Chapter Text
The tap is running
Sapnap straightens up, feeling the air flood his lungs, slipping clean and cool down his burning throat. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and lets the oxygen shiver down his spine, allows the black spots blossoming in his vision to pass. He flushes the toilet.
The tap is running.
He splashes water on his face. He thinks steam rises off his skin as he does, flushed from the blood flowing to his head. He washes his hands. The thick strings of saliva cling to his red, swollen fingers. He rubs his left thumb over the dark dents in his right pointer and middle fingers, sitting pretty at his knuckles. His teeth ache.
He turns off the tap and flushes the toilet again, clearing out the still-cloudy water. He grimaces down at the stains around the edge of the bowl, under the seat, and kneels to clean them. The smell of bleach and chemical isn’t strong enough to overpower the sour smell of acid filling the air.
Usually, he wouldn’t bother to clean- at least, not often. This bathroom is rarely ever used by any other than him. When Dream’s family comes over, he makes sure it’s spotless, but other than that, he lets whatever lingers rot. The stains come nearly as quickly as he’s able to clean them. There’s never been a point to try and erase the events of the day. And maybe it’s disgusting, but it’s temporary- he’d promised himself that months ago. It’s temporary, but the end date isn’t set, and he can’t predict when it will be. He half-hopes it’ll be soon. He doesn’t look forward to constantly cleaning when he has to share a bathroom with George.
He sits back when he’s satisfied with his work, leaning against the cold bathroom wall. His throat feels raw and exposed to the stuffy air, and his heart is beating heavy in his chest. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to calm it. He counts to ten before he gets up, pressing back against the wall for support when his head swims. He throws the Clorox wipe away and turns on the fan, airing out the stench of bile that seeps through the white paint and into the towels. He can’t tell if he’s paranoid or not when he feels like it’s sunk into his nailbeds, like his right hand always smells of sick. He washes his hands again, scrubbing his cuticles so hard they turn bright red under the hot water.
The cool air of the hallway hits him with a rush as he opens the door. From the kitchen, he can hear slight commotion, the sounds of a pan on the stove, the clink of measuring cups. Dream’s cooking. He tries to be quiet as he walks down the hall to his room, but his limbs feel wooden and heavy. They’ve both learned to give each other space in the kitchen, to not comment or look to closely at what the other is cooking. Sometimes, Sapnap sits at the island while Dream makes food and they talk, but he never mentions the array of measuring utensils scattered across the marble counters, or the food scale. Sometimes, Dream comes and sits on the floor of Sapnap’s room or cross-legged on his bed while he edits, and he never mentions if there are fast food wrappers shoved in a trash bag at the foot of his bed. The closest they ever come to talking about it is when Dream started keeping a bunch of bananas in the kitchen, next to a container of zero sugar sports drinks. One day, they’d just appeared there with a sticky note written in familiar, scrawling handwriting:
Potassium (banana) supports heart. Low potassium= arrhythmia and muscle weakness. Low electrolytes + sodium= muscle cramping, fatigue, weakness, headaches, fast heart rate, numbness or tingling in limbs.
They never talk about it, but bananas and sports drinks become staples on the grocery list. Every time they start to run low, new ones appear. Sapnap never asks, but somehow, they’re always there when he needs them. Once or twice, when he doesn’t feel well enough to walk to the kitchen, they show up outside his door. At some point, a bottle of antiacids had been placed on top of the sports drink containers. No note this time. And no questions asked, not anymore.
In the beginning there were. A quick knock here and there on the bathroom door, a voice through the wood asking if he’s alright. But Dream isn’t stupid- far, far from it- and he’d stopped after the marks had started showing up on Sapnap’s hands. Sapnap had asked questions too at one point, but long before he’d even moved in. Back when they were teenagers- or, at least when Sapnap was-, Dream had mentioned something about cutting out processed sugars and limiting carbs. Sapnap had asked why he wanted to do that. He can’t quite remember the answer Dream had given him, but he remembers it leaving him with more questions and sort of sinking guilt chewing at his own eating habits. For the most part, however, Dream’s kept his dietary restrictions to himself unless something is directly brought up regarding them. Sapnap has learned to adjust accordingly, learning not to offer to let him see the menu when he orders out, learning which side of the fridge to keep his food on, and what time windows Dream will eat during if he wants them to sit down together. He’s learned that processed food stays shut away behind closed cabinet doors and stuffed in the drawers of his bedside table. Out of sight, out of mind or whatever Dream’s convinced himself of.
So, they don’t bother each other, and they never talk about food beyond the basic do you want me to make you some? or what do you want for dinner? And it’s okay. They’ve carved their lives perfectly around each other’s habits. Dream doesn’t go into the kitchen if Sapnap is down and the lights are off, and he doesn’t knock when the door is shut unless he texts first. Sapnap doesn’t mess with the food scale or measuring cups, and he doesn’t comment on the number of times he hears Dream working out every day. There’s a scale in the corner of the tiny spare room upstairs. If either of them sees the other exit the room, a look of exhaustion on their faces, they don’t mention it.
Sapnap sits down in front of his computer. This is good. He feels more awake, more energized. The crash will come soon but, for now, he feels more focused and motivated. His brain has stopped feeling sluggish and thick with the obsessive and repetitive urges. He thinks he’s quite literally pushed them out of his system, at least for the time being.
Out in the kitchen, Dream swears as he drops something. Sapnap listens for a moment, just to make sure everything is okay before he puts on his headphones and opens his editing software. Focus, he tells himself. Focus. If he doesn’t finish this tonight, he’s screwed. So much is happening in the next few days- so many incredible things- that he knows he won’t have the time or want to sit down and edit. From the kitchen, he smells whatever Dream’s cooking. It smells good. He ignores it.
After couples of hours later of slogging through footage, his phone buzzes. He saves the file and leans back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as if to push back the budding headache. He’s probably dehydrated, and the motivation he’d had has long since faded into unrelenting exhaustion. But he’s almost done, so that’s worth something.
I’m about to eat dinner, Dream’s message reads. I can bring it to you if you’re working.
Be right out, Sapnap responds.
He groans, stretching out his stiff arms. He runs his hand along the ridge of his shoulder, back towards the knotted muscles of his scapula. He touches his spine, the tiny ridges poking out from under his skin. Once, he could barely feel them. He presses his knuckles into his sore neck, attempting half-heartedly to work some of the tension out. His body just hasn’t been cooperating lately for whatever reason, and he hasn’t felt well rested in ages. He sighs. It’s fine- he’ll just make sure to sleep more tonight. He needs to anyways.
—
Mealtimes are always odd. It’s one of the only moments in the day where they really sit down and talk without distraction or pressing obligation, but there’s always a lingering heaviness in the air. Dream eats his perfectly measured, carefully curated meals, and his voice sticks around the words “what did you do today?” and Sapnap keeps his eyes on his own plate and wishes distantly there was something he could say besides, “nothing much,” and pretend he hasn’t thrown up at least once that day. They sit with the uncomfortable tension until, inevitably, some sort of natural conversation breaks out, either about work or sports or their friends. He thinks he’s lucky he and Dream have known each other for as long as they have, because they always manage to weave around the things they never talk about. He doesn’t think it would be the same with anyone else.
Tonight, is different. Tonight, the air thrums with nervous anticipation. Dream looks up at Sapnap as he sits down, and his eyes are bright and excited. Before Sapnap gets the chance to take a bite of the meal waiting for him, Dream says, “I talked to George. He’s all packed. The last box was shipped today.” His voice is bubbling with elation, a swift undercurrent of nervousness evident in the tapping of his foot under the table and the way he picks at his napkins.
Sapnap feels a smile slowly stretching across his face. He stabs his fork into a piece of meat. “Fuck,” he says, grinning up at Dream, who mirrors him. He takes a bite. Dream does too. The food is amazing, as always. He swallows. There’s a lemony-ness to it, one that burns down his raw throat. He takes a drink of water. “What time does he leave again?”
Dream swallows. He stabs another forkful. “Nine in the morning, our time.” He covers his mouth to speak around the food. “He’ll arrive- or land, I guess, around seven.”
Sapnap looks over at the glowing red clock on the microwave. “That’s just less than 24 hours,” he points out. It hasn’t quite hit him yet. He doesn’t think it will for a while. He stares out the window behind Dream at the darkening sky. He wonders if George will catch the sunset.
“Yeah,” Dream breathes, awe dripping from his voice. Sapnap hears the scrape of his knife and fork against the plate. After a moment, he feels Dream look up at him. “Do we need to do any last-minute shopping?” he asks. “Like, is there anything he needs for his room or food or whatever?”
Sapnap thinks for a minute. Most of what George is bringing is already sitting in boxes in his room, and they already have a cabinet full of various snacks George had asked them to get. “I don’t think so,” Sapnap says. “At least, nothing off the top of my head. If he thinks of anything, I can just take him to the store. But I think we’re good, at least on the basics.” He takes another bite, watching Dream wince as he rolls his neck back. “You good?”
“You good?” Dream steadies him, boxing gloves stiff against his chest. I didn’t hit you too hard, did I?”
Sapnap watches the world flicker in and out of blackness and there’s an ocean rushing through his head. “You're fine. I just got dizzy. It’s fine.”
“Yeah,” Dream tells him, setting down his fork to rub his shoulder tenderly. “I’m just sore. I think I pulled something when I was working out.”
Sapnap nods. “Be careful,” he says, because he knows better than to suggest a rest day.
Dream’s eyes flicker shrewdly to him, but he ignores the comment. “He’s gonna try and find somewhere in the airport to film a couple thoughts before getting in the Uber so he’ll be here probably around eight.”
“Why doesn’t he just film in the car?” Sapnap asks. He takes a drink of water.
Dream shrugs. “Because he doesn’t want to, like, expose our address by mentioning us by name. Also, he probably won’t want to talk about his feelings in front of a stranger.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is.
“Oh,” Sapnap says. He looks down. He should have thought of that. “He’ll still call us when he’s in the car though, right?”
Dream shrugs again, rolling his problem shoulder back to try and soften it. “Probably not. I don’t know. The ride isn’t long. He wants us to record too, just pre-meetup thoughts throughout the day.” He takes another bite. Sapnap watches him twist the napkin, picking at the seams until he pulls loose a thread.
Sapnap looks around the dimly lit house. It’s spacious and plenty of rooms are empty, but it barely feels big enough to contain just the two of them and their habits. He wonders how George will fit into the mix, if he’ll build himself effortlessly into their patterns, or if he’ll question them. He wonders if, for the first time ever, someone’s going to make him say out loud what he’s doing. He thinks it’ll sound more serious than it is. He wonders if anyone will ever question Dream but, he supposes, it’s not like Dream’s unhealthy. He’s just a little obsessive and controlling sometimes (all the time)- not that Sapnap would ever have to nerve to say that to his face. For the record, Sapnap doesn’t think he’s unhealthy either.
“What are you thinking about?” Dream prods curiously.
Sapnap looks back at him, away from the dark hallway. He grins. It’s genuine but it feels stretched. “We’re gonna be sitting here with him this time tomorrow,” he says disbelievingly. “He’s gonna be here.” He gestures towards the third seat, perpetually empty except when Dream’s mom or sister comes over, sitting between them.
Dream drops his head into his hands. “Yeah,” he breathes, and there’s a juvenile sort of excitement in his voice, like a kid on Christmas Eve. “I feel like- I dunno- I haven’t, like, processed it yet but I’m so just- I don’t know. It’s so weird to think about.”
Sapnap laughs, kicking him under the table. “Yeah,” he repeats. “Yeah, I get you.” His voice rasps on the last syllable. Dream’s eyes flicker up to him, then down to his bruised knuckles.
“It’s just- we’ve been waiting for so long,” Dream says, excitement ever so slightly dampened. Sapnap thinks he should apologize, but he’s not sure what for. “It’s been so fucking long.”
And it had been. Months upon months of waiting, of false alarms and false hope. First the fantasy of Christmas morning spent together, then of New Years Eve and watching the clock strike twelve with the two people he loves most in the world. Then, various dates scattered like throwing darts across calendars. January 12th, January 20th, February 1st. Time passed, as it tends to do. George was still waiting overseas. And Sapnap is excited. Of-fucking-course he is. He loves George more than he’d ever admit to his face. He’s his brother, his best friend, and they’ve been waiting for months, for years. For the first time, it’ll be three of them here, together. For the first time, he’ll get to hug George and touch him and wake up knowing they’re all home, this little family they just happened to stumble upon by the kindest play of fate will be together at long last. But there’s that part of him, part of him that he loves dearly and hates desperately, that can’t push the fear of George’s room next to his and the thin walls between them. He’s scared of streaming with him, of seeing the pictures of them together. George is George, and he’s perfect, but he’s Sapnap’s best friend and he shouldn’t be competition. But-
But he’s tiny, Sapnap hates to admit. He’s fucking tiny. He’s all long skinny limbs and sharp jawline, and a way of moving that’s just so captivating. And he’s beautiful- everybody knows that. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. Sapnap isn’t afraid to think it. George is incredibly good-looking, and you’d have to be blind not to see it. George is George, and Sapnap is Sapnap.
What does that mean?
The question follows him back to his room after dinner, presses aching ears to the wall and waits for Dream to retreat upstairs. The question awakens the insatiable need for his unintentional routine, for the immediate gratification and the sweet nothingness after it. He doesn’t want to feel like this; he fucking hates the part of him looking at what should- and probably still will be- one of the best days of his life and trying to soil it. Halfway to his cabinet, he remembers he’d cleaned the bathroom earlier. What a fucking waste. But his mind is set, and nothing can stop it now. He doesn’t think he even wants to.
He riffles through the cabinets, grabs a loaf of bread and peanut butter. They don’t have jelly. Lots of sugar, he imagines Dream saying. It fills the seemingly endless pit of his stomach with guilt. He pulls a bag a of starbursts out from behind a bag of apples. Dream doesn’t have a sweet tooth. He riffles around a moment longer, seeking something saltier before recalling the stashes of chips under his bed. Arms full of guilt, he stumbles back down the dark hallway and into his room.
He sits on the floor to eat, because he doesn’t think he deserves the luxury of eating properly at a table or his desk. He sits and he grabs his laptop and begins to play some random video from a channel he can’t even recall the name of. Distraction. The more, the better. He wedges his arm under the low framework of his bed and pulls out a bag of potato chips. He doesn’t have a knife, he realizes, so he tears the bread up and scoops the peanut butter up with it. And maybe it’s disgusting, but he doesn’t care. He’s the only one who eats peanut butter anyways. Too much added sugar, Dream would say, but never out loud. Too much fat.
Fitting, he supposes.
With the first desperate bite comes the familiar realization that he’s actually not hungry at all. In fact, he’s pretty full from dinner. Oh well. It’s too late to stop now, he supposes. He’s already fucked up.
And it’s not even that he wants to do this, to stuff himself until it hurts to move or breathe, until it just takes bending over to get the first bit out of him. He doesn’t want to do this, but anxious desperation for the immediate numbness it will bring him fills him to the point of emerging panic. He doesn’t want to do this, but he needs to.
The door creaks open, and he freezes, hand halfway into the peanut butter jar clutching a ragged piece of bread. Patches noses her way into the room, stopping to bat at an old balled up wrapper on the ground. She trots over to him curiously, whiskers twitching as she sniffs his hand.
“Go away,” Sapnap tells her, making a shooing motion with his hand. His face feels warm and guilt flutters like ash around him. Surely he’s not embarrassed because a fucking cat caught him.
Patches ignores him and licks at the edge of the jar, where slick oil has dripped down the sides.
With an irritated sigh, Sapnap leaves the bread to sit propped up against the brim of the peanut butter and picks her up, careful to do so with his clean hand. Dream would kill him if he got peanut butter on his cat. Probably not, but it would be embarrassing. Something about Dream knowing what he eats is awful to think about. Patches squirms with displeasure, writhing in his grasp like he’s taking her to be tortured instead of just moving her of his space. He sets her down outside his room. As he closes the door on her, she lets out a sad little prrrp.
He ignores it.
—
Steam rises like smoke from the shower. Sapnap stands under the burning water until the air gets thick and heavy, and he starts seeing stars. He sits on the floor, bowing his head to let the hard stream of water thoroughly saturate his hair. His legs and chest are bright red from the heat, and he’s sure his back is too. He hopes the smell of coconut bodywash will drown out the scent of acid he thinks is clinging to every corner of the room. He raises his head, letting the shower beat against his face, unpleasant but cleansing. When he lowers his head again, he chokes up a mouthful of thick, acidic saliva and spits it out into the drain.
His stomach really fucking hurts. Usually it’s fine, so he figures it’s a mix of anxieties surrounding George’s arrival and the motion of throwing up.
He turns off the water and sits there until goosebumps appear on his arms. He stands, leaning against the wall of the shower until his head stops swimming. When he looks in the mirror, he can barely recognize himself. So, he looks away. He gets dressed with the lights off, brushes his teeth, and towel dries his hair. He’s sure his face is swollen, sure that the corners of his mouth are raw and dry despite the chapstick he slathers on. He’s sure there’s no remedy. He’s tried them all.
He makes his way out and towards the kitchen to get one of those stupid sports drinks he’s grown to hate despite being tremendously grateful for. His footsteps seem to echo, loud and heavy, weighed down by whatever he failed expel from his system. He’d put the food away already, thankfully. He’d learned months ago that leaving food in his room would only cause the process to repeat immediately.
“Sapnap?”
To his surprise, the kitchen light is on. Dream is standing at the sink, filling his giant glass water bottle. His expression turns from one of surprise to one of concern.
“Hey,” Sapnap rasps, his voice thick and choked. He clears his throat. The motion scrapes along the raw skin. It stings. “Hi.”
Dream frowns. The water is spilling out of his bottle all over his hand and forearm. He doesn’t seem to notice. “You good?” he asks. It’s the closest they ever get to talking about it.
“You good?” Dream says softly, sitting on the edge of Sapnap’s bed. It’s raining outside, heavy and dark despite only being 5pm. “I know- well, I heard you throw up earlier.”
Sapnap shrugs. “Just nauseous,” he says. Dream’s eyes flicker down to his knuckles. His head hurts. “Haven’t been drinking enough water or something probably. Been on the computer too much.” He shivers.
“The heat’s on,” Dream tells him gently. He smooths the blankets out. “My mom wants us there in two hours for dinner. We can cancel if you aren’t feeling well.”
“No, it’s okay. I just don’t feel super up to it.”
Dream sighs. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me neither.”
Sapnap nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He grabs one of the drinks sitting on the counter and looks back over at his friend. “Dream,” he says. “The water.”
“Oh shit.” Dream laughs awkwardly as he turns off the tap and sets his bottle down by the drying rack. He shakes his hand with a disgruntled look on his face. Water droplets fly off, splattering across the over door. Sapnap hands him a towel that had been hanging off the bar on the dishwasher. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Sapnap grabs one of the sports drinks. Dream’s eyes flicker down to his hands, the marks fresh and red against his pale skin. Sapnap meets his gaze, as if daring to say anything. He thinks how shitty he feels is making him hostile, and he resents himself for it. Dream isn’t doing anything wrong. “Goodnight,” he says quietly.
“Goodnight,” Dream tells him softly. “You aren’t doing anything tomorrow, right? Can you help me clean?”
Sapnap leans back against the counter. He takes a sip of the drink. He should mention to Dream to stop buying orange flavored ones. He’s sure the acid doesn’t do well for his stomach. The liquid is a sickly vivid color. He can’t imagine how many chemicals are in it. “What?” he asks, looking up. He’s completely forgotten the question.
Dream frowns. “Oh- if you’re not busy tomorrow, or if you’re up for it, I need- I need help just, like, cleaning. Cleaning out some stuff in his room, pushing the boxes aside. All that.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
Dream nods. “Okay. Thanks.” He steps to the side awkwardly. “I’m gonna-” He gestures down the hallway, up the flight of stairs leading back to his room. “I’m gonna head to bed. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.” Sapnap waves as he leaves, before walking back to his own room.
He sighs, flopping face first down on the bed. God. He’s not looking forward to having to juggle this when George arrives. Not that George would notice, he thinks. Not that it’s anything anyone should devote time to thinking about.
His heart is beating heavy and loud in his chest. He sits up and grabs his laptop and the plastic bottle he’d throw on top of his pillows. Idly, he scrolls Netflix for a something to watch while he waits for his body to calm down, to come down from the high.
He’s not sure when he falls asleep, but he wakes up to his computer askew on his lap and the warm, soft weight of Patches pressing against his chest. Blind in the darkness, he feels for his laptop and sets it off to the side in the center of his bed, where it’ll be safe from falling. Patches lets out a soft mrrph as he moves but settles back down on top of him.
The next time he wakes up, the sun is shining golden and warm through his blinds, and George is on his way home.