Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the time the sun would come up, Clay would be asleep. And he'd stay in bed for a long, long time, preoccupied by either nightmares or nothingness; pleasant dreams were a rare guest. He dreaded sleep - of course, it was necessary to live, but what his mind was when he let his guard down would be way worse than what the day offers him.

So, the blonde would go to bed at ungodly hours, being kept up by overthinking, sometimes editing or just the pure terror that came whenever he closed his eyes. Lately, he would talk to Sapnap or George until they fell asleep on Discord, but it wasn't enough to put the blonde to sleep, too. He'd just mindlessly stare at his ceiling, occasionally hearing the symphony of loud cars zooming past his house.

His room was dark most nights, although he sometimes would forget to turn off his led lights. They were green, of course, but even when surrounded by a colour symbolizing peace of mind, he still would just fall deeper into the hole that he dug himself.

As weeks went by, his sleep schedule evaporated. He'd occupy his mind for as long as he could, becoming hyperactive on youtube and twitter, brushing it off as having too much free time and needing to keep up his good work to provide content. He'd throw himself into a work fit, sometimes not even sleeping at all.

When he'd get up, he saw his reflection clear, but he never lingered his gaze on it too long. It was like the Clay from the mirror was looking right back at him, everything he felt shown clearly in his eyes - he hated it.

Eyes are a mirror to the soul, eh?

Maybe that's why he was afraid of showing his face.

Sapnap always noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the tired and overwhelmed gaze he'd try to hide under a smile, that his small dimples and the wrinkly lines you'd get when you genuinely smiled appeared less and less often. Hell, he even noticed how messy his room was, how he'd always have his blinds rolled down, how after a bit of time his body-length mirror - that was propped against the grey wall - was turned around, the reflective side facing the corner of his room. Nick was, to say the least, concerned.

But Clay always seemed to find an excuse. Not one that Nick believed, no, but just one that would signify the end of the conversation. He felt like he was a burden - I mean, a grown man having such a dilemma where everything in his life seemed perfect?

Too bad Nick never believed any of his words.

With time, he saw him get more not-like-himself. The bags under his eyes were now not even going away, and his hair - even though he did trim it once in a while, so it wasn't any longer - would be disheveled. Even the usual sparkle he had in his eyes when laughing or talking to Nick and George would disappear. 

It felt good, being cared for, but it all just made Clay more indifferent about himself. He stopped talking to a lot of people, simply because his arms were too tired to hold up that pretty porcelain mask with a pretty, forced smile. Hell, he'd even ignore Bad's texts - but the real concern set in when he had stopped answering George.

It would usually be just him, now. Nick would call as much as he could, but Clay would not always answer.

And as to George?

Well, Dream ignoring him and rarely even streaming with him definitely hurt. At first, he figured that maybe it's a private matter - family stuff, or something. But he was not as close to Clay as Nick was - and that hurt double. When he'd ask the Texan about if Clay has answered, it would always be yes or something indicating that they talk more often, while George would get left on 'Delivered' for hours and hours on end.

Besides that, Sapnap would not tell him about Dream's problems. It all felt so confusing - George was certain that they were so, so close with Dream, yet everything felt like a secret that the British male was being pushed away from and treated like a push-around. It hurt, but what hurt most, was the fact that Dream was really his closest friend - and he had no idea what was going on with him.

At first, Clay figured that it was not personal. He tried to give everyone, except his support motherly friend Sapnap, equal amounts of time. But as he spiraled into the void of the tiring routine, he'd noticed a weird pattern that appeared every single time George would text him.

✉ One notification from: GeorgeNotFound

As his eyes turned to his phone screen, he suddenly sat up, damning himself for turning off the  'show message contents on the lock screen' feature. He held the phone in one hand, prepping himself up with the other. He gulped, the glowing light emitting from the device being the only thing properly lighting up his features. Suddenly, he felt both his heart rate go up and his mind get more awake, making his body confused with how suddenly he reacted to something that is, biologically speaking, not a threat.

Yet he kept staring at the notification, his fingers even hovering over it, as if he was going to click it. After what seemed like centuries just staring at the name, his phone locked itself, leaving him alone with his reflection yet again.

He chewed on his lip so hard that it started bleeding as he tangled his hand into his locks, pulling on them gently. What the fuck was that? Why does he keep reacting to texts like this? And, more importantly, why does he only react to this one person's messages in this way?

All of his questions were destined to be left unanswered as another notification popped up, making him flinch. It was Nick, calling. He sighed and answered, figuring that ghosting him would only get the Texan to yell at him.

"He-oh god, you look awful. Wait, are you still asleep? Isn't it like two fucking pm in Florida?" Sapnap asked, looking at Clay's camera with a concerned and confused expression. He was right -  Clay was shirtless, his bed hair was a prominent mess, his face was puffy and red like it always is when someone is suddenly woken up, and his room was mostly dark, light not daring to peek through the shut blinds.

"Wow, great way to start my day, Nick." Clay exclaimed half-jokingly, but also tiredly, stretching his arms out and rubbing his eyes. He's finally gotten used to facetime calls, atleast with Nick. Facetiming George, his other best friend - who still, as the rest of the world except his family, had no idea what he looked like - went through his mind a few times, but the even the thoughts of clicking the green camera button sent shivers down his spine.

"Dude, I'm worried." Nick repeated, something Clay has gotten used to hearing now. He had to hold back from rolling his eyes playfully, but before he could speak again, the blonde got cut off, the voice on the other line sounding more serious.

"Clay, I'm serious. I've tried to let you slack off, I thought you were gonna be fine but now I'm genuinely concerned, bro." He said, his southern accent gently shining through. Clay refused to look at his screen, feeling guilt build up in the pit of his stomach. "Fuck, I know. Nick, I know." His words were almost ghostly, but the other heard them loud and clear. Concern shone through his expression as the blonde still refused to look at the screen, biting on his already scarred lip quite hard.

"What if I visited you?"

Clay's head immediately shot back towards Nick, trying to read his expression. Was he joking? Was he serious? What the fuck was going on?

"I'm serious, Clay. You've been mostly alone, your only friend is your postmate and Patches. We'd meet, maybe that would help." He said, his words lingering in the blonde's mind for a minute. Sapnap was trying. For him.

He let out a shaky breath, rubbing his eyes in defeat. "Fine. I'll pay for your plane tickets."

"There's no need, really-" Sapnap started, but he was cut off by a half-smiling Clay, looking at the screen. "Nope. That's the least I can do for you even.. caring."

♦

Clay had just finished relocating the pile of clothes on his chair back onto his floor before hearing a 'Ding!' come from his computer. He stepped closer and bent down to look at one of his three screens, seeing the notification.

GeorgeNotFound has gone live!

He bit his lip, considering just ignoring it and going back to 'cleaning'. He usually joined and watched his friends' streams, but it felt different this time. A bit dishonest, just watching him while there's an ignored message sitting in his inbox since the morning. But he really couldn't stop himself from clicking on his nick, feeling defeated for some reason.

As soon as George's face popped up in the corner, he felt his stomach hurt, almost as if just the sight made all the guilt and anxiety come back and slap him on the face at once. Clay gulped, feeling himself heat up - which he figured was just from embarrassment. Why was he being such a dick to everyone? He barely even made an effort to talk to people nowadays. He felt tired, resigned - but something in George's expression broke him inside.

George, as he looked to the side at his second monitor, glanced over to Dream's discord tag. Upon seeing the usually green dot being gray once again, he looked back at his main monitor, pretending that he wasn't, at all, worried. Why wasn't Dream online? He almost always watched his streams, or even more often, participated in them.

His small smile fell for a second before he gathered everything in his willpower to bring it back up again, not letting the chat speak about his joyful expression faltering like that. After all, they couldn't see what he was looking at - but Clay definitely knew what it was.

The blonde sighed in defeat, wiping the bit of sweat that gathered on his face. He pushed his curls out of his eyes and he kept his eyes glued to the ceiling as he spun in his chair, thinking about what's the right thing here to do. He couldn't just show up in the vc without warning and act as if everything was normal, but just simply ignoring the issue for longer would make Clay feel even more guilty. This was, in fact, his best friend. He felt horrible now that he'd realized what it must've looked like to the sweetly clueless British boy - he had no idea about why Clay was so absent, what was happening and why he had no idea if he had any strength to talk to anyone.

"You're such a prick, Clay. Oh god." he muttered to himself, facepalming. Being a grown man and forgetting to take his head out of his ass because his self-destructive behaviour is hurting others in the process was really not something he'd imagine his 21-year old self would be doing.

So, Clay did what he knew best. Which was ignore his problems.

Dream:

Hi

10:45 am

As he heard the notification ring from the stream, he looked over at his screen, nervous as to what George's reaction would be. Why was he so nervous? He was still his best friend , even if he did fuck up a little.

But as George didn't even bother to look at his device, Clay felt a bit of disappointment. He was chewing on his poor lip again, the scabs from doing it so often never getting to heal - leaving his lips kinda chapped and scarred. The blonde figured that interrupting him in the middle of a stream wasn't good, but what was worse is his tendency to be scared of trying to open the DMs again. He decided to, for once, maybe take Nick's advice.

What caused this change in his behaviour? What made him want to try again?

Where everyday blends the same and he has no idea what's the difference between Tuesday and Saturday, it's really hard to feel anything other than numbness and maybe occasional boredom, anger and dread. Regret, too - just really any positive emotion being replaced with it's unpleasant counterpart.

But, for the first time in a long time, he felt his heart jump as he saw George's face again. It wasn't a negative thing, he thought - but he figured it was just because it's been so long since they really had a normal conversation, so it wasn't anything unusual, right?

And, as Clay tried to convince himself that he was right and it was no big deal, his heart still ached to reach out and text him. He wanted to be in a vc with his best friend again, laughing and screwing around on minecraft.

So why was it so hard to even pick up the phone?

He sighed, the skin on his lip breaking and letting down a drop of blood under the pressure of his teeth. He cursed silently, wiping it away with the outside of his hand as he picked up the phone again, quickly typing a message and sending it before he could even try to overthink it.

Dream:

Wow, ignoring me, rude

10:48am

He sighed shakily as his eyes turned back to the screen, waiting for the notification to be heard. Due to the stream delay, he didn't hear it for almost a second too long - which made him worried. Did George mute his notifications? I mean, that's understandable, but his stomach dropped even more.

Thankfully, his worries were brought to an end as he heard the 'Ding!' from George, his eyes immediately shooting down to the camera in the corner. And, as predicted, with the second message George finally decided to check who it was, his expression unreadable for a moment.

But as he unlocked his phone and read over the notification, his eyes widened, almost as if in a terrifying symphony of fear, shock, confusion even. Nonetheless, Clay couldn't pry his eyes from the screen as he tried his best to read every emotion in his expression - which would be hard, considering his eyes weren't even that visible at the moment, but the blond knew the other well enough to not need them.

As his emerald green eyes scanned the screen, he could see the worry and confusion in George's face. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and his eyes were almost squinting as he read the message, for what seemed like ages. And, even though he was seeing him through the screen, he could see his expression soften, his features now deemed caring and still worried.

'Ding!'

George:

Oh shit, sorry, i didn't mean to

George:

I didn't know you'd text so sudden

George:

Are u okay?

10:50 am

His soft breath hitched at the noise, before realizing that it was, indeed, from George. Stupid stream lag; catching him off guard. Before Dream opened the notification, he let his gaze linger for a moment longer on George. He tried to hide his reaction, of course - when being a popular streamer, you really can't let yourself slip up - but it seemed to have an impact on him as the chat caught on, immediately spamming 'GirlfriendNotFound!!!!'and other things. Dream, despite being abnormally nervous and anxious, smiled goofily at the chat. They didn't know it was Dream who texted George, of course.

Wait, why was he smiling?

Did he just get called GirlfriendNotFound?

He didn't have time to think about that as he went on to reply, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead. He suddenly needed to change his hoodie to a t-shirt.

Dream:

Yeah

Dream:

I'm sorry

Dream:

Vc after stream?

10:51 am

Clay hadn't realized that what he just said outed him as a viewer of the stream, so he sat calmly, waiting for a response. Oblivion is sort of a peaceful thing - for someone like the blond, atleast, as it usually replaced his tendency to overthink. Not for too long, though, as he received almost an instant response.

George:

Ooo your watching my stream

George:

Anyways, yeah sure

George:

Wait you're*

10:51 am

Clay immediately dropped his phone, hiding his face in his hands. Why was he so embarrassed about that? It wasn't unusual. He almost always - well, atleast back in the day where he still felt okay - watched his friends' streams, casually chatting or donating.

The blond sighed, setting his device down on the desk with the conversation open. He had no idea what to reply so he just casually pretended to end the conversation there, his gaze still glued to the screen. There, he saw George just barely looking up from his phone screen, a small smile spread on his face.

They were okay.

Clay sighed in relief, running his hand through his golden locks. He was worried. But George doesn't seem mad, atleast, so that was good - although that didn't stop his mind from racing at the speed of light, jumping from one radical conclusion to another.

He looked down before tangling his finger around the collar of his hoodie, trying to ventilate himself. The blond surely noticed that it wasn't efficient as he just pulled the thick sweatshirt off, leaving himself in a plain t-shirt. He looked at the window and contemplated opening it, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to let the even hotted Floridian air come in - also, it was nearing noon, and even behind closed blinds the sun was deadly. Well, deadly for someone like Clay, who barely moved from his desk or his bed at all.

He quickly clicked off George's stream, his heart thumping at the sudden lack of the bubbly british voice. He knew staying wouldn't hurt him, but he felt as if sitting there and just staring at George's facecam to see if he was still mad or anything was quite creepy. Not that he didn't want to do it, but that's besides the point.

The blond gulped, standing back up from his chair and rubbing his eyes tiredly. He felt empty once again, the sudden silence almost crushing him. He needed to put on some music to not go insane - and maybe, maybe, in the back of his mind, he had realized that he just needed a replacement, anything to stand in for George's voice. Nothing compared.

He quickly clicked shuffle on his playlist as time passed, throwing himself onto his soft mattress. There he laid - tangled into his sheets, that were surprisingly cool, or maybe he was just hot - on his back, his gaze almost glued to the ceiling. The first faint music in the background seemed to get louder and louder, the familiar lyrics making him want to both throw his phone against a wall, and just keep listening, feeling like they touched him more than he would like them to.

Achilles,

He flinched as the lead singer's voice beamed again, feeling as if his ears had become more sensitive - despite the volume not changing at all.

Achilles,

His mind traveled to different places, of course. With someone who's become so quiet and closed, you'd think they have nothing to think or talk about - no, he did have a lot to talk about. But he was too scared.

Achilles, come down

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, an almost inhuman noise coming from the back of his throat. No matter what he thought about, no matter what he tried to occupy his mind with, his thoughts kept going back to that one person.

Won't you get up off,

He felt weird, to say the least. His gaze was almost clouded as he tangled his hands into his locks gently, his pained expression softening. What was wrong with him? He almost preferred the way things were just a day or two ago - it was better to not have to worry about feeling anything than suddenly have his heart so heavy and his mind so mangled. Or, so it seemed.

Get up off,

His mind could either take a leap of faith and let the feelings lead, thinking that they maybe could get somewhere and find out what was this ache in his heart that appeared as soon as he stopped answering his best friend - or he could keep himself closed.

The roof.

As the song stopped, he gulped, prepping himself up on his forearms. The quiet seemed like it teared him from his fantasy, bringing him back to Earth. He tried to come back to his thoughts, desperately trying to hold on and grasp them, but they seemed to fly away like a balloon filled with helium, soon just becoming unreachable. He groaned, slapping his hand on the mattress with anger. What the fuck was going on with him?

Suddenly, from a grey, ugly - but definitely somewhat calm - reality, his numbed mind became even more confusing. Why did his heart jump up like that? Why was he so eager to text so suddenly? Why did he even bother asking George to talk, almost as if he hadn't been cut off from people for a long time? Why, in that short few minute period where he watched George play with a small smile, did his troubles ease and go into the second shot, his mind only occupied with the.. task at hand, if you will.

Clay was so, so, confused.

But it didn't help that, when he reached for his phone, he found out the reason that his music had stopped was a call from George. He saw his name right there, in light grey, in 'vc 2' in the Discord server that the three of them - him, the Brit and Nick - had.

There it was.

His heart jumped up again, just as it did when he opened his stream earlier. But Clay was way too focused on that damn username spread over his screen to notice, or frankly, even pay attention. His ghostly long and pale fingers hovered over the voice chat name before clicking on it with a small gasp.

When he joined, there was silence. For like two seconds, but still - for Clay, it felt like eternity. He hadn't actually called him for long, that's probably why.

"Oh." the voice on the other end cleared their throat, sounding soft and calm - much calmer than during the stream. He didn't have to act, he didn't have to be entertaining and energetic - George's voice was clearly laced with a hint of tiredness. Nontheless, the boy wanted to talk to Clay - which almost made the blond smile, the only thing holding the grin back being the stupid amount of wracked nerves that were making themselves known in that moment. "Hi." George hummed quietly. His facecam was off, obviously, but Clay could almost see his furrowed brow and a half-smile dashing on his lips.

"Hi." Clay finally muttered in response, holding the phone with one hand, having put the Discord call on speaker. The other hand was fiddling with the hem of his white t-shirt, wrinkling it even more than it was before. His legs were still somewhat tangled into the thin sheets, but now he was sat up, leaning his back against the cold wall.

George immediately noticed how Clay's voice was almost a morning voice, a bit hoarse as if he hadn't spoken since he woke up. The brunet bit his lip, fixing the headset on his ears. He was worried.

"Dream? Have you just woken up?" he asked, trying to make his tone seem like a joke, maybe in hopes of getting a more genuine answer. Nonetheless, the genuine tone in his voice still stayed, forcing a small, undetectable smile upon Clay's lips. George quickly ran his hand through his hair, looking over at the screen that he had pulled up the Discord on.

"Uhm, well-" Clay began, immediately being cut off by the other. "What? Clay, are you serious? Isn't it like, six pm for you?" George asked, acting a bit shell shocked. It was usually him sleeping for ages, and he knew that that behaviour wasn't typical for Dream.

Clay was afraid to say that no, I haven't slept at all, I just laid in my bed thinking about you and-

"What?-" The blond asked, his tone jokingly defensive. He heard a huff in disbelief, receiving a 'you're unbelievable' in response. He just grinned, even though he was aware George didn't see that. "Hey, why? You miss me so much?" Clay said, the shit-eating grin now obviously audible in his words. He was certain that George rolled his eyes then and there, which made him let out a quiet chuckle.

Wow, I hadn't heard that in a while, George thought as he let out a small chuckle as well.

What the two felt was reserved for them and them only - but mutual chuckles seemed to have sounded.. out of place. Different than before. I mean, they said that you only miss something when you lose it, but neither of them realized how true those words were.

And, even though they were two separate minds, they thought alike. They both felt a wave of heat wash over them at that moment, unaware of the other's feelings. And they both thought it was certainly weird.

"Nope. Never. Get out." George said defensively, although leaving a clear goofy tone in his voice. But it was too late - Clay had already worn a smirk on his face, feeling as if it was one of the spring evenings again, the two in a call, mindlessly throwing jokes, talking about stupid theories and unabashedly flirting - of course, jokingly - until the late hours of the night.

"Georgie missed me!" He sang in a very high-pitched tone, making George have to pull his headset back a bit to not destroy his ears. The blond earned a laugh in response, making his smile stay for a little longer as his gaze was directed from the device's screen to the ceiling. The same ceiling he had spent hours staring at, mindlessly lost in his own mind - but now, although not everything was clear, he wasn't numb. He wasn't sad or angry. He wondered why that is - as if it wasn't the obviously bright, happy boy on the other end of the line.

"No! I am gonna hang up." George huffed, making Dream chuckle. George liked that chuckle. He liked hearing it. "Oh, come on now-" Dream began, cutting himself off only to hear George hum affirmatively. He sat up straight, suddenly not feeling that sleepy anymore. "You love me." Dream finished.

What the blond didn't know, is that on the other side of the ocean, George mouthed his words with him, already knowing the catchphrase all-too-well. He rolled his eyes jokingly, shifting in his seat to make himself more comfortable.

"I don't." He said, which made Dream gasp on the other line. "You do!" he immediately said, as if he was a little stubborn kid who was not going to admit that they're wrong. Was he really wrong, George thought, before simply answering in one breath - "No, I'm pretty sure I don't."

"You do! You do, you do, you do!-" Dream chanted over and over, successfully not letting George interrupt him. George wore a defeated smile on his face, mumbling something about how he hates the other - thankfully, the blond was way too into exclaiming the same phrase over and over again too even pay attention.

"Clay." George mumbled after a few seconds, making the breath in the blond's throat hitch. As expected, he stopped immediately, the call suddenly falling silent.

Clay looked at his phone in disbelief, the name echoing in his mind. He never called him his real name, it was always just Dream, Dream, Dream. But that wasn't even the worst part - the worst part was that he liked it. Not in the egoistical, selfish way, where he'd just feel self-absorbed, no - he liked it coming out of George's mouth. The soft tone, the mix of awkward-comfortable silence after.

Both of the boys were speechless- one, completely shocked, his mouth hanging open at his real name being called - the other satisfied that he got him to shut up. And, again, there was a parallel between them, making that moment seemingly cliche - even though they were unable to see each other, they both wore an accidental light pink blush on their cheeks. Neither knew about the other's pinked face, but they both decided to ignore it. That's normal, right?

Their silence was broken by a sound that signified someone joining the call. The air pressuring up in George's lungs slowly left with relief, pushing back the thought that he did something wrong. Why did Dream not say anything?

Well, he was shell shocked, but he quickly snapped out of it as Sapnap's loud and clear voice echoed, making him cringe to the contrast to George's soft and quiet tone. "Ello!" Nick said, audibly close to his microphone as he mimicked a british accent. He didn't even let the boys say hi before continuing, the accent wearing off for a second. "Sorry to interrupt, I hope y'all weren't jerking off!"

"Ew, Nick, wha-ha-haT-" Dream choked on his own wheeze, making the other American laugh. Suddenly, the tension dropped - yet the moment stayed in the blond's head, confusion still spread lightly over his facial features.

"Sorry, sorry, I wanted in on the fun." He mumbled jokingly before coughing to end the topic, the call being lit up by light chuckles. "Anyways, how are my favourite homeboys doing, I haven't seen y'all talk in a while!"

"You sound like a cowboy, ew." George quickly commented, making Nick let out a dramatic gasp. "Yeah, get yourself together, Snapchat." Dream added, earning yet another over-exaggerated reaction from him.

"Wow, I came to say hi and I'm getting attacked? Losers, that's rude. I could've stayed talking to Karl." He huffed, acting like a little kid getting offended. George giggled softly before a shuffle was heard from the other side, followed by a Discord disconnect sound.

And, somehow, Clay's smile quickly faltered, the rock on his shoulders becoming heavier. Why did he leave so suddenly?

"Hey, man, you alright?" Sapnap asked quickly, knowing that Clay hadn't been in the mood to talk recently. It surprised him to see the two in a vc, but he was quite glad that the blond might've felt better - lately, it's just been Nick forcing Clay to call him like a very protective mother. It brought them closer, yes, but he wasn't really sure if it was worth it, considering he'd always hear Clay bitching at him.

"Yeah." The other quietly replied, and, within seconds, received a response. "Stop biting your lip, bro-" Clay's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. His camera wasn't on, how was Nick supposed to know? He was, indeed, chewing on it - so he slowly released it from in between his teeth, letting out a confused hum. He'd forgotten the countless hours Nick had spent on facetime with him, making sure he took care of himself and Patches. He was a good friend. "You always do that. No girl's gonna want to kiss you, my man-" Sapnap joked, trying to loosen up the atmosphere. It didn't quite work, but Clay appreciated it, nonetheless. I don't want a girlfriend-

Just as he was about to speak up again, he heard someone join the vc, immediately looking back at his phone. He didn't need to check who it was as a familiar soft voice - only different audio quality - beamed in his ears, making him furrow his eyebrows in surprise. "Hey, sorry. I just needed to switch to my phone, my pc was lagging out." A british voice announced.

There it was, again.

Dream's heart fluttered in the same way it did earlier. And the world became a little bit lighter, even if for just a moment.

Chapter Text

Exhaustion.

He knew the feeling all too well. He'd stay up hours and hours editing, tweeting, mindlessly scrolling through social media or, of course, streaming.

Not that he didn't love what he did - no, of course he loved it. And the fans, too.

But with time, he seemed to lose enjoyment in what he did. To be quite frank, everything seemed to lose sense for a minute or two, making him feel like he's blindly clinging onto his reality, everyday being the same. The false sense of security was driving him insane, yet he never really managed to do anything.

Usually, the blandness would go away. It'd wash away like an annoying coffee stain on your white t-shirt, magically disappearing after the fourth or fifth wash.

But as time passed, his state didn't get better. He'd find light in small things he did, such as talk to his friends or chat with his supporters, but it would go away in a second, leaving him disappointed. This, this feeling of numbness; it stayed. It clung to Clay like an annoying parasite, and with time, the blonde just stopped caring and trying to fight, letting it slowly fill his vision with a nausea-inducing, horrible grey.

Time.

"It's time to start. Dream, you there?" a warm, loud voice echoed in his headphones, making the boy immediately click over to discord and pull the volume down by quite a bit. He bit his lip, suddenly putting on a smile, trying his best to seem as energetic as usual.

"Yes, Sapnap, I'm here. Unfortunately." soft words with a joking tone left the blonde's mouth, immediately making the other male in the call realise how wide his shit-eating grin spread across Clay's face must've been at that moment. He was right, of course - years of knowing him have proven that he has a specific love for witty and annoying remarks - so Nick rolled his eyes, huffing into the microphone from the other end of the line.

"Ha, ha. Very funny, you're such a comedian." the Texan mumbled, grinning aswell.

"I know." Dream answered quietly, his words being overshadowed by a loud 'ding!'. His eyes quickly crawled over to the side monitor where he had Discord pulled up, noticing that George had finally joined the call.

"Oh wow, British dude decided to show up? What a miracle. Guys, why is it that when I'm streaming you are always late or out of it? It's starting to feel offensive."  Nick called, making Dream chuckle effortlessly. Of course he was joking, but he put on an offended tone, adding a pout for the dramatic effect.

Sometimes, light jokes and casual calls were enough to draw Clay's attention away from everything that was wrong with him. He was grateful for them.

And so, the three went onto Minecraft, beginning a casual stream on the SMP. They laughed, they burnt stuff and killed pets - mostly Sapnap - and just talked about nothing and everything, carefully picking their words to be just enough to satisfy the viewers with their answers. Or, maybe that was only Dream that did it - he doesn't know what's going on in his friends' heads, does he now?

He managed not to zone out too much, suddenly change the mood or blurt out something that would get him in trouble or get the stans theorizing about his mood. He felt like he was doing a good job entertaining the fans, and it felt painfully easy to just laugh and hear the others chuckle in a carefree way, making him smile softly.

Just as George and Sapnap said their goodbyes to the latter's stream, his smile dropped. They couldn't see it - they wouldn't know. They didn't see him, they didn't even know what he looked like. They had no clue.

The heart in his chest stammered, suddenly reminding him of how dishonest he was being to his friends.

Liar .

That word stayed in his mind, almost as if it had been immediately engraved into his memory. He shivered, suddenly feeling cold - which, he had to admit, was quite an unusual feeling for someone living in hot Florida, in the middle of summer. But he knew it wasn't because of the weather.

Liar .

He chewed on his lip harshly as he clicked around his computer, zoning out of the conversation.

Liar .

This time, the voice was more of a hiss than just a remark. It physically hurt Dream, making it feel like he's stabbing himself with a knife. At this point, the screen was a blut, and his friends' voices were muffled, making it impossible for Dream to hear or react.

Liar .

It echoed in his mind, making him want to tangle his hands into his short, blonde locks and pull on them. He wanted to scream, cry, whatever - but he couldn't.

It seemed as if the mask he had spent years on perfecting, gluing to his face - was too strong to now take off.

The only emotion he managed to actually feel for more than a few seconds was inexplicable anger and disappointment, in none other than himself.

He quickly muttered something to the microphone about being 'tired' and 'logging off for today' before he disconnected, immediately turning off the computer. Soon, the only noise in the room was his unstable breathing and the quiet music he had put on earlier to make the stream nicer. As he had no choice but to listen to the lyrics, he froze.

You crave the applause, 

As he stayed in his seat, he watched the screen turn black, only for his gaze to catch himself mirrored in the square in front of him. Three squares, actually, looking at him from all sides - making him feel terrifyingly watched.

Yet hate the attention

He looked at his expression. Even if this wasn't a proper mirror, his eye bags were still visible, even more than his freckles. The blonde locks sitting comfortably on his head were disheveled, but he couldn't find any reason as to why he would bother trying to put them in place. As it always did when short, it curled even more than usual, making it impossible to style it any 'presentable' way - so he just let it be natural, figuring no one would see it, anyway.

Then miss it, your act is a ruse

That was a good part of being faceless - you never needed to just sit there and fix your hair, worried what you look like. He never needed to fix the camera or change his shirt because the lighting looked weird - it was the most comfortable option, not only providing him safety and preventing him from getting doxxed, but also giving him a sense of security. A false one, at that, but still, a sense of something that could maybe sometimes bring a little more comfort to his dull house that he never dared to call home.

It is empty, Achilles

So end it all now

Clay sighed, hiding his face in his hands before dragging them down his features, groaning dramatically. He turned away from the computer and turned off the music on his phone, feeling as if the sight and the lyrics were just another added weight on top of his heart - and so he got up, feeling a bit dizzy for a moment.

The male walked over to the small kitchen, leaning against the counter as he glared at his fridge, looking like he was X-Raying right through. Ah, the old-age dilemma - what am I going to eat?

Frankly, he had no appetite. But it was okay. Atleast he figured he sorta needed food to function, and that starving wouldn't exactly be pleasurable.

He was violently brought back to reality as he felt something soft rub against his arm, making him look to the side. On the counter sat Patches, his fluffy house cat, looking up at him in hope.

"You hungry?" he asked quietly, his voice a bit hoarse from all the screaming he did when streaming. At his words, almost as if she understood, Patches jumped down and landed onto the floor with grace, walking over to her bowl. Clay half-smiled tiredly, bringing out cat food out of the cupboard and putting a bit in the bowl, Patches immediately biting into it.

He just pet the cat between her ears before standing back up straight and yawning with a stretch of his arms. He glanced over at the table in the living room, his eyes searching for his digital clock - only to realise he had thrown it out months ago.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes and making his way towards his bedroom. "Clay, you are officially the epitome of stupidity." he mumbled to himself, his words barely audible; yet in such a quiet home, it felt almost like it was a loud voice, echoing only in his mind.

The male sat on his black gaming chair, grabbing his phone and spinning around gently. 6:45 pm, Sunday.

It's common knowledge that the afternoons of a Sunday are the worst. Usually that's mostly seen coming from adults with jobs, dreading to get back to an unhappy work environment; and kids, who were bashfully happy to greet the weekend, clinging onto it's last seconds with the same dread.

Clay was neither.

He didn't have a job, per say - he did youtube. He lived off of it just fine, I mean - more than just fine. He stayed humble, staying in his cramped home in Florida, not interested in spending his income on.. rich people stuff.

But Sunday Sunsets had this feeling to them; almost a feeling of nostalgia, maybe even regret. Regret that he hadn't done better at picking himself back up from his last breakdown; regret that he hadn't talked to his family in a relatively long time; regret that he's the way he is, scared of the word 'feelings', trapped in his own mind of a prison; regret that he, simply, didn't know what to do.

And the nostalgia was even worse. His mind would bring him back to random times that almost ached his brain. It brought him to, for example, when he was smaller, sitting comfortably in the backseat with his younger sister while their mom drove for six hours straight, determined to get them to a cool vacation location. She was tired, but she still smiled - something that Clay would forever admire her for.

The male blinked a few times, groaning as he dramatically hit his head on his dark wood desk. "Get yourself together." he muttered, his fingers ghosting over his face as he glanced over to the mirror, seeing his reflection stare back at him.

A grown man, complaining about being tired of everyday being the same, and the same, and the same.

His expression became blank as he stared himself directly into the eyes, feeling the uprising panic in his stomach calm down, being replaced with a scarring emptiness. There. It's gone, finally.

And, as if hearing his thoughts, his phone started ringing, making his gaze flick back onto his desk, where the device was laying.

The name 'Sapnap' lit up his screen, noticing that Nick was facetiming him. He put on a tired, but shit-eating smile, running his hand through his hair. The Texan always did this - he facetimed Clay, knowing that all he would get is a view of his ceiling. He'd jokingly try to bait the blonde into showing his face, but it was never in a mean or rude manner. He felt comfortable around Nick, and he knew the boy, who was his best friend, never meant any harm in his stupid jokes. 

After all, it was Nick who knew him best.

Not to the point that he knew how many nights he had spent sleepless, how much of a mess his room was, what was going on inside his head - but the boy knew him enough to know when something's up, even only reading from his voice. As much as he appreciated it, Clay also hated being read, feeling like an open book always made him think he was vulnerable - even if he'd trust Nick with his life.

He slowly picked up, the only thing that his camera showed being his grey ceiling. Nick's grinning face soon popped up on his screen, making him wheeze. "What's so funny, chief?" the other asked, furrowing his brows, the grin never leaving his face.

"Your face is." Clay quickly responded, making Nick roll his eyes. He let out another chuckle, which was soon followed by the brunette laughing, too. "Rude." he  commented under his breath, before setting his phone down somewhere. Clay grabbed his lime merch hoodie, pulling it over his head. The AC was working a little too well.

"Now, what do you want?" Clay asked, not a rude tone in his voice. He sat down on his chair again, making it screech from the impact. Well, that's comforting , he thought as he glanced back over at the glowing screen.

"To see your face." Nick said, making the other call him an idiot immediately, the two laughing comfortably. He quickly continued, looking down from the screen, probably onto his pc keyboard. "Anyway, I was just calling to check up on you. You seemed awfully quiet, are you okay? Did you sleep well and eat?" He asked in a cooing voice, a small smirk lingering on his lips as Clay rolled his eyes at the boy's motherly tone.

"Yes, mother, I did." He said, brushing him off. Sapnap was always this jokey, and it was hard to take most of his remarks seriously - but something in his heart jumped, feeling cared for. Subconsciously, a small smile crept up onto his face, feeling as if he was just ripped out of his comfort zone - not in the bad way.

Suddenly, unbeknownst to Sapnap , Clay picked up his phone, slowly turning it so it actually showed his face. His blonde curls were less of a mess - since he managed to run a hand through them earlier - and his lime merch hoodie was in the shot, making him look hilariously self-centered. His freckles were extremely visible, as his emerald-green eyes were brought out even more by the colour of the fabric. He had a vague 5 o'clock shadow, which wasn't that visible anyways, since he was blonde - but it surprisingly didn't make him any less attractive.

Of course, the dumbass on the other line was still talking about something irrelevant, his eyes glued to the computer screen - he hadn't noticed. The blonde, on the other end, felt his heart pound, a small smile crawling up his lips.

Why did he do that?

Well, short answer was, he couldn't give a fuck.

Sapnap knew him more than he knew himself. There was no excuse as to why he hid his face, really - the other, despite being a loud asshole, was really his best friend. It felt weird to finally show his features, but he had to start somewhere - and the sudden burst of adrenaline followed by the warmth in his heart caused by someone caring for him was a dangerous mix, causing him to make an impulsive decision that he would probably regret.

But it was too late to turn away as Nick's gaze flickered onto the phone and quickly back onto his monitor, no reaction showed. Clay furrowed his brows, not sure if his camera was working - and as the blonde was just about to speak up, Nick looked back at the phone with his eyes wide, choking on the drink he was currently taking a sip of.

This made Clay wheeze and almost drop his phone while shaking from laughter as Sapnap choked on the other end, his eyes still wide. This is what you call friendship, right?

"Wha-ha-hat?-" Sapnap wheezed out, his mouth still somewhat full of liquid - making him literally cover his keyboard with spit. Dream cringed, tilting his head with a disappointed look on his face, still catching his breath after laughing so hard. "Nick, you idiot!-"

"What do you mean idiot? You caught me off guard!-" he yelled, making Clay facepalm with a grin, breathy chuckles still leaving his lips. As Sapnap cleaned up and calmed down, he couldn't take his eyes off his screen, his mouth still wide open.

"What are you staring at?" Dream asked, raising an eyebrow and laughing at his clueless face.

"What do you think, dipshit, you literally just-woah. First of all, why is your hair curly, why are your eyes so bright and, and-wha-are you wearing your own fucking merch? You self-absorbed prick!" Words flew out of Nick's mouth, his expression changing every few milliseconds. Dream rolled his eyes in a playful manner, throwing his head back. "Wish I recorded this. Oh my god, your reaction-"

"Well, do you blame me? You didn't even give me a warning!"

"Was I supposed to? Am I that horrendous?" Clay asked, making a pouty face. It felt good to laugh and finally be honest. That 'Liar' whisper stopped echoing in the back of his mind, letting him let loose for a second.

"No, no, dude- If i wasn't the straightest guy ever, you know, I'd hit it," Sapnap said, making his 'sexy-but-not-really-kinda-repulsive' face. This made Clay facepalm and wheeze, letting out his signature "Wha-ha-hat?!" loudly into the microphone.

"It's true! Duuuude, your face could break the internet. It look so squishy and-"

"That's fucking enough, Snapchat." Clay shushed him before he could cause any second-hand embarrassment, rubbing his temples dramatically. Nick just laughed, making a few more jokes before calming down entirely, getting serious for a second. "Seriously, though, thank you for uh, trusting me. I now hold your secret. And blackmail." he added quickly, making Clay roll his eyes again. Thankfully, he knew that he was just joking.

They spent a few more hours just talking about everything and nothing, and Dream felt a certain weight lift off his heart. This didn't mean that he was ready to do anything else - frankly, he wasn't even sure if Sapnap wasn't disappointed with what he saw - but he tried not to think about that. Almost as if, even though everything was going well, the little voice in his head searched and searched for something to pick on, to overthink, to bring Clay down and down.

Obviously, the blonde had an optimistic voice, too. It shone through most when he did something he enjoyed - but lately, it's been missing more and more. It was the thing that usually picked him up after he was knocked down by his intrusive thoughts; without it, he'd be laying on the ground, giving up. He just hoped that it would come back to let him pull through.

After hanging up, Clay stared at his phone screen for a minute, finally setting the device down with a thud. He stood up, pulling his hoodie and his shirt off and throwing it randomly on the ground, headed to bed. He didn't bother changing his sweatpants - although he knew that sleeping under a thin comforter with them on would make him feel like he's boiling in the morning - as he threw himself onto the soft mattress, landing face-first in the snow white pillows.

He turned on his back, his gaze flickering up onto the ceiling. His heart felt heavy , even after such a relief. More and more of the dark voice ached in his brain, feeling like all of his thoughts are being infested with some sort of parasite. And, even in the dark, it was visible that his emerald green eyes glimmered with such strong emotions, not daring to even let themselves tear up. He missed feeling normal.

Little did he know - his light, positive voice was thinking of him in that moment, their fingers worryingly ghosting over the Discord's 'call' button. They were in the same position as Clay, laying in their bed, the only light in the room coming from the glowig screen of their phone.

They wondered if he was okay, too. But they were too scared to ask, so, so scared. They ran their fingers through their hair and rubbed their eyes, their thoughts eating at them in the same way Clay's did  but, the thing is, they only saw the side of the blonde that he could never see.

It was almost like a cliche symphony - two souls, connected to each other, both seeing different sides of themselves. Almost as if they were on two sides of a door, unable to get through without a key - they had no idea what was happening on the other side, they just had to hope for the best and cling onto whatever sanity their human minds left them in such a heavy state.

The other soul never pressed the call button, though, unknowingly making one of the biggest mistakes they could ever do.

Chapter Text

Clay didn't remember when he started losing his sense of time.

It was funny, really; the only thing timing his days being Nick's calls - occurring usually during the evenings - and George texting him in the mornings. Of course, there was streams and youtube, too, but Dream's workwhirl from before has made him unmotivated.

It was fascinating, wasn't it?

How quickly one's broken mind can change, without any notice. How one time he's practically glued to the screen, doing absolutely anything just not to let his thoughts get to him, and the other time where he has no strength to even turn on the computer.

He slowly wondered what was wrong with him.

It couldn't have been the big scary word everyone threw around; he wasn't crying, he wasn't particularly sad. It wasn't like it was shown on the shows and promoted in the media; he wasn't ever taught how to deal with this state. How it came from nowhere and it clung to him like a parasite, despite trying everything the media told him to, like 'breathe!' and 'go outside!' 'it'll be okay!'. It wasn't okay. He didn't believe those words anymore.

His life was fine, perfect even. He had money, of course, he had a loving fanbase and a passion he enjoyed. He had friends and didn't have to deal with breakups or hangovers. His family was loving and caring. What more could he ask for?

Yet, Clay didn't know that you don't have to always be crying to be able to name what's wrong. He didn't realize, until it was too late, that something could be going on, despite him having no reason to complain. He refused to accept it, though, and he kept going, throwing himself deeper and deeper into his own mental grave.

It was sometimes so hard to smile or laugh. Even when acting for the streams, nothing seems fun anymore. He'd not touched coding or most of his favourite games at all, for such a long time. Yet, whenever he talked to his friends, it suddenly felt good to laugh. It felt like he was forgetting his issues, even for a little bit. So, surely, it couldn't have been anything like that. It was stupid to think of it in the first place. He should just man up and get himself together, he's overreacting.

And, as the days went on, Clay stopped taking care of himself. The process continued slowly, of course; almost intentionally for the blond to not notice. So he went on, his life becoming more and more hard.

In that time, from the moment it all started, Nick knew. He'd seen his best friend grow tired of the things he loved to do; he was even able to recognize a fake smile from a real one. He'd tried his best to support him, even though Clay would push him away. And, even though it was unspoken, his support was appreciated.

And then, after months of this tiring battle, came another problem.

The problem wasn't ever named, no. Maybe just because Clay was too afraid to name it.

But, from the moment he'd realized how obscene his reaction to finally talking to George was, it got even worse. How his breath would shudder whenever George called him Clay; how he'd nervously pick on his fingernails and bite his lip whenever talking to him. How he'd spend hours trying to text him, just to throw his phone across his room with a groan, defeated. How he'd turn up to every stream of George's, just to see his pretty face.

Hold on.

Pretty face?

These thoughts came more and more often into Clay's mind, soon lingering innocently around the negative ones. He was guilty - so he just ignored them, as he does with all of his problems.

Why the hell was he thinking like that about his best friend?

Well, it was easy to find reasons at first. I haven't talked to him for long , Clay's mind explained to itself, as an image of his fingers intertwining with George appeared in his mind. This is fine, they're just so talented , it said, as he'd spend a lot of time scrolling through fanart of them both. You're just very close, it yelled, as Clay would lay restless at night, the pretty brunet occupying his mind. It's platonic, you're straight, he's straight. It's always been a joke.

Despite becoming a natural distraction from all of the dark thoughts clouding the American's brain, it also became almost unbearable. The guilt building in his stomach as he'd imagine their meetup more often than he should be imagining it made everything a lot more confusing. Calls with George and the mindless, jokingly-toned flirting should be a relief, right? Well, it made everything all the more painful, as Clay had realized the other took it as a joke, obviously - while he himself would notice his cheeks being a bit pinked everytime.

It was such a shitshow, his life.

Sometimes he'd get angry at himself. Or at George, coming around and suddenly fucking everything up, confusing him beyond words by just a soft smile or a joke without a meaning.

But he knew it was his own fault for letting himself think that way. It was his fault for not stopping it. It was his best friend, god damn it, he wouldn't even feel that way about any man, let alone Clay.

Not only was it confusing, but it also felt wrong. He knew if George found out about anything he thinks, he would be fucked and their friendship - ruined. So he decided to not tell Nick anything, either. It shouldn't be a big deal, right? It's not a big deal, Clay's just been miserable and he's probably making things up out of boredom.

Clay exhaled shakily, brushing his hand through his hair. He was sitting on his wooden floor, his back leaned against the bedframe and his knees curled up almost all the way to his chest. Funnily enough, this was the position he spent a lot of time in - God knows why. Maybe because then he was tightly wrapping his arms around himself and he felt just a little human warmth, even if it was only his - or maybe it was to fight the desire to break things and have an absolute meltdown.

Either way, it worked.

If someone inserted cctv in his house, they would have quite a boring sight for most of the day - he'd stay in his hot room amongst the mess that had piled up for a long time, without the strength to clean the piles of clothes on his floor, just to get up once or twice to try and edit or film something. He obviously ate, although he frequently forgot to - the cups, plates, cutlery and empty bottles would be proof of that.

Clay had been abruptly shaken out of his thoughts as he heard his phone ring, making him flinch. He looked at where it sat, on his desk, contemplating just ignoring the call. What if it's George, his mind went, making him get up quickly and stumble over to the device, almost falling in the process.

As his lit-up eyes dulled at 'Nick' spread over his screen, he sighed in disappointment in himself. "So fucking stupid, Clay." The boy's whisper to himself felt like a judgment, ringing in his ears and crawling down his spine. He shook his shoulders, picking the phone up and hesitantly answering.

"Broo!" Sapnap's warm and soft tone filled the room, making Clay smile tiredly. He would never admit it, but his annoying remarks and goofy tone of voice would always feel like not everything is that bad. Clay welcomed him with a quiet hi, his voice cracking as he kept the camera on the ceiling.

"I have news, you won't believe!" He said excitedly, the brunet's features lighting up as he grinned, reminding the blond of a very excited puppy. Clay tried to chuckle, but the noise that came from the back of his throat sounded more like a cry - nonetheless, Nick kept speaking, thankfully not paying attention. "I booked the tickets to Florida, man, I'm comin' to visit you!" He said, letting out an awfully loud, but enthusiastic, laugh.

Clay, for a moment, forgot about what state his house was. Forgot how Nick would have to face his daily routine, or more so, the lack of it; he forgot how his knuckles are bruised from taking everything out on his poor furniture. He gasped, letting out a yelp. "Wait, are you serious?-" He asked, still not facing the camera - but his eyes shone again, both shock, confusion and a bit of hope lighting up his features.

Hope.

Maybe Nick being actually there would help him. He'd have someone he would want to get better for, he'd feel.. real.

"Yeah!" The other exclaimed immediately, laughing freely. Clay wanted to laugh, too. So he did. He smiled, feeling a rush of adrenaline pump through his veins. He was actually going to see Nick.

"When?" He asked, looking back over his room. The dark, sad and messy demeanour was looming over the blond, overpowering him completely. He needed to try and clean up, even a bit. He didn't want Nick to think he was disgusting. Would he?  Would he leave him if he found out?

Clay shook his head, damning the thoughts. They'd always come back, no matter what, and say the most irrational thing, almost as if the purpose of their existence was just to bring Clay down. With time, though, Clay slowly stopped fighting them as much, starting to believe what they say. He needed to pretend he was okay.

"Well, probably in the next week." Nick muttered softly, the golden retriever grin not disappearing from his face even for a second. Seeing his best friend that happy made Clay smile. Sapnap deserved it.

Clay's breath slowed down, it's usual fast and irregular pace now gone, for a minute. His hands weren't trembling anymore, and his limbs weren't so painfully sore from keeping them in one position for hours. He didn't feel like he suddenly was okay, and that he had the strength to stand up and go clean his room or stream; but he felt like if he pretended, even for a moment, everything would be fine.

As the two hung up after a moment of talking, Clay was left in painful silence again. The creases in his cheeks that were caused by even the lightest smile faded, leaving him looking as tired as before. The bright light from the device had faded, leaving him in the dark room, shadows looming over his face. The moonlight was peeking from in between his blinds, hugging his features sadly. The silver shade mirrored in his eyes as he glanced at the ceiling, his head tilted slightly.

Sometimes, his mind would grasp a piece of peace. A moment of silence in the constant muttering, hissing and yelling. Despite the freezing feeling of uncertainty, the numbness had become his best friend. It was always the signal that something was going to happen, and sooner or later the floodgates in his mind would break, letting in all sorts of thoughts - mostly ones that were inherently negative.

But the numbness felt good. It felt like he didn't need to be human anymore, like it all just went away.

Sure, it washed away not only the bad things, but also the happy things - which would fill most others with fear. But what did Clay have to lose? He felt as if anything happy was now buried deep, deep beneath the surface, along with the scrawny blond kid that always smiled and always found a way to yell out a witty comeback.

Clay had nothing to lose.

And, as he sat there in complete silence, the lack of sound almost ringing in his ears, he wondered if it's ever going to stop. If the cycle of tired - angry - regretful - numb - weak would ever end. If it was going to ever end itself, without Clay needing to touch the issues. As you might've noticed, Clay's way of coping was just ignoring everything wrong and acting fine.

As long as I have my smile on, I'll be fine.

No matter how tired, exhausted, angry or downright helpless and done I am, I'm fine. Nobody sees this, nobody needs to care. They all need to see a smile and I'll be fine.

Those toxic thoughts suddenly flowed into his mind, crowding it up. His breath hitched as his chest started rising up and down, rapidly speeding up it's pace. The air filled his lungs, feeling like it was crushing them at the same time. He could feel the blood rushing to his head as he bent over and leaned his elbows on his knees, setting his head in them.

Clay wanted to cry sometimes.

But with time, he noticed that he just couldn't. It was almost like he was completely emptied of tears, which made him pile up every single feeling he's felt for months, his heart feeling like it was going to burst. He felt like he was drowning.

He let out a desperate cry, trying to regain full consciousness as he choked on his own breaths, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten. Why was he the way he is?

The boy couldn't stand the silence. He trembled a bit before he looked up at the ceiling, clenching his fists. What was this feeling? Why did he feel so helpless?

His mind began to race at the speed of light, making Clay unable to grasp a certain thought and hold onto it, even for a bit of comfort. It felt like the stable ground under his feet was crumbling at a rapid pace, and he had nothing to hold onto to stay on the surface - so he let the water fill his lungs. The moonlight beamed on him as he tangled his hands into his golden locks, tugging at them with a lot of strength.

Then, Clay let out a scream. A chilling, pain-filled scream, that meant more than the blond would ever be able to choke out with words. Agony was a good descriptive word for it - not that Clay ever thought to describe it. He just screamed, and screamed, until his throat was sore and until he dropped down onto his knees, his hands trembling as he choked out, every breath feeling like he was inhaling fire. What the hell was wrong with him? He was fine just minutes ago.

Someone hearing that would definitely think he needs help, that something happened. But that didn't matter, either. All because he was alone.

Chapter Text

Clay often found himself googling his 'symptoms.'

He knew that this was quite the silly thing to do, since doctor google would always exaggerate your medical problems, turning a cold into lung cancer; but as time passed on, the weight on Clay's shoulders got heavier and heavier. He now understood his mistake; ignoring everything had given a chance for him to slowly be more and more consumed by everything going on, making it hit double as painfully.

Time is crucial, they say, the only true unit of measure. Yet, for Clay, it wasn't significant anymore. Slowly, he felt as if the dark thoughts had materialized into somewhat of a more negative version of himself, hissing the worst in his mind to the point where it became louder than his normal, everyday thoughts. Yet again, he ignored it, letting them eat at him while he smiled.

He didn't know if what he was doing was right; everything in his mind told him to hold back, that it was just overdramatizing and that he was fine. But when you hide everything from anyone who cares about you, then ignore the rising problem, your body starts to call out for help. Googling it was the least he could do without feeling like a burden. Talking to anyone didn't feel like an option.

Of course, the internet search results were just as he feared. Something he didn't want to hear, the big scary word, the at-home remedies, communities of people feeling that way. The big scary word he despised the most; almost as if naming the problem to himself was overdramatizing it even more. His mind told him what he was taught to do; man up, you'll be fine, it's just probably stress.

How could Clay know otherwise? After all, his mind was the friend he spent most time with, his mind knew him the most. No one else picked up on his problems; he had even managed to somewhat convince Sapnap that being tired or having a messy room isn't anything serious. No one else saw his face; no one else could even catch a glimpse of what was actually happening.

Again, being in this state makes a person seem like an enigma.

No one wants to solve it and no one understands it; not even the person that's supposed to most know themselves.

It's clear he would need help, sooner or later. He would need to get better and go back to his normal routine, without the panic attacks, meltdowns, sleepless nights and so many else things he had a tendency to look over. But, at the same time, he started feeling - no, his inner voice told him - that telling someone would make him a burden. That he didn't need help and this was no biggie, that it was something he has to deal with alone. That it's embarrassing to see how weak and how much of a pussy he is. That no one would understand him; and that if he told anyone, they'd leave him. And Clay was scared.

It didn't really make sense, right? For Clay, it didn't either.

Besides, since he wasn't crying and that he sometimes laughed when talking to his friends showed that it couldn't have been it, right?

Clay squinted his eyes, the bright sun peeking through his kitchen window lighting up his features. He put his hand up to cover the sun, the light leaking through his fingers. The boy sighed, setting down his glass of water in the dish-filled sink before walking out of the room, passing Patches sleeping peacefully on the counter. Unhygienic, but Clay had a soft spot for the animal.

The boy dropped himself in his gaming chair, moving his mouse around to bring the monitors out of sleep mode. Instantly, the Youtube homepage showed up, along with his desktop on one of the monitors and his Discord on the other. He let out a sigh, tilting his head as he tried to remember when he had last streamed. Fourteen days.

Clay wanted to pull up twitch and just start streaming. He loved doing it endlessly, of course, but he physically couldn't bring himself to, now. He didn't know why.

He ran his hands through his hair, eyeing his phone. He knew he probably had unread texts, but he really didn't feel like answering. The thing is - he hasn't felt like it for a long time.

The male clicked around, trying to find something to occupy himself with - unfortunately, he failed at that, his mind not finding any of his recommendations quite interesting enough. He sighed with disappointment, rubbing his eyes. As his eyes scanned over his Discord friend list, almost in envy of all the voice channels and games they were currently in, he noticed that the Dream Team server was all active. He hesitated for a moment before clicking on the grey name of the voice channel, joining it.

Clay immediately rubbed the bridge of his nose, disappointed at his desperate attempt to grasp even a bit of conversation. The one time he's feeling like actually talking to someone , he joins a voice chat all alone, with no previous warning, almost like he was expecting one of them to join immediately. You're so dumb, Clay.

His groan of defeat was accompanied by a quiet Discord noise, which meant that someone had joined the channel. His eyes shot up from his lap to see 'GeorgeNotFound' written just under his username, the deafen symbol beside it disappearing. Clay's eyes widened as he sat up straight in his seat, fixing his crooked headphones.

"Dream? Why the hell are you just sitting in the voice chat?" George asked, letting out a soft giggle. Clay let out a quiet chuckle too, trying to not feel as embarrassed. As he was about to speak up, the other cut in, delivering some crucial information that was probably important. "I'm streaming, by the way."

"Oh." Was all Clay could choke out, subconsciously filling himself with disappointment. He soon picked his smile back up, knowing that it was audible in his voice, and he really did not want to cause any drama. "Hi, Gogy's stream. I was just bored." He said, pulling up George's stream immediately as his gaze filtered the chat, noticing that there were many questions about his constant absence from social medias. He wasn't going to answer that, of course, but the guilt that has built up in his stomach made itself known again, making the blond bite his lip harshly.

"Oh, well, I was actually just about to end stream, so you're kinda late. Hey, you can still say bye to them!" The British exclaimed almost happily, but Clay knew him too well to believe that. Why was he lying? It was such an obvious tone in his voice, but the chat didn't seem to catch on - maybe that was just because Clay had known him for much longer, or maybe the American paid more attention to the details.

Nonetheless, the two said their goodbyes, Dream trying to sound as enthusiastic and positive as possible. He's become a good actor - good enough to keep up the always-happy facade. He's supposed to be always happy. He needs to be always happy.

As George made sure his stream was properly ended, Clay waited patiently, his feet bouncing on the floor almost rapidly. There was a silence in the call that one could call comfortable - even though the blond hated silence, since it gave everything going on in his head an excuse to take up more and more of his conscious, the feeling of someone who cares being on the other line made it a bit less scary.

What are you saying, Clay, he doesn't care.

He shook his head as he heard a bit of shuffling on the other end. Clay ran his fingers over his sun-kissed cheeks, waiting for the other to speak up. He was too scared to.

"Hey, Dream." George muttered, the shuffling on the other end stopping. Clay's gaze didn't leave the Discord window open once, now staring directly at the green ring popping up around George's profile picture whenever he spoke up. He liked that ring - he wished he would see it more often.

Clay gulped, taking a second too long to answer. "Yeah?" His voice was soft, much quieter than his stream voice, yet it didn't sound tired. Not physically, after all, but talking to George seemed to give him a temporary adrenaline boost. Why was that happening?

"Are you okay?" The ever-so-despised question hit Clay's ears, ringing in his head like an annoying bell. He never knew the answer, even if it was an extremely simple query. It made him tense up and want to end the conversation immediately, because even though he wanted to let his filters loose and scream out everything that was wrong, his immediate reply was: I'm fine.

It always seemed so fake, too, almost as if the other person was forcibly asking it just to not seem like a dick; it always felt like they didn't care. They always expected the same answer.

Yet, with George, it seemed more genuine. His sudden soft tone of voice told Clay that maybe , maybe, he does care. Maybe he does want an honest response. Maybe, for once, the blond would believe that by speaking up he wouldn't be a burden.

The thought seemed silly, but it crossed his mind to just say No.

He didn't.

"Yeah. Why?" He muttered quietly, trying his best to sound convincing. Why is it that when Clay felt like he was safe, he still refused to reach out for help?

"You're lying." George muttered, his smile faltering for a moment as he spoke. He knew the blond too well to ignore the nervous, somewhat awkward tone in his voice as he spoke; he didn't recognize it, especially not when speaking with George. The British ignored the pit in his stomach forming at the thought of Dream not being okay.

He would tell him, right? He would tell George?

"I-I'm what?" Clay asked, his eyes widening slightly as his mouth went dry. His mind barely processed the question before panic got the best of him, making him shift in his seat. What?

Was Clay lying?

It didn't feel like lying.

After all, it felt more like protecting George from hearing all of the bullshit going on in his head.

Even if he was lying, why did George press further? Why did he point it out? Why, for fucks sake, did he care?

It should feel relieving for Clay. The fact that someone could care would definitely be a good thing, so why does the blond feel guilty of trying to lie? His mind felt like a battlefield, one part screaming that he's supposed to keep that fucking smile on, the other quietly protesting, mentally exhausted of the constant acting.

He gulped, letting the silence continue on, not able to choke a response out. "You're lying, Dream. I know you. You sound.. tired." George's soft voice felt as if it was melting every single of his boundaries, the walls he had put up, leaving him all open and vulnerable. The new feeling of uncertainty scared Clay, and he didn't like it - but he couldn't resist, almost as if talking to the brunet on a level other than just small talk and jokes made him figuratively freeze.

Whilst Clay sat there, his mind blank of any rational response, George fiddled with the hem of his red hoodie, the soft material between his fingers feeling like the only comforting thing fighting the cold silence on the other end of the call. He didn't want to make Dream uncomfortable, but he's been feeling different lately; almost as if making sure that the other boy was okay was more important than ever.

Maybe it's just that he's been acting different , George's mind defended itself, or maybe it's the fact that he's missed talking to Dream a little too much lately and that his mind was being kept awake at ungodly hours by stupid thoughts about a stupid blond.

George sighed, not receiving a response convincing him that he should keep going. After all, he just cares for his best friend. "Dream, I'm sorry, but I'm worried." He muttered, his tone almost ghostly now as he waited patiently for a reaction. Nothing.

Ugh, trying to help a faceless asshat was fucking hard.

On the other end of the call, every word that ringed in Clay's ears felt as if it was colliding with his sense of reality. What George was saying didn't make any sense. His mind felt fuzzy, almost as if he was put in a trance.

It was quite hilarious, how Clay stood his ground, always convinced that building up those walls around him was just keeping him safe, not letting anyone's words get to him; yet when George spoke up once, he froze, almost feeling like he can't lie and pretend anymore, not to him. He didn't know what this feeling was, but he needed to comply; for some reason, he didn't feel like fighting it.

And so he shifted in his chair, leaning backwards a bit as he gulped, trying to ignore the painful silence that had fallen after George's words. The blond tugged on the soft material of his shirt lightly as he slowly gave up on filtering his thoughts, a sigh escaping his lips. Before he knew it, his mouth opened, the words coming out of it feeling like they weren't filtered and almost manufactured in a way; more genuine, for the first time in forever.

"No, I'm not okay." His voice cracked mid-sentence, the miserable tone of his voice only being more highlighted. As the guilt in his stomach rose up, his breathing sped up. It felt.. weird. But it felt good.

Clay's facade was slowly slipping, and all it took was a few words from George.

A soft breath could be heard from the other end of the line as the weight on George's heart got heavier; funnily enough, the one that Clay's heart had been carrying had gotten just a little bit lighter. They shared something now, and even though they were both aware that this wasn't the most pleasant to either of the parties, George was willing to help the blond carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

That night, for the first time in forever, the mask that Clay had been struggling so much to keep glued to his face had fallen a little bit, feeling as though it's first crack had made an appearance.

Chapter Text

Clay remembered the first time he looked at George differently.

It was the afternoon for him - meaning it was late evening for the other - and he had turned up to the brunet's stream, expecting for it to casually stream in the background while he focused on something else. But his eyes kept being drawn to the Twitch tab open on his second monitor, the bright light mirroring in his glassy eyes.

He remembered being particularly tired that morning, in the physical sense. He was a little weak, all because he'd spent half the night editing a video to rush out in the same day, so he didn't get enough sleep. He remembered complaining about it to George and Sapnap, and he remembered how they made fun of him for being so hyper focused and hard-driven.

As his eyes scanned over the stream once again, not getting why he couldn't focus on the task at hand - which was coding some irrelevant plugin - he turned up the volume subconsciously, the British accent beaming loud and bright into his ears. But he didn't mind.

It was soft, - his voice, I mean. Clay could tell he was tired from the light chuckles and the quiet tone of voice, which usually occurred after hours of streaming or talking with his friends. He'd sometimes have his voice crack, which resulted in him quickly grabbing a cup of water with a smile. And when it happened, a subconscious smile pushed itself onto the blond's lips, lingering there for what seemed like a moment too long.

He grabbed the strings of his lime hoodie, pulling on them as he completely dropped his mouse, now full facing the other screen. His head was slightly tilted as his fingers fiddled with the poor material, tying it in knots and wrapping it around his palm. Clay was too interested in the stream to notice his nervous habit.

As his eyes flinched down to the facecam slowly, he felt a slight change of temperature, making his hoodie slowly unbearable. He refused to take his eyes off of it, though, as his mind became completely numb to any common sense. He was in too deep to notice the drop of sweat forming on his forehead or his palms suddenly sticking together a little.

He watched as George brushed a hand through his hair, a bright smile being flashed at the camera. Clay remembered how, in that moment, he also returned the smile, his dimples appearing for a soft second. He always found George's smile contagious.

As the blond's eyes scanned George's face, he noticed how comforting his features are, in a weird way. They never looked angry, even if the other put on an act, they just looked soft and admirable. Which is, what Clay was doing now - staring at the face cam of his best friend, completely detached from reality.

Then, after an agonizingly long minute or two, he saw George's long fingers ghostly run along his jaw, probably meaning nothing. Atleast to the brunet; but Clay noticed it immediately. At the gesture, he shifted in his chair, feeling the temperature become a little less bearable. He slowly pulled off his hoodie, letting out a shaky sigh at the relieving cold air hitting his skin. His t-shirt felt like a trap against his rapidly rising chest, his breathing scuffed.

He wondered what it would feel like if he ran his fingers along that jaw.

His hand slammed the table softly as the other brushed through his golden locks, letting him breathe for a moment. He hadn't realized how abrupt his reaction to whatever that small, subconscious gesture was - but he remembered not caring at that moment. The only thing that seemed to really reach his consciousness was the soft voice with the British accent, which was only getting louder and louder in his headphones.

He'd noticed George was quite pale, which wasn't surprising, considering England was a grey pit of rain and clouds. Nonetheless, his grin would light up his features and beam on everything, almost acting as a substitute to the sun. Clay would always return it. His jawline and cheekbones were soft, but also seemed sharp and appealing at the same time. Clay hadn't noticed how often he paid attention to the facecam when George turned to the side.

And his lips. Oh god, Clay remembered thinking about what he would do to glance at them in person. To drag his thumb along them softly.

That was months ago, before everything in Clay crumbled. Before he could catch it under control. And when everything started going to shit, he ignored George and limited their interactions, in hope of it going away. It never did, but it was far too out of Clay's control now.

And, the blond remembered that this was the beginning of him falling face-first for someone whose love was destined to forever be left painfully unrequited.

♦

As Clay leaned against the marble countertop, looking at himself in the mirror, he let out a tired sigh. The sight that looked back at him from the mirror was sad, and he hated to admit that he didn't recognize himself, either.

His thumb slowly rubbed circles against the cold material, his hands no longer trembling. He'd fallen asleep after his meltdown, but that didn't make the ghostly feeling of constant pain go away - it just dulled it. But that was good, for a moment, atleast.

Despite staying inside almost all the time, his skin was still slightly tanned. His emerald green eyes seemed to dull a bit, not really having their usual sparkle. He almost always wore a hoodie with the hood up, so his hair was usually hidden from the world - but whenever he was forced to put on a t-shirt in certain circumstances, the locks seemed as golden as ever, even if a little more curly due to them now being a longer length, gently touching his forehead.

His lips were sadly red, usually accompanied by a small scab from all the biting. Surprisingly, his freckles didn't fade due to the lack of sun - maybe that was just a natural feature Clay had. Not that he liked them; quite the opposite, actually, he felt like they weren't attractive.

Clay could stare at himself in the mirror for hours and not like what he sees even more.

Everything was not enough, everything seemed a little disappointing and Clay knew that he would let down everyone he showed his face to. Nick took it quite well, but the blond knew that there was no way in hell the other would be honest about his looks when they're that bad.

Clay slowly stopped liking himself.

The irony in that is, even if he wasn't very fond of his looks, his voice, his defects and a lot of other things he can't change, he still caught himself staring at his own reflection for too long. It wasn't admiring, though, it was more just pitying himself for being that way, the way he is. Clay never took selfies, but it didn't take him long to go through his phone and clean it out of any picture, family or not, containing him. The few polaroids he'd pinned to the fridge - mainly due to his sister's demands and talking about some 'aesthetic' or other stuff - had all been taken down, his face had been covered with a sticky note, and put back up like nothing happened.

There was a bittersweet note to it all; Clay never cared too much about his appearance. Fine, as a scrawny teenager during puberty and having his first girlfriend, of course he wanted to look good and all, but it was mostly just a phase. Sure, he took care of himself, shaved, put on decent clothes, brushed his teeth - but he never cared about what others think of his appearance.

Yet, as time went on, he slowly started making up excuses to not join into group photos. To not facetime his family members, excusing himself with 'being busy'. He'd ask someone else to pose for merch photos - even if they didn't include his face. Always checking if your voice sounds right and the horrifying thought of having an annoying laugh sitting in the back of your head had never sounded more casual and normal than now.

The boy shook his head, stepping back and dragging his fingers down his face. He quickly stormed out of the bathroom, stumbling a bit as he reached his phone. He quickly unlocked it, his eyes shining in hopes of a notification - no, nothing.

George was supposed to text him. They were supposed to code something together. Why didn't he call? Text?

Maybe he's busy , Clay's mind said. But the blond wasn't satisfied with that answer. He probably doesn't want to talk to you, the thought appeared, ringing in his ears almost like a venomous hiss as Clay felt his heart thump in his chest violently. Fuck.

Whatever. He'll wait.

The blond sat down on his bed, putting on some music to keep himself 'company'. He looked at the ceiling, fiddling with his fingers, then with the hem of his hoodie, the strings of the sweatshirt. Anything his hands grasped would immediately be turned into a fidget toy, and Clay's subconscious didn't bother to care.

He waited.

His position changed from laying flat on his stomach, to sideways, facing the wall with a confused expression. He spent the longest laying on his back, though, staring mindlessly at the ceiling, the hem of his shirt rising up slightly - the hoodie now abandoned, sitting beside him - as he checked the time frantically. It seemed to pass painfully slowly.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Forty-five.

An hour.

An hour fifteen.

The clock continued to tick as Clay laid there, mindlessly worrying about what he did wrong, spiraling further into worry. It was just a stupid Discord call, scheduled to help George figure something out, since the boy seemed to need help with coding, but it still hurt in such a weird way. Clay didn't even realize that this is what George felt when the blond would leave him on delivered for days on end.

He forgot. George forgot, he didn't care enough to remember.

Clay didn't care anymore that he was acting like a spoiled brat. He didn't care that it was such a stupid thing to worry about - in fact, he had no idea why a probable mistake of George's memory felt so stupidly painful.

Clay didn't know yet that in this state, negative emotions feel like they're tripled. Any word, any remark, any dishonest conversation and an ignored text message hurt even more, because they let him think that it was just all his fault. That he wasn't enough.

And Clay didn't know that this was just the beginning of him spiraling down for a man that could never feel the same way. That their flirty jokes and late-night convos was all just best friend stuff. That everything the Brit says will melt his defenses and make his knees go weak, and that he has to hopelessly hide it, in fear of losing him.

The blond tangled his hand into his locks, pulling on it less and less gently, his face scrunching up in a mix of defeat and desperation. He'd lost all sense of rationality; George didn't remember, so why did Clay have to?

The male got up after a second, violently pushing his chair away with his feet. He swiped the headset off of his head, not caring where it landed as he tugged on his sun-kissed curls a little harder, the pink blush spread on his cheeks now a symbol of defeat, maybe even anger at none other than himself. As he walked, it felt almost like he couldn't be in full control of his body; like his mind was way too blurred to walk straight, despite being completely sober.

What's happening to me?

A desperate voice echoed in Clay's mind as he swung his door open, maneuvering around the hallway to find his way into the kitchen. As he got there, his chest rising rapidly faster, he leaned back on the countertop, dragging his hand along his forehead. His head was pounding, for absolutely no good reason.

See, this is what feelings do to you - his mind whispered, the words burning a forever scar into his memory - you shouldn't have let yourself think like that about your best friend. You're disgusting. He'll probably hate you. It's all your fault.

Clays fist collided with the countertop, a jolt of pain going through it as it collided with a thud. The blond let out a desperate groan, trying his best to make everything go away.

At that moment, he felt so weak. So small. It wasn't even about the stupid call anymore - it all hit him at once, making him feel overwhelmed. He had feelings for his best friend - sure, he's gone through heartbreaks in the past, but nothing seemed as painful as this. He wanted to blame it on his already co-existing problems, but he knew excuses would not fool his mind.

He's spent months trapped in his own mind, too alone to even try and resist. He'd fallen deep into the pithole of trying to find security, only to be buried by what seemed to be his own mind, destroying itself. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to get out. Not on his own.

And then came along his best friend - making him feel cared for, maybe being the beacon of comfort he's been seeking for - only to bring him down to this state unknowingly by a simple few words.

Clay needed a break.

He leaned forward, opening every cupboard, frantically searching for something as he knocked glasses and containers over, not bothered to pick them up. Finally, his hand caught a grasp of what he was looking for, the glass feeling almost freezingly cold against his burning skin.

He pulled the slim vodka bottle out of the cupboard, and, without a thought, he took a swing of it. The bittersweet taste made him feel like it related to the boy, and it felt like the only way to escape what's going on in his head.

As Clay got progressively more drunk, his mind now more and more blurred, he'd imagine how pathetic he must look now. But he's simply ran out of ideas, and there was no one around to try and stop him, so his only choices weren't all too positive.

He needed to get away.

As he dropped the bottle, missing the bin by an inch, he got up from the floor, dusting his knees off. His legs felt a little wobbly but nonetheless, he stood up, his sober thoughts now feeling like a neutralized threat. It felt good, being able to stop remembering for a second - but he needed to replace the lonely thoughts in his mind.

Was he going to regret it?

It was too late, now.

If anything was going to help him, it was forgetting about George by replacing what he thought they could have. No, what he hoped they could have - mindlessly daydreamed, if you will.

He needed to not remember.

He quickly dialed a certain number, and, just a few minutes after, the front door bell rang, shaking him out of the zone. The blond ran his hand through his hair, setting his phone down on the counter as he moved to the front door, opening it. Was this really a good idea?

Too late now, he thought, as he opened the door to find a familiar face.

A pretty brunette, very pretty. Her eyes were a chocolatey, warm brown and her skin was fair, with a small tint of pink coming through at the sight of the blond. Her hair was braided beautifully, making her reminiscent of what would perhaps be a Greek goddess. Her clothes fit her perfectly, the lilac tank top hugging her body as her jeans accentuated her curves. Clay's gaze was brought down as she was quite a bit smaller than him, the girl's facial expression both confused, shocked, maybe even positively surprised.

And, not even moments later, the girl was pulled into the male's house, her back pushed against the cold wall as the two's lips connected, the kiss more aggressive and lustful than genuine and soft; neither of them seemed to care, though, so caught up in the moment, their faces flushed pink. Clay's hands traveled along the curves of her body as her legs were wrapped around the male's waist, her soft hands tangled into his blonde locks.

Chapter Text

"What the hell was that?" A mixture of confusion, concern and anger was audible like a bittersweet tone in the voice, making the other feel like a child getting grounded.

As Clay sat down on his bed, head pounding in his hands, his lips slightly bruised from what happened just a minute ago. The noise of the door shutting made the blond flinch, scared to face the nearing footsteps. A symphony of embarrassment, confusion, surprise and a ton of alcohol mixed in his mind, yet he felt almost stone cold sober, having reality hit him much sooner than he expected it to. To be fair, he hoped for it to preferably not hit him at all.

He couldn't look up. His facial expression was lit up with shame, and he was too afraid to make eye contact - so his gaze stayed on the floor as he got up, seeing the other enter the room.

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, their clenched fists and a puzzled facial expression.

I mean, it's not everyday that your best friend, who was supposed to be visiting you, shows up early as a surprise and walks in on you drunkenly making out with your ex-girlfriend.

For fucks safe, life is not on a good path for Clay.

The blond's fingers were tangled in his hair as his eyes averted Nick's gaze, his stomach almost hurting. The blood flowing through his head made his headache almost unbearable, but he stood strong, afraid to show even a bit more to Nick. The brunet was now almost looming over him, his caring demeanour now overshadowed by the harsh, undecipherable expression on his face.

This was so embarrassing.

Clay didn't need to look up to know that he disappointed Nick. Or, at least he felt like it, when the room temperature seemed to drop to zero degrees, yet Clay felt like he was burning. This wasn't too awkward, for the cliche situation of walking in on some NSFW shit, as they were extremely close, the only thing Nick cared about now was what was actually going on with Clay

Clay silently cursed himself out - due to Sapnap taking an earlier flight than scheduled in order to surprise the blond, he had no chance to clean his house up too much - or, clean himself up, in that matter. Moments ago, he was drunk out of his mind, doing god knows what with god knows who.

It was too late to smile. To pretend the dark circles aren't there, to pretend that the shattered vodka bottle was nothing, to try and hide the fact that he hasn't had the strength to open his blinds and take regular showers. To pretend that he hasn't properly gone out in months, that he doesn't remember a time where he's gotten a full night of sleep, to pretend that he hasn't gotten a bit skinnier and his posture a lot less confident.

Nick noticed all of those things, of course. He wasn't sure what to say as the two stood in Clay's living room, the silence looming over them like an undeniable weight being added to their shoulders.

"Clay." Nick's voice was laced with confusion, but it was also stern, almost demanding of an honest answer. It surely would help, considering he hasn't seen his best friend in this state.. well, ever. He thought it was better than this when his weird, quiet mannerisms and ignoring everyone's calls was just simply called 'a rough patch'.

"Clay, what the hell is going on." The voice sent shivers down the blond's spine, yet he still refused to look up. He would try to answer, to lie , but his mouth was far too dry and his pounding heart felt like it was going to jump out of his chest. He remembered the first time he realized that he was a liar. When 'I'm okay' felt like an automatic response, and when even though his mind wanted to be as talkative as ever and rant about his problems, he kept his mouth shut, his smile becoming less and less genuine.

"Clay-" He started, immediately being cut off by an angry tone of voice, which cut through the air like a knife, making the other flinch. "I'm fine!" The blond exclaimed, finally looking up from his feet and to Nick, accidentally making eye contact. He tried to be stern, he tried to be convincing; he tried to hide everything, in one last desperate attempt to do what he was surely supposed to.

That last attempt didn't work as planned, though, as his mind went blank, absent of any excuse.

"I'm f-fine." His voice suddenly cracked as Nick tilted his head slightly, trying to read the taller's eyes. Clay would be lying if he said he didn't feel pile everything up on him right in that moment; he felt that bittersweet taste now choking him, his chest rapidly rising, trying to force out a full breath. Every single thing, every single missed night, unanswered text, not-eaten meal, skipped shower, every punch to the walls  now hitting him in the chest, making him unable to breathe, breaking his ribs, crushing his lungs and filling them with thick, hot liquid, which burned way more than the alcohol he had consumed.

He couldn't lie anymore.

"I'm fine, I-I'm fine, I-" He kept repeating like a mantra, now  trying to convince himself rather than the other. Clay's voice went from rough and stern to quieter and less defensive, now seeming like he was slowly giving up on talking. Nick's gaze immediately softened now as he saw Clay literally break in front of his eyes, stumbling back a bit as he looked at his hands, trying to calm his breathing. The brunet took a gentle step forward, his eyebrows furrowed.

Nick knew his best friend. He was empathetic, strong, caring, humorous and kind. He would get up in the middle of the night to answer Nick's calls and help him with his night terrors, he would always try his best to offer a bit of comfort. He would stay strong despite anything life threw at him, always brushing it off with a stupid, snarky remark, and he would always have a soft, genuine smile on his face, his gaze warm and comforting.

The person standing in front of Nick wasn't his best friend anymore. He couldn't recognize him. He wondered what the hell happened to his Dream, his Clay, his brother. Was he all too gone to even try and rescue him?

Even if he seemed like he was, the brunet was not going to stop trying. And, even though he'd just found out now about the extent of the situation, he decided then and there that whatever it is, he needs to help Clay, no matter how overwhelming it is.

Clay felt that. Clay felt the comfort, Clay felt the support.

Then, something in him broke.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but his knees suddenly went weak as he stumbled forward, falling right into Nick's arms. The other immediately  held him up with no effort, seeing that he was quite strong, as Clay latched onto him, taking a fistful of the material of the Texan's shirt and grabbing it, his legs suddenly not working as expected.

"I'm-" He tried to choke out, desperately holding onto the other as Nick returned a hug with the same force, his heart aching at seeing his best friend in this state. He felt guilty for not seeing it; he also wondered why Clay hid it. What caused it, whose fault was it, and how long has the blond had to struggle through it alone. Nick, despite being inexperienced in this area of life, knew that this was not just a drunken meltdown. “I-I can’t Nick, I-I can’t,-”

Clay didn't get to finish his sentence, though, as he felt a drop of a salty liquid land on Nick's shirt, making him choke out a half-muffled sob. And then another, and another, until he had non-stopping trails of tears streaming down his face, wetting the soft fabric of the shirt completely. It felt as if a forever-closed gateway finally opened, every single struggle now being told in a heartbreaking tale through the salty tears escaping Clay's eyes - and, for the first time in forever, the blond sobbed, held in the strong arms of his best friend, who was not going to let go until he knew that Dream was okay.

"I'm here, Clay." He whispered softly as the blond shook violently in his arms, grasping onto the brunet, almost to make sure that he isn't gonna leave him. One of Nick's hands helped him not fall as his knees were already half-bent, as the other was tangled into his hair in a soothing manner.

Hours passed as Clay slowly started to calm down, his heart-tearing sobs now turning into occasional sniffles. The boy hadn't stopped shaking yet, but his breathing seemed to calm down as Nick didn't leave his side, not even for a moment. There wasn't much conversation between the two, which the blond was grateful for - he still wouldn't be able to slur out a single sentence without his voice breaking again.

After a while, understandably so, he fell asleep, half-hugging Nick as they laid on his couch. Not the most comfortable position, but the brunet didn't move once, wanting to make sure that when the other wakes up - which considerably would take a long time, due to the alcohol and overall exhaustion - he would be there, his arm wrapped around the other as his leg silently bounced against the floor.

Nick's thoughts kept him pretty busy during that period of time as he tried his best to work out what he will ask the blond who was snoring softly next to him. Understandably so, the brunet felt a little lost in this situation, not having encountered a person in this state before, but he was going to try his best to help Dream in any way.

Unfortunately, the Texan's plans to stay with Clay at all times were soon off the list as he saw the screen of his phone light up, seeing George's name written on it. He didn't want to answer at first, but then his gaze shot over to the male sleeping just beside him, the trails of tears still visible on his lightly pinked face. He felt like George needed to know - after all, two beacons of constant support would surely be better than just Nick, who barely knew how to handle it.

The younger slowly slipped out from under the other's touch, putting a pillow in his place to not wake him up. It seemed to work, as Clay barely shifted, wrapping his arm around the cushion a bit tighter. Nick stepped out of the living room, making his way outside and shutting the front door as gently as possible.

When he was finally there, he answered, putting the phone to his ear. A moment of silence could be heard before he finally heard a voice come from the other end, a worried tone clearly audible in it.

"Nick, thank God you picked up, do you have any idea what's going on with Dream? I might be overreacting but we were supposed to call and I totally forgot, and he hasn't answered my calls or my texts for the past hour. I've tried to call his number, but it says his phone's shut off." The British threw an avalanche of questions at the other, recieving only a torn sigh and a moment of silence from the other.

"Yeah, um, I-I'm at his place at the moment." Nick slowly answered, carefully cherry-picking his words. The whole situation never felt weird, even for a moment, despite everything Sapnap was quite literally set into mom mode, willing to do a lot more to keep his best friend safe.

George let out an unidentifiable sound, the silence after Nick's words making the call's atmosphere uncomfortable. "Oh?"

"Oh." Nick repeated after the other, looking down at his shoes as he sat down on the porch stairs. "Wait, why are you at his place?" George asked slowly, confused about the whole situation. He didn't know that they were going to meet up; he also wondered what was that bitter tone in Nick's voice. "You're lying." He said, his voice making the sentence sound like more of a question than a statement.

Nick quickly turned his camera on and showed him a bit around the yard, making sure that the Brit understood this wasn't Texas. He seemed to get it, though, as he switched his camera on too, his gaze softening a bit. "Oh, I didn't know you two were going to.. meet up."

"Well, it was supposed to be in a few days, but I caught an earlier flight. Uh, about that," Nick cut off, trying his best to stop himself from sugar-coating his words. "I-I came in at a bit of a wrong time, George."

"What does that even mean?" George immediately asked, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he tried to make any clues out of Nick's expression. "Uh-well. George, has Clay ever talked to you about… well, depression?"

Nick was no specialist to diagnose, but it was obvious at this point. He knew Clay, and he also knew he wasn't one to get drunk randomly and make out with the first person off his contact list. He knew Clay wouldn't just break down without telling him why, and he knew that all of those energy drink cans, takeaway boxes and piles of clothes and other dirt scattered around his living space didn't take a week or a day to pile up.

And, right at that moment, George's heart sank deeper into his chest, his breath hitching and his mind beginning to race. He already knew that in the next few seconds, his heart is going to slowly break.

Chapter Text

As George listened to Nick, he felt his head start hurting. You'd imagine that his mind would be racing, filled with questions and very few answers, but he felt almost nothing; the fuzziness making him want to throw up. Not because of what Nick was talking about, no; but because he's not noticed how Clay might actually be hurting.

'No, I'm not okay.' George remembered Clay saying, his voice breaking. The brunet felt his smile begin to falter as a needle pinched his heart, concern rising in his features. He wanted to press further; but Dream seemed upset enough. That night, he went to bed and didn't sleep for hours, thinking about the other male's words.

See, humans are supposed to think about themselves. Biologically, it's always 'me before everyone else', in terms of safety and survival; but as we're the most intellectually and emotionally evolved species, we can be empathetic and refrain from egoism. Despite that, it's impossible for us to know what goes on in someone else's mind, and when we're stripped of that knowledge, the only logical thing is just assuming something that surrounds ourselves, almost as if we are the main character.

All those times that Clay ignored his texts; that the blond would act weird on calls or drag out the silence, where he wouldn't want to stream with George or spend a lot of time talking to Nick instead of him, he always wondered what he did wrong. He always thought that Clay was mad at him, that he wasn't as close as he thought he was, that he'd been.. wiped out.

What hurt the most is that George didn't notice what caused him to think all of that; the growing pain in his heart when he listened to Nick talk about how he facetimes with Clay, how his stomach sank when he found out that the brunet had visited him without letting George know. How he'd think that he liked Clay's laugh or that his soft, sleepy voice was something he would want to hear more often. The fact that he wished to know more excuses to film with the male completely flew over his head, leaving him absolutely clueless.

When Clay started feeling different about George, he found excuses. He blamed it on whatever was going on with him; he blamed it on the stupid flirtatious jokes they'd make, the fans shipping them, how they were actually close and actual best friends. He'd avoid the topic, but deep down, he knew that that something was not just one thought, it was a continuous loop of feelings and confusion. He pushed the realization away, but he knew it was there.

George, on the other hand, absolutely didn't notice. You'd think the range of human oblivion is limited, but it didn't seem so when it came to George. He didn't ignore the thoughts, no - he almost welcomed them, not seeing anything weird about it. Yeah, Clay's arms around me would feel nice, he thought innocently as he played Minecraft. I would want him to hold my face, crossed his mind as he laid awake in bed. He never made a big deal out of them, simply because they'd become such an often guest in his life that he never once thought about resisting them. For Clay, thinking about George felt guilty, felt like he had his hopes too high up, felt like it's disgusting to like your own best friend; for George, it felt comforting, it felt nice, and he'd often catch himself imagining much more than the boundaries of just friendship allow.

George never realized, though. He never came to the conclusion that this was more than just thinking about friendship.

Now, George immediately felt guilt for not noticing. It wasn't his fault, of course, but when you're in a state of shock or disbelief, blaming something on yourself seems to be a defense mechanism. Truth be told, pointing fingers is not an answer here; Clay's state wasn't anyone's fault. None of the three knew before this that you don't have to have a certain reason, a tragedy, a sad tale to tell to cause this. They were never taught about anything like this, mental health awareness almost nonexistent in all of their lives; they hadn't realized that it could touch the ones they care about, or even them. It was scary, terrifying even, but it never came to mind as it seemed like such an obviously impossible situation - yet, here they stood, their reality slowly changing.

"How can I-What can I-," George managed to answer a long time after Sapnap had stopped speaking, his voice quiet and soft. Nick had his hand tangled into his hair while the boy on the other end of the line had his hand covering his mouth partially, the other gripping the phone.

"I don't know. I'm staying here for a week, regardless if he wants me to or not, so I'll try my best to do.. something." Nick mumbled, his whisper almost ghostly. The two still couldn't believe it.

"Nick?" George called out quietly, not noticing the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. "Yeah?" The other mumbled in return, looking at the Brit's camera for a moment.

"Please keep him safe." He said, his voice cracking a bit as he chewed on his lip subconsciously, making Nick think of how Clay does it, too. "I will. He's going to be okay, George." He didn't want his voice to sound like more of a question, but he felt like he was just trying to convince them both. Nonetheless, George knew that Clay was safe, despite wanting to be there, physically and mentally, for him.

All he had to do is wait now that Nick hung up, leaving him all alone with his thoughts.

He knew that he shouldn't have, but he felt a needle of jealousy pierce through his skin as he learned that Clay was caught making out quite violently with what Sapnap described was a pretty girl. He shouldn't feel jealous, it's not important at all, why would he even feel jealous, he should feel happy, even if he did it impulsively Clay deserves love-

Clay deserves love.

The blond would not ever believe that sentence.

Yet George wanted to yell it to him, out to the world, to let everybody know. In that moment George knew that he wanted to give Clay his love, whatever that meant; but he knew that the blond would never, in a million years, accept it in the same way that George means it.

Clay slept for a long time. When he woke up, the sun was already down, meaning it must've been at least eight hours - which felt like the only good sleep he had gotten in a while. Truth be told, the alcohol and the tears drain the human body quite a lot, but he still went through an unpleasant nightmare, the contents of it to be forever left a mystery.

When he woke up, his head was pounding and his throat was dry. Shit. He completely forgot that he would be waking up with a hangover - believe it or not, the blond doesn't drink often. He wanted to forget everything, but all it resulted in was guilt, embarrassment, pain and the hard reality crushing him the moment he woke up.

Reality.

He shot up, looking around as he noticed that Nick wasn't there. He immediately started wondering if all that he remembers from before he slept was just hallucinations and exhaustion, when he heard soft footsteps get louder in the hallway, making his gaze turn that way.

Nick slowly stepped through the doorway, a soft, small smile apparent on his face. Clay's expression was almost wild, his hair disheveled from the sleep and the bumpy material from the pillow visible in red lines on his cheek, as he slept with the cushion pressed tightly against his skin. "Hi." He muttered, his voice feeling.. strange. Almost as if it didn't belong to him, hoarse from the violent sobbing and cracking under the weight of the realization of what happened just a few hours prior.

"Hey, man. Sorry, I had to search through your cabinets, but I got you water and Advil," Nick muttered warmly, stepping closer and setting the clear glass and the pill on the coffee table. Clay looked at him in disbelief, his mouth hanging open, which made Nick chuckle. "What?"

"No-nothing, I-thank you." Clay muttered, letting out probably one of the shittiest 'thank you's of all time, but the other knew he meant it. He just smiled in return as the blond downed the glass, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, afraid to look the shorter in the eyes.

"Hey, dude, uh. Do-do you want to talk or are you not, you know, ready?" The brunet asked awkwardly, feeling horrible at how puffy and swollen the other's face was from all the crying. "I-we, we can. I-not now, later though, my head is blowing up and-" Clay rambled tiredly before feeling Nick's hand being placed on his shoulder, making him look up despite his best attempts not to.

"It's okay, man." Nick said, and, before he knew it, he was pulled into a tight hug, feeling like it was much easier for Clay to do this than to talk. And that was okay. The blond's hands felt clammy and he was a bit sweaty, but Nick hugged him back just as tightly.

As they pulled apart, Clay brushed his hand through his hair, trying to tame the knots that have formed. Nick looked at him with a sheepish smile on his face, patting his back so hard the blond choked on air for a second. "Okay, now, please change. You smell like vodka and sweat. I'll order some breakfast, I can't cook for shit." Nick muttered, earning a grateful groan from Clay.

As the blond shut himself in his room, he tangled one of his hands into his hair, not feeling like changing at all. His head hurt a bit less, but the Advil hadn't worked entirely yet - what ached most was the guilt building up in his stomach. He felt so bad for letting Nick see him in this state.

He couldn't do the one thing he was supposed to, hide himself away, and now look at him - he's fucking miserable. It felt as if he'd let Nick down, and the feeling of disappointment was pulling on his guts, making him want to completely isolate himself again - surely, that would be possible, if the other wasn't in his house.

The male quickly recollected himself, almost stumbling in his steps as he changed into a pair of black basketball shorts and another warm, soft hoodie, this time not from his own merch line. He didn't consider that it was almost always grilling both outside and inside, since he did live in a hot southern state, but he really couldn't care now. The feeling of a soft material hugging his skin and the fact that he would always take away from his nerves and try to focus with fidgeting with the hood strings was better than having to scratch at his arms or tug on the sheer material of a plain t-shirt.

As he came out of his room, Sapnap was waiting on the couch, having picked the pillows up and cleaned up the glass in the kitchen. He sent him a grateful smile, popping down next to him on the soft seat.

"Hey, Sap."

"Yes, Dre?"

The blond let out a hoarse chuckle, intertwining the fingers of his hands together and placing them in his lap as he looked over at Nick, who was grinning sheepishly. "I-I'm sorry." A quiet sigh escaped the brunet's lips as his smile faltered.

Nick had known him since they were children, literal children. Funnily enough, they met on a minecraft server; but Clay knew that he was going to be his best friend right in that second. It's been years, and Sapnap is still his ride or die, despite his unfunny jokes, him being slow on picking up social cues and not being the greatest wingman.

"Clay, you dumb idiot, you have no right to say sorry. You have nothing to apologize for, okay?" Nick's soft voice rang in the blond's ears as his phone was set aside. "I don't know what happened, Clay, but I'm sorry you-you didn't feel comfortable reaching out to me. But I'm here now, even if I couldn't be here before."

Nick's voice felt like a melody, almost a painful, but beautiful one. Despite the undeniable comfort it brought, it just made Clay feel worse upon realizing that he might've hurt his friends in the process of losing himself.

The guilt isn't going away anytime soon, is it?

Why do I feel like it's always my fault?

Chapter Text

Clay's mind was a battlefield. One side, completely broken and full of grief, wanted to build the walls up again; screamed at him, telling him how weak he was, how much of a disappointment he is and that he's always going to be alone, at his own fault.

The other side was crying out, absolutely tired after all of the abuse from it's opponent. It needed to let everything go, trying to convince Clay that he didn't need to do this alone. That whatever he's tried to stand on was just a false sense of security and the ground beneath him was slowly crumbling; he needed to rip the mask off in order to get out.

Clay was torn.

He's been going on with the first side for so long, deciding that ignoring the problems would make them go away; furthermore, it just got worse, but his habits did not change.

Besides, battle is tiring for any men, especially when the ground of it - in this case Clay himself - chooses the wrong side at the start. It takes to get rid of a lot of fears, pride, assumptions and thoughts to admit your wrong and try switching sides. For some, it might be too late- the blond wasn't sure if the damage was reparable now.

Blaming himself had become something obvious now, despite what anything said; he had a hard time believing when others spoke to him with care, complimented him, and tried to lift his mood. Even hugs didn't seem genuine anymore; it's almost like Clay was convinced, by his own thoughts, that because he's weak and it's all his fault no one and nothing towards him would, and should, be positive.

Of course, Nick, and practically anyone from the outside, disagreed. They all saw Clay in a way so different from what he always caught a glimpse of in the mirror; yet the blond would never believe it. His brain wouldn't accept the information as true, and at first, it seemed like nothing dangerous - a sour face at someone calling him handsome, looking in the mirror for a bit too long just to make sure he looks okay even though no one is seeing his face, or staying up for longer to think about how he could improve himself, and what he's doing wrong, completely ignoring and crossing out any positives.

Progress.

Progress is generally not a negative word, although in this case it was Clay's doom. He let his dark, depressing thoughts progress, the side that was eating him alive slowly winning over his brain. It was tiring, but it was almost as if he was in a trance; with time, as everything progressed, he felt as if there was no way out. Like this is his reality and this is the right way to live, that this is the new 'normal' for him, no matter how much colour it'd take from his life.

See, the thing is, progress here is slow. It's almost undetectable, because it's pace allows you to just get used to every little thing that starts to fall apart, until the ruins of your own mind feel like home. Cold, killing home, but still home.

Clay wasn't ever taught how to deal with being sad. Smile, they said - it didn't work. Go on a walk! - the blond couldn't even get up to brush his teeth sometimes. Get a nice meal, they exclaimed, while he'd get crushed by emotion so hard it stiffened him, making him sick.

He wasn't aware of his state until it was too late; and even now, with a friend by his side who was technically willing to help, he still didn't know what to do. He still wanted to push it away, ignore it, to belittle the problem in hopes of it permanently and magically going away, the thought of facing it even more terrifying than the inevitable future of having to live with it.

Clay never found his way with words, either.

What was he supposed to say? That he's let him down? That all of the times he'd spent convincing Sapnap that he was okay was just lies?

The feeling of failure was an inevitable partner of the aftermath of the letting go.

He knew he couldn't tell him everything.

He couldn't physically bring himself to; every time he'd try to speak up, his breath would catch in his throat and his heart would speed up, making him feel almost nauseous.

As his mind battled the tiring thoughts, he tried to grasp a way to maybe let go some of the pressure before it crushes his lungs and blanks his mind. Of course, he quickly realized a man's best friend is the Notes app - so, the night after everything went down, he laid awake in bed, the phone screen blindly bright as he typed furiously, not even trying to make any sense. No one was going to see this, let alone ever hear this.

The blond compared the way he dealt with everything as jumping into a deep pool, without a lifeline or a good ability to swim; almost as if he thought he was a great swimmer, but he decided to ignore the panic rising up in his chest as he realized his feet couldn't touch the ground.

Then, came the part where he started losing himself. Losing enjoyment in everyday things, losing track of time, not wanting to talk to anyone despite being a sociable person, the way he sometimes had no strength to get up from his beed and how he'd lay sleepless in the nights. So many little red flags that are so easy and comfortable to ignore until you can't; when you start to lose strength and struggle to keep yourself on the surface, feeling your limbs ache and your breath falter.

The third stage was chaotically terrifying; drowning. The feeling of being pushed under the water, with no strength and no idea how to take another breath of oxygen; your lungs filling up with water in a rapidly quick pace as you desperately wiggle, trying to do anything to save yourself while you still can, the late realization now your curse.

After that, comes silence. You give up, letting the tons of chlorinated water swallow you and bring you down, your only choice is to watch as you hit the rock bottom of the pool.

Clay was scared to hit the rock bottom. He wasn't really sure what stage he was on; his mind felt fuzzy and it all felt like a blur, fucking up his memory and ability to recall the smallest things.

Clay wiped his eyes, feeling the wetness of his tears on the back of his palm. He shut off his phone, throwing the device to the side as he listened to the mesmerizing silence, his emerald green eyes shining a bit in the moonlight.

He gulped, frantically wiping away his tears as he put his hand over his mouth, preventing himself from letting out a sob. As he slowly let his tears trail down his sun-kissed cheeks, giving up his efforts to keep his face dry, his gaze was locked on the ceiling, his own words ringing in his ears. The moonlight was now seemingly close to a night lamp, making Clay feel like it's saving a kid from the bed monsters - in reality, the blond had no idea if he wouldn't actually prefer sitting in complete darkness.

He felt so helpless.

At the same time, it all felt painfully poetic ; how his own words, his own memories and him barely trying to describe what he feels like making him shed a tear, almost as if he's feeling bad for himself, pitying his own existence.

As the boy's eyes trailed to his phone, he bit his lip, trying his hardest to contain his willpower. Unfortunately, it wasn't meant to be as he grabbed it, turning on the wifi - which had been switched off right as he turned his phone on again - and he muted his notifications, seeing a lot of them. As he scrolled down the list, the glowing screen reflecting in his glassy eyes, he found a particular name he had been looking for.

He clicked on the notifications, seeing that there were over twenty unread messages from the span of twenty four hours. As his heart raced, reading through them, he glanced at the time. Three thirty eight am. He should be awake, right?

Clay wouldn't let himself do impulsive things. He'd managed to switch his brain to overthink everything, which was messy, but he felt like having extreme control and a harsh filter was better than making many mistakes unintentionally - but something about his heart fluttering and his eyes filling up with more of the salty liquid made him not think twice before pressing the green call button.

Calling George..

Chapter Text

George had no idea about how much of a battlefield Clay's mind was. He could only try to imagine.

His mind, on the other end, was as peaceful as a town recovering after a hundred year long war. There wasn't really a single threat, any worrying problems, yet the air was filled with a bitter tone of grief, loss, loneliness even.

The brunet had one big secret that he hid from the blond, but he also slowly learned to co-exist with it. Almost as if in a symphony of the relief that comes when you name a problem and face your feelings, and the knowing state that what you want would, and will, be never meant to happen.

Yet, George hasn't stopped thinking about Clay once. He'd text him; he knew his phone was turned off, but he tried calling him and showing any support. It was scary to not know what's going on all over across the pond where your best friend is in an unknown state. He obviously trusted Nick, but it somehow didn't seem like enough.

Also, George was a fucking loser when it came to speaking about deep things.

Sure, he was kind, compassionate and soft - he'd always listen to his friends rant. Although he tried his best, the advice he said or the words he found flowing out of his mouth weren't really the best always - which is fine, obviously, they can't expect everyone to be perfect in every social situation. George always felt bad for just sitting there in silence, but with time he knew that they felt his support and they knew that he'd always find time to listen to them. He was a listener, truly - and that seemed to be enough.

But with Clay, George didn't want himself to just be enough.

Ever since Nick told him, he's been trying to work out what he was going to say to the blond if they talk again. Clay never seemed to get out of George's mind, especially not now, but whenever he tried to figure out what's best to say in this situation, his brain went blank.

Because that's what it is; there's never a 'right thing' to say in this situation.

Every person that struggles with something reacts differently, therefore there isn't a rule book to help someone and a script that you're supposed to recite to them. Depression, or really any other mental struggle, always feels unreal, especially to the people around the ill person - most of them have no idea what to do. Some distance themselves, thinking they'll hurt him, some are just scared to talk because they don't know what the person is exactly feeling, some really don't want to deal with it at all, leaving the person completely because they feel overwhelmed. It's hard to pinpoint what's good and what's bad now; it all seems like one continuous blur, a nightmare that everyone wishes to end.

Honestly, everything now seemed so bizzare and so, so confusing to all three of them.

So, that morning when George set the freshly washed porcelain plate aside for it to dry and heard his ringtone, he first thought nothing. He didn't expect any words from anyone else besides Nick, and the brunet would always call him on Discord, not directly to his phone - his first thought was, it's probably my mom.

Then it hit him.

The ringtone he was hearing wasn't his usual ringtone, it was a song that was his and Dream's inside joke - he had forgotten that he set it for only the blond's calls. He quickly sprinted over to his room and grabbed his phone from his desk, his eyes widening as his heart raced a bit. He was right, there it was, spread over the screen;

Dream

He gulped, his hands trembling just slightly as he caught a glimpse of the time. It was eight am for him, meaning that for Dream, it was barely three in the morning. His eyebrows furrowed in concern but he thought nothing, the only thing occupying his mind right now was the male.

He quickly picked up, bringing the device to his ear with a shuddering breath. From the other end, all he received was silence until he heard a shuffle and Dream clearing his throat. He figured quickly that he wouldn't be getting any words from the other, so he took it upon himself to ignore the shakiness of his voice and speak up slowly, trying to sound as normal as possible.

"Hello?"

His voice was soft, laced with lucid concern and care. Yet, for some reason, Clay found it sharp and loud, almost like a bullet piercing through his skin agonizingly slowly. He shifted uncomfortably again, the silence filling up his ears like hissing acid. He sounds disappointed.

"H-hey." He finally spoke up, his voice a bit hoarse and monotone from the crying. He still felt the wet, salty trails on his cheeks as he tried his best to sound normal, too. Nick told him that George knew, and he wasn't mad; not at the brunet, atleast.

George opened his mouth to say something, only to close it again. He bit his lip, feeling helpless; he couldn’t find the right thing to say. Asking if he’s okay or how he’s holding up would lead to complete disaster, and he knew it.

At that moment, nothing else seemed to matter to George. His abandoned, unwashed dishes, his messy room, what he was going to eat for breakfast or how much time has passed since he’s gotten up - the only thing on his mind was the blond on the other end of the line. He decided to take a step forward, a risky one, but he had no other idea what to do - so he slowly let go of his boundaries and his filters, deciding that speaking what came to his mind first would not be the worst idea.

“Clay.” His voice was soft as his gaze trailed from his hands to his ceiling, shifting a bit so he was now laying down on his mattress.

George never uses his real name. He always says Dream.

The blond was taken aback, feeling his breath hitch in his throat at that one, simple word. He tried his best to read what George was feeling from only his tone, but his mind was tired - it wasn’t working like he wanted it to anymore. He couldn’t see his face, he could only try to blindly imagine it, but it didn’t feel right.

George, on the other hand, didn’t know what his best friend looked like. He had always wondered, since they were friends for years, why had he been so hesitant in just showing his face? He truly knew that he could trust George after all that time, right? The brunet was confused at first, but he never pushed it too much, figuring that making Dream uncomfortable by just being pushy would be the thing he really did not want.

Now, he could really understand why Dream would always fall silent when the topic fell on his face.

Did Dream-no, Clay,- fear he wasn’t enough?

Bingo.

The thought made George’s heart ache. The fact that he never once thought of it this way, always assuming that Clay’s life is as easy and problem-less as it seemed. He felt blind, and he felt guilty - he knew that there was no way he could have known, but that didn’t stop his heart slowly breaking at his best friend’s condition.

“Clay.” He repeated, his voice even quieter. He earned an affirmative hum from the end of the line, signaling him to speak again. “I-I’m sorry.” The brunet muttered, his voice cracking under the pressure that had built up during the few seconds of the call.

Clay furrowed his brows, his tensed features relaxing. What on earth was he on about?
“What?” The blond’s voice was soft, caring even, but that didn’t ease George’s nerves. The guilt in his stomach was still there, despite his best efforts to get rid of it.

The older sighed, trying his best to push his feelings aside. He didn’t want everything to come crumbling down on him when Clay’s the most important thing here; he’s learned to live with love, regret, sadness, so surely he can adapt to guilt. He had a sickening feeling that it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon; and, as George does, he’s not going to do anything with it. Confrontation with your own feelings is scary, especially when they’re all so clear it almost blinds you.

“I-I’m sorry Clay. For not noticing.” I was too busy trying to adapt to my own reality, I’m sorry I’ve let you down , he wanted to add, but he felt like his words were too sour. He wasn’t ready to try and explain anything to the blond; frankly, he could not give a shit about himself at that moment. The only image in his head was the other possibly silently crying in his room, all alone in Florida on a gloomy 3 am night, while George was probably having fun streaming or doing literally anything else. The image pained him, yet he couldn’t shake it out of his head, almost as if it was a curse that was laid upon him the second Nick told him everything.

Learn to live with it.

Such a sorrowful sentence. It always felt like the notes of a haunted, old piano, which was accompanied by the soft, yet depressing rain; the seemingly beautiful symphony clashing down on you, lingering in your heart like a thought you just can’t get rid of. It could be filled with so many emotions and meanings, ranging from love to hate, regret to grief, loss to gain - and every single of those words held a different tone to it. Safe to say George was always accompanied by the sentence, feeling like it was some sort of a ghost, an entity, following him around.

Living with something felt like a dark secret, a russian roulette; confronting it was either a hopeful promise or a painful decree. The chances of getting both were just controlled by your fate; one was able to fill you with happiness and excitement, the other would break you and bury you with your own sorrows.

The male felt like a fool, perhaps, maybe even a coward. George was simply too scared to take the leap and see which chance life would give him; he would prefer to stay in his own little safe zone, like a room in the back of his mind. He had the key; he refused to unlock it, worried about what he’d have to face on the other side of the door.

How could he know that the other side of the door held what he wanted the most? That on the other side, Clay’s back was pressed against the hard-wood surface, his head leaning against it as he waited. The blond wasn’t hopeful, though; he was convinced the door would forever stay closed. He was slowly slipping, his sanity telling him to just get up and run away whilst he still can; he was considering it.

Clay’s features were gentle, almost like he was dealing with a lost puppy. His head buzzed as his eyes fell shut, his mind trying to imagine George’s expression right now. He was trying his hardest to read his voice the best he could. “What? Not noticing what?”

“That you-God.” George sighed shakily, grabbing a fistful of his hair as he tugged on it softly, his nose scrunching up. He cringed at how uncertain he sounded; it all felt almost funny, how even when trying his best, he still couldn’t find the right words to say. It was always like this, yet in this situation, it felt like he was just making it all worse. That his uncertainty was more painful to the person on the other end of the line than to George himself.

“I’m just sorry. I should’ve- I should’ve noticed.” He said, involuntarily letting Clay hear a bit of the pain in his voice. That’s the least he could do, honestly, he had no idea if his words sounded right.

“George, I-” Clay cut off with a soft sigh, his lips parting slowly. His grip on the device tightened subconsciously as he tried to understand why George’s tone of voice hurt him so much; why the knowledge that the brunet feels regret made Clay feel even worse. Each of their minds were busy with one another, and they both refused to let go of their filters and speak their mind, carefully picking out words as if the other was made of glass, a wrong sentence spoken and they’d shatter. “I didn’t… I didn’t want you to notice.”

The words came crashing down on George like a bucket of cold water being poured all over him, sobering him up from any blurriness he might’ve felt seconds ago. “What?” He asked, his voice now filled with fear and doubt. Doubt that he can handle this situation well enough.

Overwhelm, perhaps?

“No, not- not in a bad way.” He said immediately, trying to ease George’s nerves when he heard his tone of voice shift so abruptly. “I didn’t want anyone to know. I-It’s not about you or, anything. My point is it’s not your fault, okay? None of it is. I should be sorry.” He spoke, his words unbearably soft and calm. They still felt cold, almost like an auto-generated response; something sugar-coated with a painful inside. Like a starry sky that you’d yearn to admire; only to realize how freezing it is outside, how you’d have to admire it from your window with a sad smile.

That’s really all that Clay was, at this point.

He was something, someone so admirable, so Dreamy , yet unreachable. Someone that could not leave George’s mind and someone that the brunet had not considered his best friend for a long, long time now; he considered him a mystery, one that would fill him with so many emotions that he hadn’t felt in forever, almost. Someone that confused his senses and blurred his mind; someone that he had to learn to live with, adapting to every feeling that was thrown his way.

He had no idea that his inside was so… broken. He now felt helpless as he remembered trying to solve the puzzle that he is so selfishly, not realizing that maybe Clay didn’t want to be solved. That maybe the puzzle inside was something the blond was ashamed of, and that the mind that George had spent so long trying to understand was just as ugly and as broken as an out-of-tune piano, once able to play a pretty, alluring melody, now losing all of it’s worth in it’s own eyes.

For George, that piano  still had so much worth - even more than before, as he immediately thought that he would be willing to learn how to repair it. Or, at least be gentle with it. No matter what it sounded like, it was so valuable to him. Clay couldn’t see that.

As the brunet tried to speak up, he heard tapping. A noise that got louder and louder, almost getting him out of the trance that he’d fallen in once he picked up the call. His gaze quickly turned over to where it was coming from, the light from the window making him squint his eyes as his pupils tried to adjust. The tapping noise was coming from outside, making him sit up slowly as he grasped the sight. It felt so goddamn accurate; it was raining.

The drops of water splattered on his window and his windowsill, making it seem like they were just knocking, eager to get in. The rain had always been something George didn’t like; it felt grey, like the little colour he could see was being slowly washed away by someone’s tears.

Yet, this time, the melody it made felt soothing and familiar. It felt like a presence that would comfort him, easing his nerves a bit. He imagined that the rain was caused by Clay to show him that he’s there; even if the blond didn’t know about his fear. It felt like home, for once, accompanying the out-of-tune piano and melting into a perfect symphony of everything the two best friends felt.

“It’s raining.” George mumbled slowly, the light illuminating in his eyes as he spoke, his expression almost dazzled by the sight unfolding in front of his eyes.

It felt like such an out of place sentence; yet, as Clay processed it, his grip on his phone loosened a bit, his head tilting back a little. “Yeah?” He muttered, shutting his eyes to imagine rainy England; George sitting in front of his window, soft lips slightly parted as the grey sky reflected on his features, somehow making them light up even more. Clay was sprawled across his bedsheets, his sleeping shirt riding up a bit as his hand wandered to his hair - the room was all darkness, not even the moonlight peeking through the blinds able to light it up in any way.

“Yeah.” He hummed affirmative in response. “I-It’s pretty.” He said, his mind completely out of it; it could’ve seemed like he was just trying to avoid the topic, but somehow, the tune of the composition playing in the back of Clay’s mind suddenly felt less sorrow, less aggressive. It stopped nagging on his brain as George’s hurtful voice turned into a curious, surprised one.

“Tell me about it. The rain.” Clay’s voice was loud, but gentle as he spoke. George’s fingers pressed against the cold glass as he stood up, nodding although the other couldn’t see it.

“It’s chilly outside, the rain is making it colder. That’s obvious, I suppose.” A breathy chuckle escaped George’s lips as he continued. “It’s not aggressive. It’s like it’s falling down in slow motion. O-or maybe that’s just what I want to see. It feels.. soft.” He muttered, his tone of voice getting quieter and quieter as he went on. A heat crawled up his neck as he gulped, shaking his head. “I-That sound so stupid, I’m sorry-”

“No, it doesn't. It makes sense.” Clay spoke with an audibly sad smile, his heart throbbing. He wanted to tell George that he missed the soft tone of voice he used just a second ago; it felt like a remedy, easing his pain and letting him forget, even if just for a moment. “Continue. Please.” He pleaded, his voice cracking softly; he sounded like he was ready to beg for the brunet to speak about something so irrelevant, so.. normal. George complied, humming in response as his cheeks burned light pink. “O-okay.”

“You know what rain feels like? Well, I suppose you do, but it just rains way more often over here. I always compare it to music, for some reason. I never liked the music it made, it made me cringe and want the sun to come out immediately. It felt like it was… I don’t know, washing away something important.” George stopped, only to earn a hum from the other.

“Now, it’s… different. It feels… comforting, almost. Less heavy, more ethereal. Like I’m in a daydream , not a nightmare.” His words were soft yet again, his tone almost ghostly as he ran his pale fingers along the glass, the silence from the other end feeling like it was crawling up his neck. Yet, even with the lack of response, he knew Clay was listening.

George was the first to let go. Let go of what he was desperately holding, even for a moment; let himself be free. He felt cloudy, almost like he was floating, like the rain was lifting him up. He didn’t have full control of his body anymore, his hand slowly dragging along the cold surface as his throat burned at what he was about to say next.

“It feels like.. you.” George said, his eyes fluttering shut as his forehead pressed against the cold surface, his burning skin feeling a bit more at ease. He didn’t even try to imagine Clay’s expression anymore; everything felt like it was out of his control. For once, he let everything be. “You’re my daydream, Clay.”

That soft, fuzzy feeling of George’s voice stopped nagging at the blond’s mind as his eyes fluttered open, his heart skipping a bit almost as if he was bracing for a hit. His mouth formed into an ‘o’ as his body stiffened, feeling like it was giving out; his muscles did not have strength anymore, barely letting him hold his phone up to his ear.

“ Daydream ?” He repeated, his voice barely audible as his eyes widened. Drops of sweat formed on his forehead as confusion overtook his features, barely letting him control his mouth. His mind, once filled with all kinds of topics, worries, problems and sorrows, was now completely blank; only the word daydream ringing aggressively in his ears.

“Yes.” George huffed out, his voice as quiet as Clay’s, almost as if he tried to match it. The brunet felt like he was in a trance; somehow, the other’s presence on the other end wanted him to maybe open the door to that room in the back of his head. That maybe it was worth it to take the chance; so he stepped into risky territory, reality so seemingly blurry he couldn’t comprehend what was happening himself. “Not just a Dream anymore.” He added, his calm and sure tone of voice sending a shiver down the other male’s spine. Because that’s what it was; at that moment, hearing Clay’s caring and deep voice, seeing a gentler side of him unfold in front of George made him think that maybe he is real; that maybe, just maybe, he would trust him with the key to the door.

It felt so weird to say such an intimate thing in a moment where he’s supposed to be sad; but he must’ve subconsciously realized that Clay didn’t mind. That Clay felt so entirely different when talking to George about anything, it became addicting. Almost like their souls were connected, linking on a level that even words couldn’t describe; it felt so cliche, but at the same time, it felt right. They both refused to understand and believe in soulmates, but sometimes it was easy to doubt your beliefs when even without words, even across the Atlantic, there was someone that understood you and spoke to you in the ways that no one else could.

Chapter Text

Sometimes you have this one person that makes everything seem bigger than it is.

Their actions make you react in so many ways that you’d think it’s an over exaggeration; yet it never is. Somehow, they manage to burn all your walls down with just a single message, a single sentence, one touch. They always seem like a big deal and when they start hurting, it’s like you do too - almost as if you two became involuntarily connected with each other. Their words seem to burn into the back of your mind and always stay there, never letting you forget about them - they usually cause such strong emotions that you have no idea how to deal with them.

“You’re a daydream.”

Those words rang in Clay’s ears long after he hung up.

You’d think that it would make him happy; such a soft, gentle tone they were spoken in, as well as the overall genuineness and positiveness they held in their tone. If the person you liked spoke to you that way, in that shiver-inducing voice, you’d feel like you were on cloud nine, absolutely ethereal.

Yet, Clay hurt. Hurt so much after he heard them; and the pain didn’t seem to want to go away, no matter if he was actually thinking about it or not. They seemed to have burnt themselves into his mind, the scar never healing. The painful spot sat in the back of his mind, reminding him of itself every second of every hour of the day.

Why was it that those soft-spoken, delicate words had made such an impact on him?

Well, you see, the sad part about being an overthinker is learning that, throughout life, you’re almost 100% right.

On almost every occasion, Clay watched as his worst fears, assumptions and thoughts came to life, and he could only watch everything crumble, with a sad smile on his face; he’s beforehand realized that this could happen, he could’ve prevented it - yet he had done nothing, too busy with his own thoughts. That’s what it always was.

Now, it wasn’t that he was particularly busy. His mind simply didn’t have much space to work as it circled around that moment, adding another night to the ‘restless’ category. It - the mind - seemed to only be able to think about him and him , and his words, almost as if it became addicted to the male - that wouldn’t be surprising, considering the Brit has spent more and more time on the blonde’s mind lately.

Addictions are almost obviously contradictory to love, right?

Love is an emotion of comfort. It brings you to care about another person that you want them to be around you as much as possible; their voice sounds like a soothing melody, and their words can heal all of your wounds, no matter how much they hurt. Everything about them is sickeningly sweet, almost like honey, and it’s taste makes your mind go blank and all of your worries suddenly evaporate in the air at the thought of them. They seem to lead you through everyday, hardly leaving your mind as they make you feel a type of warmth that makes you want to spend all of the time you have left in the world with them.

Addictions are alluring; almost acting as a forbidden fruit, mysterious and pulling from the outside; God forbid you get caught in their web. Suddenly, it’s like something you can’t live without; like it replaced the oxygen you breathe and it fills your lungs, like nothing else matters besides it, like you’re going crazy just at the thought of it. You never want it to go away, despite the gut-wrenching feeling it gives you when it tangles you in it’s limbs; it’s a bittersweet taste, seemingly so innocent and nerve-easing; then, out of nowhere, it suddenly becomes your water and your food, and your mind just feels so fuzzy. You feel like you’re always being buried underground, the weight of the dirt crushing your chest; the last bit of comfort now hidden in the very same thing that buried you.

Even thinking of love and addiction as c0-existing, almost synonymous to each other, felt kind of ridiculous. It felt like it’s impossible to match those two together; yet, for Clay, it was all that it was. Love was addicting, despite how painful it became - even if the blond himself was making it hurt even more by ignoring it everyday, hoping it would solve itself - he really didn’t want it to go away, no matter how much rational thinking went into it.

For him, everything about George burned. His voice left flames prickling at his skin, hissing at him as they submerged his brain. His smile, his quirks, his personality, his face, everything about the Brit made the boy want to overdose on whatever made him feel this way - it buried him under the flames, but he didn’t resist once, letting the scolding heat kill him slowly. He’d just sit there helplessly as everything in him melted at even the slightest thought of the brunet. Even though George was so, so confusing, and when he wasn’t present the fire would burn holes through his heart, he still felt a bit of comfort, yearning, like everything was okay for even just a moment.

He clung onto that feeling - he clung onto George - as the eternal fire burned with a painful realization that despite the intensity of Clay’s feelings, the brunet could never return them.

He would never know that George felt comfort and pain in him too - the latter factor being eased by how clueless and protective his mind was, desperately guarding him of any realization that could hurt him - he was almost like glass, so fragile that one touch could shatter him completely.

Yet, at that moment, in the call where Clay’s unsteady breath was accompanied by the soft tapping of the rain, he realized one thing - he’d let the blond shatter him over and over again. Hell, he’d hand him a hammer if it meant that the two could get any closer - they both seemed to be stuck in an eternal loop of nothingness, their hands desperately reaching out; their connection seemingly stopped by the barriers of their own minds.

Clay refused to face his feelings in a desperate attempt to not lose George while he’s losing himself; while George became scared of what he doesn’t know, while the unstable and uncertain ground beneath him slowly crumbled.

They were so, so pathetic. Love fucked them both over more than it should ever have while they submerged into their own problems, too blinded by the refusal to see further to actually see reality and reach out to grab the other’s hand. They slowly became addicted to each other, though, which was ironic - because the only cure to the affliction was really just one another.

Chapter Text

George felt sad when he looked out of the window the next day; the rain wasn’t there. The sky was a shade of guilty gray and there were only a few clouds visible.

He missed the rain.

It rained yesterday; yet it felt like ages. Ages since he saw the droplets hit his windowsill, ages since he felt the air become more and more chill, ages since the grass shimmered with the liquid that momentarily felt like glitter.

Ages since he heard Clay’s voice.

It’s really no surprise that lately, he’d been missing him more. He always could talk to him, that isn’t the point - but he missed him in the sense that he needed him to live. That his heart was empty, missing a big puzzle piece, despair slowly filling it up when the other wasn’t here - George wasn’t sure that was normal. It felt like he needed him to breathe; like the blond was his oxygen, his only cure, the only thing that ever made sense in his life; he took away his freedom of mind, but George didn’t mind.

Hearing his voice felt like bliss; it seemed to always reassure him that everything was okay, like a gentle lullaby that put his worries to ease; his fear of commitment and uncertainty suddenly going away. Yet, no matter how much they talked, it didn’t quite feel like enough. 

George spoke the truth when he called Clay a daydream - despite feeling unreal, like an illegal drug that made this weird feeling in the pit of his stomach engulf him completely, he seemed to be closer and closer to the Brit’s heart everyday. George accepted it; he was afraid to name the problem, because he knew that this warm feeling in his heart could really go away with one wrong move; yet he pulled Clay closer and closer, voluntarily falling deeper and deeper.

So you could only imagine how, when you’re connected by an invisible force with someone so far away and so unavailable in every way, it feels abrupt. It feels so confusing when you hear them hurt and you feel all the same pain, if not doubled; George had no idea what was actually going on with Clay. But he knew he wasn’t okay - and his heart silently broke everytime he thought of him, his fingers aching from the desire to just press the fucking call button and make sure that he was still there, still real.

Was it love?

-

Nick felt horrible seeing his best friend walk out of his room, puffy cheeks and under eyes red. He hasn’t changed his hoodie in two days - Sapnap didn’t find it disgusting or weird, he found it concerning. These days, the Texan’s voice was soft and laced with genuine worry as he patiently stood by Clay’s side, wiping his tears and letting him wet his shirt when he needed to. He didn’t see Clay as the blond saw himself; weak, overdramatic, disgusting, out of place. He saw him just the same as before - although he knew that this Floridian wasn’t the one he stayed up on call for and played stupid games like Jackbox or Minecraft with.

Now, the two were sitting in Clay’s living room, which was for once clean - Nick brought it upon himself to help the other not bury himself in trash, despite his protests.

The taller man sat criss-crossed on the couch as Nick leaned against the wall, his patient gaze exploring the room; he was afraid to look at the blond despite everything, not wanting him to feel exposed or under pressure. Even if Nick wasn’t a fucking therapist and had no idea what was right to say in this moment or really in this whole situation, he was still the other’s best friend; he knew him like the back of his own hand, he knew how he always pushed everything and everyone away, afraid to face his problems. He knew that yelling or demanding him to speak would be too harsh; he knew despite keeping up the tough guy facade, Clay was just a person, after all. He was as fragile as all of us.

Earlier this day, when Nick was caught by the other sitting in the backyard and listening to some shit 80’s rock, he heard the words ‘I’m ready.’ He was confused, at first, but then he understood - and now that the Floridian sun has gotten almost unbearable, the clock hitting noon, they moved inside, still in comfortable silence.

“So..” Clay cleared his throat, the sudden awkwardness taking over his body as he cringed. It all felt ceremonial to him; like it was such a big deal out of nothing, that he was just a mess and that it’s really not that important to make a big, dramatic therapy session out of it - but he still could feel his throat go dry whenever he tried to speak up.

“So.” Nick repeated, slowly sitting down on the chair next to the sofa, his gaze glued to the floor - as was Clay’s.

“Um. I really do-I really don't know what there is to say. I don’t want to dump everything on you a-and-before you say that ‘It’s fine and I have nothing to worry about’, I reassure you, I do.” He let out a dry, lifeless chuckle, already predicting what Nick would say. Despite everything, he knew Sapnap was always first to reach out and he sometimes overestimated himself. The last thing he wanted was for him to feel like he’s obliged to help him, like he’s his therapist and that everything he says needs to be weighed out with caution.

“But if you want to hear it, I-I can tell you.” Clay muttered, suddenly stumbling over his words as he waited for an approval from the other - as he heard an affirmative hum, letting him continue, he took a deep breath, linking his hands and picking on his fingernails. “Okay, um.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

Pause.

“My family’s well. I love my job. I have wonderful supporters.”

Pause.

“I’m not lonely, I have friends- well, it didn’t seem fair to feel lonely. But I sort of did. Even if I’m surrounded by people, it all just started to feel like a lie one day… like they were all gonna leave me.”

His breath hitched, waiting for Sapnap’s response. He expected to hear the usual, that he isn’t alone, that he has him, or that he’s just delusional and dramatic - but all he received was a hum, which welcomed him to continue. The tense atmosphere in the room felt like something else; something new; an unrecognizable feeling, hugging him. It was strangely comforting.

Then, everything came crashing down on him like a waterfall when he was forced to open his eyes, feeling Nick’s hand on his back and the seat next to him suddenly become taken.

He told him everything; his voice broken, stutter overtaking his usually confident and closed tone as he stumbled over his words, no analogy able to explain how this moment felt. The grim of Clay’s words, the weight of his tone felt crushing, but the blond also felt free; suddenly, he was bundled up on the couch, tears involuntarily falling down his face as he hiccuped. His words made less and less sense as time went on, yet Sapnap seemed to understand it all; and it hurt. Even the brunet felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he held his shaking best friend for the second time that week, now living through the hell of the past months with him.

This moment held a promise to it; a pretty ribbon tying up all the rotting insides of Clay’s brain, his story now let out of the prison of his mind. It felt unreal how it hurt him to choke out these words to the person he’d been lying to the longest; he wasn’t okay. And this was the first time he’s said it, out loud - it wasn’t exactly confronting his problems and naming them, but it was a step down the long road that could only lead to two paths - and Sapnap helped him take it.

There are just some things that seem unexplainable; like there’s no words that could ever accurately pinpoint everything. This was one of those moments - the two of them both felt pain, relief, worry and a lot, a lot of fear - fear of tomorrow. Fear of what’s going to happen next; letting everything out seemed like the end of the road, like the final stop before whatever the destination was - yet it all felt like a beginning of something for Clay. He had no idea what that something was, and he was still too afraid to find out.

As the two fell into silence, Clay’s uncontrollable sniffling and unsteady breathing being the only sound filling the room, Nick felt like he had to say something. Yet, he felt helpless; no words seemed to fit, nothing seemed to be enough. He wasn’t one to give advice here; he was happy Clay trusted him, but everything he’d said felt so heavy that the shared weight on their shoulder started tiring his mind and clearing it until it’s fully blank and practically useless.

They were still hugging; it was reminiscent of a nostalgic picture of two kids on the playground, comforting each other as one broke out into high-pitched cries, holding his scraped knee. Neither of them were saying anything; yet the support was still there, beaming some type of light onto whatever shitshow of a breakdown this was.

“Hey.” Nick’s voice was soft as he softly nudged Clay, testing the waters carefully. The sunlight was peeking through the windows, gently lighting up the room, helping it feel a little less empty. The salty trails of tears on Clay’s cheeks shone fresh, reminiscent of glitter.

The truth is; there really is no right thing to say when you’re in Nick’s position. The only thing you’re capable of doing is showing support; that’s what the person needs. No words need to be spoken - if you’re willing to help them, you just have to be there for them. Nick’s mind fell peaceful; he knew that Clay was aware that he had him, even if the realization of that didn’t come without trouble.

As Nick heard a hum and a sniffle from under his arm, he held him a little tighter, as if to reassure that he wasn't leaving. He had to ask the hard question; he felt like it was a necessity to make sure he knew what Clay needed; he knew he wouldn’t be enough himself. After all, he just wanted to make sure his best friend was gonna be okay, whether it’s in a month or a year.

“Listen…” He began, stopping in his tracks to not seem aggressive. “Do you think… do you think, Clay, we should..um, get you a therapist?” He asked, not without a warm tone of voice.

The blond seemed to miss the question as he shot up rapidly, his eyes widening. His heart rate went up as the sunlight beamed no longer, the whole room feeling small and gray; fear distinctive in his pupils.

His mind immediately shot back to that awfully beige and empty room; the warmly toned warms always seemed cold. The gray armchair he always sat in felt just a little too intrusive to be comfortable and the tissues on the darkwood coffee table that always sat in front of him were always seemingly untouched. It was sometime in late spring, already developing into summer; the air was almost unnecessarily warm, even with the window open, but the blond seemed to always have unwelcomed goosebumps scattered on his skin. Going into that room always felt like he was being punished; despite the nice lady with the PhD sitting just in front of him, he always felt alone. He was sent to therapy in his teen years, after rebelling against his parents and being chased by the cops for skipping school - yet that was only scarcely scratching the surface of the problems that he had.

It felt cold; it felt forceful; it left him wondering what was wrong with him.

Now, all of the gentle reminders that he was fucked up and harsh memories of how alienated he felt, having to go there every week and sit through the woman just trying to read him while he kept silent came back; crashing into his lungs, making his breathing pattern unsteady.

“No, no-I-No,-” He mumbled, softly gripping the cushion beside him; everything felt so overwhelming and all he wanted to do was just scream and push it away. “I can’t.” He choked up, feeling both anger and inexplicable amounts of fear rise up in his chest.

We all make mistakes. Processes of learning and getting to know somebody inevitably include mistakes; even if we feel bad making them. They’re a rock thrown our way. 

“It’s okay, Sap.” Clay said, noticing Nick’s confused expression and shaking his head as he gently leaned back on the couch. It’s funny, how humans can be triggered by one word, causing an avalanche of feelings and memories seemingly so distant, yet so strong, it felt like it was destroying your mind and not letting you breathe. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

Sapnap’s expression softened as he put his hand on Clay’s back, nodding. “It’s okay, man.”

No matter how much Clay’s mind was aching, he couldn’t throw his problems at Sapnap and just assume he’d be fine. The other had really no obligation to stay by his side, and he didn’t want to hurt him with his own mental health; the last thing he’d want is to lose his best friend; even if the best friend himself was willing to help him with everything.

“Thank you Nick.”

“No problem, Dre.”

Chapter Text

They say love makes you crazy.

But what if it seemed to be the only thing that kept you sane?

What if your mind seemed like a prison, it hissed at you and threw you around, making the mental pain almost unbearable - to the point where you’ll go insanely radical and long ways just to extinguish the flame? Where you could do nothing but just watch as everything lost its meaning and that really all you could blame is yourself? That your insanity seemed to go so far that you didn’t want to wake up anymore, and that you seemed to be so rotten inside it slowly reflected on your physical form?

And that love you feel, no matter how seemingly painful and unrequited it would seem, unreal and a complete liability - it was the only thing that made you feel. That made you long to stay, to be here, to see this one person, talk to them - hear their laugh, breath, voice, see their smile and their quirks.

As I’ve mentioned, time is of the essence, no matter what we’re talking about; it’s the one thing you can’t stop, and it unfortunately marches along with progress. For Dream, it was progress for the worst; something seemingly so far away, unreal, not even a choice or anything he thought of before, something he couldn’t ever understand - now, it seemed like it was near. It was unsaid, and the realization never really ‘hit’ him - he just knew that it would be the best escape, the easiest way out, the most probable ending. He’s slowly hitting rock bottom of the pool he once thrived in; and he’s okay with it.

What he is not okay with, though, was how he seemed to cling onto George. The cliche-ness of the situation aside, falling for your best friend who lived so far away - and falling hard - was painful. It hit you in every spot you were ever vulnerable in and took the breath out of your lungs, leaving you at mercy for them to decide if they want to step on your heart with a single word. How he couldn’t get him out of his head, and how, no matter how much in denial he was, he never could bring himself to actually try and knock him out of his life. Clay knew, even if he didn’t like the thought, that his best friend had engraved a forever spot in his mind, heart, body - everything about the blond was entirely connected to him.

-

The first time Clay had tried it was a few days after Nick had left - or maybe it was a week, the blond didn’t quite have a reliable sense of time. It came with ease, surprising ease. No hesitation at all, and the pain felt like a jolt of sickeningly sweet adrenaline. It was like taking a swing of bad alcohol; you knew it wouldn’t help, it would fuck you up, it would just make everything worse. Its taste was extremely unpleasant and it burnt you; but it was like you couldn’t stop. Something had to help.

Clay wasn’t sure why he did it; he didn’t plan it in advance. He didn’t know what he’d get himself into, how the insanity of it all and the seemingly cooling feeling of distracting himself from how badly his mind ached would just not only lead him down a staircase of mistakes, but make it seem like his hand couldn’t drop the silver plate; like he had to keep going and going. It wasn’t like any of the addictions he’s faced before; it was more secretive, more gentle, seemingly a good idea as his shorts and t-shirts turned into hoodies and sweatpants, even if he was always all alone, hidden away from reality. He felt guilty, not for doing it, but just because he felt like a liar; all those times Nick called to check up on him the following days, he’d spend giving himself a punishment for being such a fuck-up. Because no one sat in his mind; there was no one responsible for the state that he was in, except Dream and only Dream himself.

With time, it started feeling like a habit. Everytime his emotions felt too overwhelming or the numbness made everything seem even more pointless he’d turn to the worst distraction; because all in all, he was lost. Life seemed now like a maze; he'd realized so long ago that there was no way out, no purpose in all the walking, it was just an endless pathway with no one by your side. Sometimes, he needed to lean against the terrifyingly tall wall and stop. He always kept going; but his pace was getting slower and slower, his legs dragging behind as the only audible sound ringing in his ears was just the monotone yelling of his thoughts.

That was Clay’s usual state.

Once a golden retriever boy; a streamer with a passion, a lovable bundle of laughs and middle school humor; now a ghost on social media, only talking to the two people who have stuck with him when he relentlessly pushed them away, face completely washed away from colour and his emerald eyes seemingly not so gorgeous and vibrant anymore.

No one ever taught him how to feel. No one told him that this would be so bad, no one told him that even if he didn’t have a reason to complain, it could still reach him and pull him down the rabbithole of getting lost.

Clothes usually laid messily on the bathroom floor - now it was empty, only the rug splashed with water as the light flickered from time to time. The mirror in the room was dirty, but it didn’t matter - half of the glassy surface had already been broken in half and laid atop the marble counter, with all the other things that have been there since he even bothered to pick up after himself. The atmosphere in the room felt diffused, like there was no tension - yet the pressure building up with the complete silence would crush the normal person.

Not Clay, though.

His back leaned against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, face turned forward. As he sat in the bath, fully dressed with one of his hands prepping up his chin while the other laid on the side of the ceramic tub. Every single one of his poorly and scarcely applied bandages now was wet through completely, hanging onto his limbs in pathetic ways as the water weighed it down. His once toned and even muscular body was now more frail, weak, with his skin pale and seemingly so sheer it felt thin as paper; almost as if he was a figurine molded out of old newspaper, with its insides hollowed out completely.

Everything about him lost its charm, seemingly so. He stopped eating, even drinking water - constant headaches did not help with the physical problems he’s already endured - frankly, he seemed like a ghost of a person he was one day.

His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned his head backward, finding reassurance in the cold tiles that his damp hair was met by. He really had nothing to look at, but the images the void of closing his eyes brought him felt like a momentary escape - something he couldn’t really find much of. It wasn’t satisfying enough, but he needed to grasp onto the last things that reminded him of what once was - before it all faded away, memories blank as the space in his mind filled with constant numbness.

That’s what his eyes were now, anyway - bland, drained of colour. He cried silently and yelled inaudibly - of course he felt stuff, still, but it seemed like humanity was slowly being ripped apart from him to give up free space to whatever it was now that he seemed to be going towards.

A shaky breath left his cracked lips as he felt the cold water hugging him, his body light as a feather as he let himself get lost in the moment.

Goosebumps immediately shot through the boy’s skin as he kept himself glued to the window, green eyes carefully following the white specks falling peacefully from the grey sky. Usually, a colorless sky was a sign that the day was not gonna be good - and that the sun was too shy to show itself, - but now, no one cared about the sun. “Mom, look! It’s actually snowing!” 12-year-old Clay yelled with enthusiasm as he raced to the front door, almost slipping in the hallway as his sister followed close by.

Laughter filled the room as the two blondes ripped their coats off the rack and put their hats and winter shoes on in a hurry, for the first time dreading the whole ‘getting-ready-to-leave-the-house’ part. But this wasn’t sunny and warm, and same old Florida - this was Ontario, where the winter was relentless and where Dream’s family had decided to all go for the Holidays.

As the children sprinted outside, their mother yelling something about putting a scarf on right, they immediately felt overwhelming joy by the sheer amount of white on the muddy ground. Sure, it wasn’t much, but they haven’t seen snow literally ever - it was like glitter, and the cold seemed not so scary anymore while they ran around the backyard, laughing loudly and cheering like there was no tomorrow.

A small smile overtook the blond’s sharp features, the bags under his eyes making it feel like it was forced. It was natural, though. Somehow, in a moment where he’s fallen so deep into despair, his mind seemed to grab and pull close the last of the happiest, but dissolving memories, and bring it back to him.

His hands moved with his eyes still closed as he pushed a familiar bottle of open, letting the contents of it dissolve on his tongue after that. Third, fourth, maybe even fifth time he’s done it - he couldn’t feel it now, the only thing giving his skin sensation was the single salty tear rolling down his face as the corners of his mouth stayed cemented in a solid smile.

As a laugh rang in his ears, he recognized it more or less like a soft, longing melody. He sank back in his chair as he turned the volume of his headphones up, cheeks burning a bit when he let himself chuckle along, so freely it felt like a moment pulled out of a dream. “Stop talking about hugging me! It’s weird.” Dream huffed, although no ill intent could be heard behind his words. George just scoffed in return, and the other could probably hear his soft eye-roll. “Oh yeah? Don’t say you wouldn’t like it.” He said, letting out another giggle as his obnoxiously loud keyboard stopped suddenly. The blond, on the other end, fell completely silent, words choking up in his throat as his cheeks burned - such an obscure reaction for a simple question, yet nothing seemed out of place. “You know, I would.”

“I know.”

Another tear rolled down his face as he felt the irony of the moment, eyelashes clinging together and eyelids so heavy that he couldn’t even imagine opening his eyes now.

The nagging voice in his mind got louder and louder, and there was really nothing he could do. He didn’t fight it anymore, he didn’t have the strength to - he knew it was simply not worth it, not worth the effort.

A laugh echoed through Clay’s ears, despite him being all alone. Another memory clouded over his mind, putting the overwhelming physical pain to the side. The laugh belonged to someone he knew, surely.

“Dude, I don’t have any money!” A cranky, high-pitched voice let out, a crack in the tone as another laugh escaped. It was one he hadn’t heard in so long, yet it was so, so familiar; after a moment of intense remembering, he recognized the voice of younger Sapnap, barely sixteen.

“Pandas, you’re insane!” Another familiar, less different voice let out as the blond laughed freely, letting his minecraft character run around. BadBoyHalo was running around him as the three of them laughed, Antfrost joining in soon.

“Hey, dude, Pandas, you got a Discord? Or a TeamSpeak?” Clay asked after they all calmed down, a wide grin still apparent on his face.

There was one anchor that kept him to the ground, still - a sudden banging. It was definitely coming from outside the room, that’s what his fuzzy mind could recognize, but the voice paired with it seemed like one of a stranger. Or maybe it was just how everything felt like a dream now, with Clay watching from afar, light as a feather as the air shimmered, dense as water.

After what was either a second or an hour, hurried footsteps got louder and louder as the voice cleared his Clay’s head a moment - he wasn’t sure if it were just his demons, the pills, or somebody actually there. The bare sunlight soaking the bathroom through the small window made everything seem like gold glitter, the sparkle from it blinding any sense of reality Clay had.

“Clay, open the door, please. I know you’re-please.” Suddenly, a shockwave struck the male as the voice got impossibly closer, hands clamming the sides of the ceramic tub with the little strength he had now, any movement causing immense pain to strike his body. The voice was still unrecognizable, yes, but the way it seemed to be laced with worry, pain, even wail and so much determination amazed the blond. How could one still feel such distinct emotions? For him, everything he felt now was a messy canvas with all the colours mercilessly mixed together into one stale composition.

You may feel no purpose

Nor a point for existing

It's all just conjecture and gloom

Whatever the voice was, it seemed to bring him to less and less peace. The sad smile faltered, his expression mixed like a thousand puzzle pieces; before, he could feel himself slowly slip away and he knew that he would not have to be crushed under everything anymore.

And there may not be meaning

So find one and seize it

Do not waste your self on this roof

But now, the voice seemed familiar - something his conscious couldn’t quite grasp, yet something his mind instantly latched onto, like a drowning man reaching desperately for air. It felt so distinct, so unique, and he instantly knew that this voice once brought him ease when the pain was too much; made him laugh with barely any effort; made him feel things, something that he hasn’t been able to feel in what seemed like an eternity. For a second, he hesitated with everything that has led up to this moment - but it was too late.

The door opened, he knew that. The sunlight seemed to soak up another figure; he couldn’t see, with his eyes glued pathetically shut, but he could imagine a familiar, far-away figure crouching down next to him. Distant sobs reached his ears as his hand was grabbed and squeezed by another soft, gentle one, the bottle of pills on the counter now rattling far-away on the floor. His consciousness was like a balloon, filled with helium, with the gas slowly escaping, moving it further and further away.

He couldn’t move now; even his little finger seemed to stay entirely still, like he was a stone figure frozen in time. Cold, wet clothes clung to his skin, yet he couldn’t feel that unpleasant sensation anymore. Yet somehow, maybe in an ironically miraculous way, his eyelids lifted up a little, a slow, laboured breath escaping his pale lips one last time. He could barely feel foreign tears hitting his forearm and the squeezing of his rough hand - the desperate voice so, so far away in a tunnel now, almost unreachable.

The last glimpse he caught was a splash of blue and dark brown - the only thing that he could recognize in the image being the unforgettable chocolate-coloured eyes, now filled with tears. He recognized them, he knew them, of course he knew them - and now the voice had an owner, a realization brought so suddenly to Dream it blinded his senses completely, for the last time. He wanted to reassure them, bring a hand to their cheek and wipe off the salty tears uncontrollably pouring down the porcelain features - but he couldn’t, he realized, as he slipped away slowly. 

Can you hear me, Dream?

I'm talking to you.

George was crouched down next to his unmoving best friend, holding him for what was the first and the last time he could ever do it as he yelled and choked on his own sobs, knees buckling as he shook the stupid blond desperately. “Clay, please I-I, please, no, no, no-” George felt sick, so sick to his stomach his legs trembled and he felt extremely light-headed, but he couldn’t give up. He called out the name as he choked on air, a task simple as gasping for air being tremendous labour now. “I love you, please-” His voice barely a whisper as he buried his face in the other’s wet t-shirt, his terrifyingly calm face too much to bear even glancing at as the brown-haired sobbed.

And, in that moment he wished so badly that he would’ve told him that before it was too late.