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It’s easy to pretend that the picture is blurred because his eyes aren’t focused, because the trees are blooming and he has allergies.
It’s easy to pretend that he’s had it pulled up on his screen for nearly an hour because he hasn’t been bothered to close it.
It’s easy to pretend that he’s giving all of the quippy replies and snarky comments because he’s being playful.
It’s not easy to admit that there are tears stinging in his eyes — that his throat is tight with the need to cry… that his chest is burning and aching.
Jealousy isn’t a word that he wants to say out loud, but Dream knows that it’s exactly what he’s feeling.
He hates it. He hates it enough that he punches his desk once, twice. He swallows down a scream and knocks a mug off in a sharp gesture instead; in the back of his mind, he knows that he needs to clean it up before he opens his door so Patches won’t get hurt. He hates that his pain is audible enough that Sapnap has knocked on his door to check on him.
He hates it enough that he didn’t answer more than to tell him to go away.
Dream hates that he loves the way George looks in the sunlight — his eyes are like dark honey, light around the edges. His hair has golden highlights. It’s like the entire world, the entire universe loves George and can’t help but show it.
He hates that the sunlight is coming from London and not Florida.
He hates that he can see the smile on his face even beneath the mask because he’s memorized the way that it makes his eyes crinkle; he only hates that because it’s a smile that isn’t for him.
He hates how much he wants it to be just for him.
No matter how much he stares at the photo, he can’t manage to reconcile the burning in his eyes and the sting of pain in his fist, the tightness in his chest… and the warmth on George’s face. There’s not a world where all of those things should exist together; there’s not a world where George smiling should make him this upset. No matter what he feels , he shouldn’t be upset about this -- it makes him a complete ass to be angry that George is happy, but the emotion is still there. Stinging and painful and tight in his chest, wrapping around his heart and lungs until he can’t breathe from how much he wants to scream from how much he wants to actually buy the damn private jet just to keep him for himself.
He’s willing to distract himself with anything else; he tries to distract himself with anything else… Everyone on Twitter is calling him out for his replies, for the nearly desperate way that he’s confessing without saying a word -- they see the fact that his desperation is showing, and at the moment he doesn’t care . His eyes keep flickering back to a dozen different images of George. Angles and side profiles — low definition shots where he’s almost sure he can count every freckle on his face.
And then his eyes burn more, and for just a moment… he hates TommyInnit. And he hates Wilbur so much that he’s tempted to ban them from the SMP and never speak to them again.
His fingers twitch with the urge, but he takes a deep breath and pushes himself up from his desk instead. His knuckle ends up in his mouth and he bites hard enough that he can taste copper for a moment in an attempt to make his mind stop racing, his heart stop hurting …
But even that isn’t enough to quell the stupid sting in his eyes. The stupid feeling in his chest.
He’s such an idiot.
And when those words fly through his mind, Dream isn’t sure if he’s talking about George or himself.
There are a few moments where he paces around his room, back and forth in front of his desk, as though the passing will somehow change the image on the screen. If he walks across the room one more time, maybe George will be standing beside him.
If he walks across the room one more time, maybe George will at least be alone, messaging him, calling him, on Facetime with him .
His heart sinks as soon as that thought flickers through his mind; he doesn’t want George to be alone or unhappy.
But he doesn’t… he can’t… he burns at the thought of him being with someone else and smiling.
It’s stupid.
It’s even more stupid that he feels betrayed, because he’s refused any meetup that isn’t with George. Dream says it’s because of Covid and precautions… but the truth is, he wants it to be special.
He needs it to be special.
He needs it to be… George.
He stops pacing in front of his desk and clicks George’s YouTube story and closes his eyes and tries to pretend that he’s the sun.
That he’s touching his cheeks — his hair — brushing against smiling lips and…
“Fuck.” He whispers the word.
“Fuck!” He shouts it louder and then sinks to his knees because the tears are finally, finally coming in a nearly violent explosion of a sob tearing from his chest. And it doesn’t matter that he knows Sapnap can hear him. It’s probably actually a good thing because he knows that he needs someone to check on him; he knows he needs someone to make sure that he’s okay.
Because he’s not okay.
And he hates that he isn’t.
He hates even more that the only person who could really fix it is thousands of miles and an entire ocean way… and that he’s smiling at someone else.
Dream’s cheeks are warm and slick with moisture, and he lays his head down on his desk in something close to defeat.
But he can’t even manage that. His eyes instantly flicker back up to that face.
That beautiful, perfect face.
“I…” he feels the words thick and caught on the back of his tongue, and the tears only come harder because it’s so hard for him to say it, even though it’s all that he’s feeling right now.
“George, I…”
He doesn’t know why he can’t say it.
Is it because he’s waiting? Waiting until they are face to face — until he can make sure that the feelings ripping through him are just as strong when George is right there in front of him, tangible and real.
Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to take the chance to ruin everything.
Maybe a small part of him hopes that George will say it first, break that barrier, so that he doesn’t have to.
Everyone thinks that Dream is so strong and George is so soft… but at this moment, all that he wants to do is hide behind that cool, calm, steadfast strength that George always exudes.
“I… love you…” he murmurs the words finally and sinks back into his chair — George is smiling in the photo, and Dream is quietly crying in his room… and all that he can do is close his eyes and silently pray that someday soon, it can be him standing beside George in a picture instead of him being in his room, jealous of Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit… and the London sun.
