but after the dream last night, he was upset with it. They teased him a lot that day. Everyone started to do it again now, everyone but Wilbur.
Dream bounced his leg nervously. Everything had made him uncomfortable that day, he just never built up the courage to say anything.
“Guys, stop. Please.” Dream knew it wasn’t a joke. He felt like they knew. He felt like they knew how he truly felt about George. They were mocking him. They were laughing at him. The world was laughing at him. Laughing at his confusion, his frustration.
His stomach tied in a knot. He ran his fingers through his blonde hair before squeezing his head. He probably wasn’t supposed to do that, but oh well. He didn’t care right now. He pressed his hands against his ears, digging the headset into the side of his head. It hurt. His head hurt. His friends didn’t realize how serious he was being. They continued, mostly just saying “Dream loves George!!” repeatedly, Tommy speaking over the rest of the call.
“You LOVE him, don’t you. Oh, Dream, don’t worry, it’s only George-”
“I said STOP!”
Dream slammed his hand onto his desk, it bouncing into the wall. Instant regret flooded through his entire body the second his hand made contact with the surface in front of him. Dream couldn’t tell if there were holes in the wall where the corners had hit it. The monitors shook, the four empty soda cans at different parts of the desk falling off, clattering to the floor. Patches jumped and scattered out of the room, hiding under the kitchen island. The noisy call was now dead silent.
“FUCK!” he screamed, right before spamming the leave call button until it finally worked.
Why did he always fuck shit up? He shouldn’t have snapped like that. He had always dealt with their teasing, why couldn’t he do it this time? What an asshole. A complete and utter asshole.
He stood up, leaving his desk, and stubbing his toe on the way out of the room.
“GODDAMMIT!”
All his built-up frustration, he broke. How did that door frame manage to move every time he left the room angry? He was tired. He was always tired these days. He purposefully dropped to the floor and laid there. He practically cried himself to sleep. He hated that he loved him, he hated that he did this, he hated how he snapped at his friends, he hated everything he did, everything he was doing.
A few hours later, Drista walked through the door. “Dream? It’s me!” she called for her brother.
“Mom just dropped me off here, are you home?” He didn’t answer her.
“Dream?” Patches approached her, “Well, at least you're here.” she followed Patches through the house, and she practically led her to where Dream lay. He was on the floor, face still a bit red, asleep. “What the-”