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Dream can’t remember the last time he felt this bad. Lying listlessly on the couch with a raging fever, staring hazily up at the ceiling fan that spins steadily above him. Heat distortion makes the room shimmer unnaturally, and although Dream knows it’s just because of his high fever he still can’t help but wonder why it looks so real.
His new song, Mask, is only half an hour away from release. God why did I have to get sick right now? Dream thinks tiredly, tears of defeat and frustration beginning to sting his eyes. It’s not fair I worked so hard on this and now I can barely keep awake for the premiere.
Mesmerised by the fan, Dream cannot focus on anything but that. It just keeps spinning, light reflecting off the blades occasionally and casting dazzling colours on the walls. Warm colours of red and orange and cream. Dream weakly tugs the blankets up around himself, shivering but unable to work out why he feels so cold and yet like he’s burning up at the same time. He wishes those warm colours could just drift down and envelop him in a comforting hug.
A bead of perspiration trickles down his flushed cheek, and Dream feels confused as to why he’s sweating until he realises it’s just water from the damp cloth Sapnap left on his forehead. Or is it a tear? Everything hurts, his head, his whole body aches.
Am I crying?
I’m so cold.
And thirsty. . .
Dream’s throat is inflamed and raw from coughing. It feels so swollen - water would taste good in his sandpaper-dry mouth but it’s not worth the purely agonising pain of swallowing. He has to be careful breathing, any slight interruption sends him into a violent coughing fit that won’t end until he nearly passes out from lack of oxygen. Now his chest rattles softly with every painful, wheezing breath.
Trying to work out why he’s sick seems a good idea, Dream’s so bored of just lying there. It came on so suddenly – admittedly he had been feeling a little off during the last week, and his throat was kinda scratchy, but he’d just put that down to all the singing he’d had to do. Then out of nowhere yesterday afternoon his temperature rose so suddenly that he’d crashed hard that night, dizzy, nauseous, and unable to keep the soup down that Sapnap had heated for him. Exhausted, he’d collapsed on the couch and finally drifted into a feverish sleep.
He had woken this morning to Sapnap bending over him with a concerned expression. He had said something but Dream can’t remember what it was now. Everything but the present seems to fade into insignificance, the only thing he’s aware of his the constant throb of his headache and the knife-like pain when he swallows.
It is probably a combination of stress, overwork, and anxiety about the song being released - Dream feels sick to the stomach with nervousness about this one – it’s so personal and he had no-one else singing with him. This is the most deep one I’ve made – it might just help people understand a little. . .
His eyelids are so heavy I just wanna sleep but he can’t draw his eyes away from the fan’s spinning - its never-ending cycle keeps going. Around, and around. Sometimes it seems like it’s going too slow, and then it speeds up so fast that to Dream’s dazed, overheated mind, he thinks it’s going to spin out of control.
It’s so hot all of a sudden. Dream reaches up slowly to his forehead, feeling something cold and rough there. His brows furrow slightly in confusion.
What is it?
Oh yeah- the cloth.
The fan rotates shakily, making a faint clicking noise every turn. For some reason the image of Tubbo gone AFK in a boat comes to mind, spinning around right round baby like a record baby round round. . .
Dream stares at the fan dizzily, the constant whirling motion of the blades gradually making him feel even more queasy just watching. With effort he forces himself to look away and close his eyes until the vertigo subsides and he feels a little less like he’s about to be sick.
Once he’s more confident of the fact, Dream sleepily opens his eyes again. His laptop sits on the coffee table beside him, Youtube is open and displaying the premiere page for his song. There are so many people waiting already, there’s still twenty minutes to go. The numbers on the screen swirl across the display and make him feel dizzy again. The numbers of people waiting, the likes, the dislikes why are there so many dislikes – they haven’t even heard the song yet. . .
Dream feels disappointed in himself. They hate me what am I doing wrong? He thinks, eyes filling with unshed tears as he twists miserably onto his side, wincing as the blanket brushes against his overly sensitive skin. I’m trying so hard. . . Feelings of self-loathing begin to creep into his mind, anxiety scrambling at his already sore throat. Maybe I should cancel the upload. . . maybe it’s not worth it. It’s not good enough anyway. . . I’m not good enough
Burying his head in his arm, Dream chokes back a sob. I’m too hot and it’s freezing and I’m cold and tired and I’m lonely - where’s Sapnap? I want Sapnap I want mom everything hurts. . .
But he can’t call out. His throat is ruined from coughing non-stop the previous night. The paroxysms have eased slightly since Sapnap made him take some medicine earlier – he’d been too out of it before to register what it was. Despite still feeling sick and generally awful he hasn’t thrown it up yet though, which is a good sign.
Images dance across the darkness recesses of his brain, foggy and rapidly changing scenes from the past just flitting into view. Shapes flicker vividly and before spiralling inwards like a vortex and vanishing in the heat. It hurts his head to keep his eyes shut, there’s too much going on.
So Dream glances across at the clock, watching it blur in and out of focus through a glaze of tears. He scowls feebly at the minute hand that is steadily ticking around and around. . . why does everything have to move in circles? he wonders in annoyance. For several minutes he regards the clock with disdain, incapable of doing much else.
Stupid clock and its dumb ticking. . . Dream glowers dejectedly at its placid face, head pounding in response to the slight sounds. Idiotic loud stupid thing moves so slowly. Dream blinks exhaustedly, and suddenly he realises the clock’s hands have moved forward about ten minutes without him noticing.
How long was I looking at that thing. . . reflects Dream, bewildered. Everything seems to be glistening and swimming through his vision and the light is making his headache worse.
Finally letting his gaze wander, he begins to find himself getting more and more irritated. Half-delirious, Dream grumbles unhappily to himself. Why does everything have to be so round? The clock’s round, my stupid smiley mask is round, Tommy’s damn discs are round, the stupid glass of water beside me on the table is round, the fan won’t stop spinning around in circles freaking circles are everywhere. He sends a weak glare at the half-shut window. Sun’s round too, too bright it hurts my head and I can’t stand it
Dream sighs, and a salty tear rolls down his cheek as he stares at the ceiling. He wants to kick the blankets off because he’s suddenly too hot and they’re uncomfortable but he doesn’t have the energy, and his skin feels so sensitive and raw that it hurts when he moves. Dream feels so wretched and inordinately frustrated at his whole situation. He knows he shouldn’t be this annoyed at a mere shape, but in the fever’s tight, fiery grasp, he really can’t help it.
E verything is round. . . circles are too warm. . . they make my head spin.
Minecraft isn’t round. Minecraft is good. . . nice and blocky and square. Dream decides squares are a cold shape, mentally assigning them with the colour blue. Blue is cool like water. . . like the sky and waves in the ocean, like George! Yeah, George is like a blue square – what am I thinking? Coming briefly out of his daze, Dream is confused and frustrated at his scattered train of thought but still feels powerless to control it.
Dream wishes he could just sleep the illness away, but that’s impossible. For one thing, he can’t close his eyes without getting assaulted by nonsensical fever dreams and delirious nightmares. Honestly, all he wanted to do other than sleep is shove his face into a pillow and cry his heart out until the aching goes away.
Time floats by in a haze, and the next thing he becomes aware of is a fuzzy figure leaning over him, their cool hand resting on his clammy, hot forehead.
“-lay?”
All Dream manages is a weak moan in response. The hand goes away and is replaced by another cold, wet object and after Dream gives it somebewildered thought he comes to the conclusion that it’s another damp cloth, probably to bring his fever down.
Dream tries to reply again but his voice fails him, coming out in a rough whisper. “I’m th’rsty. . .” he mutters, dizzily attempting to focus on the person sitting beside him. “Mom. . .” so cold so tired but it’s too hot. . . what’s going on? I wanna be warm. . . I wanna a hug I’m so cold. . .
“Clay, buddy – you with me? Sapnap says quietly, looking a little uncomfortable. He can be forgiven under the circumstances – Nick’s never been the best caretaker. . . he gets somewhat awkward around sick people.
It’s Sapnap, of course Mom’s not here. . . Dream gives a small nod as his friend’s anxious face slowly appears in his field of view, wondering if he said anything aloud. I’m such an idiot. . .
“How are you feeling?” asks Sapnap in a low tone as Dream winces. “Any better?”
“Mhm. . .”
Sapnap doesn’t quite seem certain how to translate that answer, so he tries another question. “Want me to get you anything?”
To Dream, Sapnap’s voice sounds weirdly distorted, as if he is speaking from a long way away, or underwater. The sounds echo oddly around the room and pierce into his head, sending stabbing pain through his temples. In a raspy voice, Dream endeavours to communicate again. “Wat’r please?”
He feels a firm arm around his shoulder, lifting him slightly into a better position as a glass is placed against his lips. The cold water feels so good on his parched tongue but he can’t help groaning in pain as he swallows several mouthfuls, the liquid searing down his angrily inflamed throat.
Dream slumps back onto the couch, fighting off the urge to cough. The sharp pain wakes him up slightly, and although his stomach feels unsettled from receiving the water he just drank, he is able to concentrate on listening to his friend.
“You look awful – you should be sleeping, not waiting up for the song.” is the first piece of information Dream processes, and he frowns tiredly at Sapnap.
“I promis’d I’d be at th’ premiere.” Dream mumbles painfully, unintentionally resting his gaze back on the fan’s twirling movement.
“Dude you should seriously sleep.”
“Aft’r the song. ‘m fine.”
“You sound like you’ve literally swallowed a ton of gravel so stop talking and rest, nimrod.”
Lethargically, Dream catches a glimpse of the countdown timer on the computer. Two minutes more. . . the ever-moving flicker of the numbers gradually counting down make Dream feel nauseous again. His gut is twisting itself into knots of nervousness and apprehension but there’s nothing he can do to stop the show now. Maybe the world might understand him a little better after this song? Or will they hate me even more?
Sapnap sits beside him, not doing anything but letting his presence be a consolation to Dream, who now doesn’t quite feel as lonely as before, and gratefully snuggles up beside his friend. Sapnap pats his shoulder reassuringly, and despite Dream still being sick and sleepy he feels a wave of relief wash over his overheated body. Not alone. . . at least Nick won’t hate me. . . or George. . . an’ the others. . .
30 seconds left to go. Dream is almost hypnotised by the flying chat on the computer screen.
10 seconds. Dream feels his eyelids growing heavier, and much to his comfort Sapnap hasn’t left his side. Maybe it’s safe to sleep now. . .
As the song goes live, Dream’s eyes finally close and slumber claims him, allowing him the first real sleep he’s had in days.
Sapnap, seeing Dream is asleep, gingerly brushes Dream’s dirty-blond hair back off his face and stands up, still mildly concerned but nowhere near as worried as before. Dream talks in his sleep a lot, and twice as much with a fever. Sapnap gives a small smile, making a mental note to tell George that earlier Dream had been sleep-talking, and feverishly decided that George is nothing more than a ‘blue square’.