Work Text:
On the morning that Dream leaves, George brews himself a black coffee for the first time in almost two and a half years.
He lets the pungent smell pollute the house without concern.
He wasn’t sure why there was a little brown packet of coffee grounds at the back of the cupboard where they— he kept the rice and pasta in, but the packet certainly wasn’t unwelcome in his grasp.
So, he brews it in that little glass coffee pot that his mother bought him for Christmas just after he moved in with Dream. It never got used; stashed away at the very back of the cereal cupboard, collecting dust.
The coffee brews and George lets it steep. He lets the poisonous scent waft down hallways and through doorways, clinging to walls and curtains and tables and carpet and chairs and sheets and him.
Bitter.
He wills himself to be like the coffee: Bitter about his life, bitter about himself, bitter about the failed relationship, bitter about Dream.
Head hung over the top of the steaming coffee pot and mug, George inhales the suffocating fumes of strong roast coffee. It clings. It stays. It blocks up his nostrils like a second skin. It’s horrific.
He wants it to stop.
Stop.
Right now.
The coffee pot smashes to the marble floor. Scorching hot coffee spews everywhere. Shards of glass hidden in the dark, disgusting, mess.
What did he do wrong? Why did Dream leave? Was there anything he could do to stop it? Was he not good enough? Why can’t he bring himself to be angry? Was there something wrong with him? Why is he in this mess? Why does it hurt so fucking bad? Why isn’t he bitter?
George is left with a blackened heart and a throbbing head, along with the desperate aching need for Dream to return.
His addiction. His caffeine. His dependence.
But, God, it reeks.
George rushes down the hallways and through doorways, frantically opening as many windows as possible to get the vile stench of coffee out of his clothes and his home.
When the smell doesn’t leave after five minutes, George’s gut twists and bile rises to his throat.
He wants to believe that the coffee was just rotten or something. Some bad beans. Poor batch.
But maybe, just maybe, a little bit of Dream lives on in George.