Work Text:
Dream chuckled to himself, eyes blown out and bloodshot as he took another hit of the cannabis that was rolled into a blunt. It was half-smoked, and his third one at that.
He was out of it; he would admit that much. But it wasn’t his fault that he was driven to this. It was George’s—at least that’s what Dream seemed to believe.
It had been the usual boring, uneventful day. The only thing that had made it less of a boring day was when a little notification popped up on his phone from George, asking him if he had wanted to join his stream later. Dream had said yes because who wouldn’t? It was George.
Dream had soon come to regret it though because, during the stream, George had said something—Dream couldn’t remember what it was, not in the right headspace to—and it sent Dream in a downwards spiral, making him question their entire friendship (or more?) and what it meant to him.
This spiral seemed endless, tugging at the deepest parts of his mind, surfacing thoughts he’s never even considered thinking about. Never really needed to. So, to get over all of this self-destructive thinking, he grabbed his stash of weed and just smoked it.
And there may have been a tad bit of hard alcohol involved.
It was as equally self-destructive as the thoughts, but at least they were momentarily at bay. However, George still never left his head, no matter how much he smoked or drank. He needed George out of his head.
George was almost all he could think about day and night. Even when he was sober. These thoughts usually distinguished between talking to George at three a.m about the most random of things to pinning him down, kissing him, and just making him feel good. It was utter hell, to say the least, and Dream just wanted him gone. Not from his life, but from his thoughts that chewed at his skin and devoured him whole.
Smoke blew from chapped lips, whirling in the air. His left hand gripped the neck of a cold alcohol bottle and brought it up to his lips as his right hand lowered the joint. It was some type of Bacardi rum his friends had gifted to him on his twenty-first birthday, and it burned down his throat. It felt good.
There was this sense of desire in his bones to call George up, just to hear his voice once more, but he didn’t act upon it, yet. It wasn’t a good idea at all. George had no clue that Dream indulged himself in such self-destructive activities, but that didn’t stop him from steadying the rum bottle between his thighs and picking up his phone, pressing on George’s contact.
He had settled on messaging him.
Dream: hi gogu
He didn’t care too much about grammatical errors.
Dream: imi ss u lol
It took a few minutes for George to reply. Dream stared at the messages, dragging another hit of the blunt into his lungs, until a three-dotted bubble appeared, telling him George was typing.
George: are you okay?
Dream scoffed, drowning the remaining liquid of the bottle. Had he drunk a whole bottle of rum in one go? Damn. He threw the empty bottle to a corner of the room. It made a loud sound as it hit the wall and dropped to the floor, and the smallest inch of sobriety in him hoped the wall was okay. Dream then noticed his blunt was almost out; he’d have to roll another one soon.
Dream: ye gog i fine cjo
George’s next text came through instantly.
George: i’m calling you.
Dream: nooo don
Dream: i fine why mnx
Dream: oops wat u mean lo l
Dream clicked his phone off and smiled, resting it on his thigh. Moments later the loud ringing of his phone called him back to it.
“Ahhh,” he groaned, squinting his eyes as he read the call notification was from George. The ‘ swipe to answer’ button seemed to mock him as the call rang out. Just as he was about to answer, the button ran away from his thumb. “Aw, Georgie-”
The button had come back instantly, and this time his thumb swiped left after moments of letting it ring, the sound pounding into his head making him annoyed.
“Hii, Georgie.” his words were slurred and drawn out as he lifted the phone to his ear. “How ‘re you.”
“I’m fine, Dream,” George said. He sounded serious and Dream wanted to laugh. “Are you okay? You sound… funny.”
Dream snickered. “Neva betta, honey.” he planted his blunt on the bedside table, using his hand to pull his black hoodie over his head, blond locks being forced down under the fabric. It was a simple task, but he struggled with it as his hands didn’t want to work.
“Are you drunk?” the other asked, concern wavering in his voice. It made Dream want to cry.
“Maybe a little bit,” he stuck his arm out, pinching his thumb and index finger together, but they never touched. He didn’t know why he did it. It was probably the alcohol. “And had a few blunts.”
Dream heard a sharp intake of breath. “Blunts?!”
If he had been doing just marijuana and hadn’t included the alcohol, he probably wouldn’t have told George this—he probably wouldn’t have even called him in the first place—but the rum was coursing through his blood, and he had no sober control of his actions. And he knew he’d come to regret this in the morning. If he remembered it.
Dream winced at the loudness of the other's voice. “Shhh, don’t yell, Georgie. My head hurts.”
“I wonder fucking why Dream.”
He rolled his eyes. “In my defense-” he slurred, reaching over to pick his blunt back up, pinching it between index and thumb fingers. “It’s your fault.” he breathed in the remainder of the weed, blowing it out. “I need to roll another blunt, give me a second.”
“No, Dream! Don’t you dare .” George warned. “And how the hell is this my fault?”
“‘Cause you’re pretty,” Dream cooed, though he was lying. Half-lying. “And cute, and mesmerizing, and your voice is nice, and I love you.”
George was all of these things, they just weren’t the reason why he drank and smoked himself stupid.
“What?” The shock was evident in George’s voice. “Dream you’re drunk,” he said again after Dream didn’t respond.
“And high.” the self-destructive male added. He got distracted by his hand and he wiggled his fingers a bit to see if he could still feel them. He could. “You also said you’d never date me on your stream.” Nothing was said for a good thirty seconds after that. George had to process the words that had been said to him.
“Alright, tell me if I got this right, okay?” said George, huffing. “You got high and drunk because I’m pretty and because I said I wouldn’t date you?”
Dream retracted the phone from his ear, putting George on speaker. He slurred a short, “Maybe.” before giggling when he heard George groan. He fiddled with a piece of tobacco wrap, scooping some weed inside, and rolled it upon his thigh.
“Y’know, I never tried coke before.” Dream voiced his thoughts to George as he lit the end of the blunt and brought it to his lips.
George yelled. “Dream!”
“What?” he mumbled, the blunt between his lips making it a bit difficult to speak.
“Why do you want to do drugs?” asked the other, clearly wanting a direct answer from Dream. There is a hint of raw emotion in his voice, a hint of care. It only made Dream’s heart squeeze in his chest.
He could only say three words. “Problems go poof.” because they did. When he got high or drunk all of his problems seemed to vanish. Slither out of fingers and be set aside to be dealt with later. Dream heard George take in a sharp breath.
“What problems could you possibly have? You’re so successful, Dream.”
George spoke so dismissively. As if Dream’s problems didn’t mean shit to him.
“Success doesn’t mean anything when you’re depressed, George.” This was probably the most un-joking thing he’s said all night. And the truest. He drew the blunt to his lips, inhaling the toxin once more before blowing it out. His room was starting to get foggy and smelling like weed. “Have you seen how much hate I’ve been getting because of this speedrun accusation?”
It was another excuse, better than admitting how his love for George ate at his skin mercilessly and gave him no room to breathe on his own.
And as if George could read his thoughts, he voiced out, “I feel as though that isn’t the real reason, Dream.”
The stoned man looked up at his ceiling, not saying anything for a few moments. He relished the sound of silence. “It isn’t.” he simply replied. Half of him wanted to get another bottle of rum, the conversation he was about to have with George required him to be drunker (and stoned) than he already was.
“Then what is the real reason?”
Dream imagined his face to be scrunched up with sincerity as he spoke to him with such softness, and it scared him. How nice George sounded. With the alcohol that coursed through his veins, everything was amplified
“Please tell me, Dream. I want to help.”
Stop acting as if you care.
“You couldn’t help even if you wanted to.”
Why don’t you hate me?
“Let me at least try.”
Dream sighed, taking another hit. “It’s you, George. It’s all you,” he said, finally admitting his feelings, even if he was drunk. He knew he wouldn’t remember it anyway. “You’re all I think about and this is my way of coping with it because I know, no matter what I do, you’ll never feel the same way as I feel about you.”
The silence was back, and this time it wasn’t so comforting. It kissed him on the lips with the indication of death. George was killing him, and maybe, just maybe, he’d allow it.
“Please say something, George.”
He was on the verge of tears, and the alcohol and weed contributed greatly to these emotions. It made him unstable.
“I don’t know what to say, Dream,” mumbled George. “But I can say that turning to drugs is the worst way to cope with it, especially if it’s to drown out your feelings. It never works you know?”
He scoffed. “Trust me, I know. Because even with the weed, I still can’t get you out of my head.”
“Is that why you texted me?” George asks timidly.
“Actually, yeah.”
Another wave of silence.
“I missed your voice.” Dream admitted. “And you.” He was still slurring his words, but the buzz of the alcohol was less although not gone.
“Dream, I want you to listen to me okay?” George started, continuing when Dream hummed in agreement. “I’m not going to tell you my feelings towards you while you’re in this state, ‘cause I know you probably won’t remember it. And I also want you to get help.”
He was fine with that.
“But we’ll talk about this tomorrow okay?”
A single tear slipped down his cheek. “Okay…” he said, monotonous.
“Please don’t smoke or drink anymore tonight and just go to bed. For me, okay?”
Dream nodded his head, but George couldn’t see that.
“Alright, Dream. I’m going to bed. Call me if you need anything. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, George.”
George hung up, leaving Dream to deal with his thoughts alone.
“ I love you. ”