Archive of Our Own

The ceiling was a blur of shadows, illuminated only by the rhythmic, artificial glow of his phone screen. 

I'm just staring at the ceiling

Dream lay perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in shallow, guarded breaths. Resting right over his heart, the phone hummed with familiar warmth. Sapnap’s voice drifted from the speakers - bright, energetic, and full of life - interrupted occasionally by the sharp clack of his keyboard. 

Dream had wanted to watch. He’d clicked on the notification with a genuine smile, genuinely happy to just sit back and support one of his favorite people. But the universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of timing. 

Can't describe this feeling

A sudden, violent spasm racked his chest, and Dream choked back a gasp, his hand flying to his mouth. He rolled onto his side, his entire body trembling as a deep, wet wheeze caught in his throat. It felt like velvet and thorns. He coughed - a muted, desperate sound into his palm - until the obstruction finally dislodged. 

When he pulled his hand away, his palm was full. 

I've got in my head

In the dim light of the screen, the colors were unmistakable. Vibrant, fiery orange marigold petals tangled together with the soft, delicate blue of a crushed hydrangea cluster. They were damp, stained with the reality of what was happening inside him. 

Ping.

The phone buzzed against his chest, a sharp vibration that sent a jolt of panic through his ribs. On screen, a new icon had appeared in the Discord overlay. George had just joined the call. 

"Yo, George!" Sapnap’s voice boomed from the speaker, sounding entirely too close. "We were just talking about you. Where's Dream at? Is he awake?" 

"Probably sleeping," George’s voice came through, smooth and laced with that familiar, effortless teasing tone that always made Dream’s heart skip a beat. 

Another ping. Then another. 

Two text notifications banners slid down from the top of his screen. 

Pandas > get on idiot we need a third

G > stream is waiting 4 u 

Dream stared at the glowing text, his fingers trembling as he clutched the flowers tighter in his other hand. The petals crushed against his knuckles, releasing a faint, bittersweet floral scent that made his stomach turn. 

He couldn't join. Not tonight. 

It was always worse at night. During the day, he could distract himself, swallowing the tickle in his throat and shoving every stray emotion down deep where no one could see. But now, the silence of the room offered no hiding places. His lungs ached, a heavy, suffocating pressure building behind his ribs as if the roots were wrapping tighter around his heart, fueled by the mere sound of their voices blending together. 

I'm out of body in my bed

With a shaky exhaled breath, Dream didn't reply. He just locked his phone, plunging the room into absolute darkness, and pulled his hand close to his chest - holding the physical proof of a love that was slowly killing him. 

The darkness that swallowed the room was immediate, but it did little to quiet the racing of his mind. Dream lay in the quiet, listening to the ragged, whistling sound of his own breathing. Every inhale felt shallow, like trying to pull air through a straw. 

He was so tired of being suffocated. 

His mind drifted back to a few months ago, to the night it all began. When the first stray orange petal had forced its way up his throat, violent and agonizing, he had panicked. He’d spent hours huddled over his laptop in the dead of night, eyes stinging as he frantically Googled his symptoms, praying it was some bizarre, temporary medical anomaly. 

And I'm just searching up my symptoms

Instead, he’d found a death sentence wrapped in folklore. 

The articles had all said the same thing: Hanahaki didn't just strike anyone with a crush. It was a disease born of depth. For years, Dream had harbored his feelings for Sapnap and George, quietly yearning for them from the safety of the sidelines. He had thought he was safe. He had thought he was in control. But love, he learned too late, was alive. It grew in the dark. The sudden, agonizing onset of the flowers wasn't a random fluke; it was proof that his feelings had crossed a dangerous line, deepening into something so massive his own body could no longer contain it. 

Now, clutching the bruised marigolds and hydrangeas against his ribs, a cold wave of desperation washed over him. 

He just wanted to breathe. 

Desperate to fix 'em

It sound so simple, so basic, but a full, deep breath felt like a luxury belonging to a past life. He missed the feeling of air expanding his chest without the sharp, terrifying prickle of hidden stems and roots tangling around his lungs. He missed a day where his throat didn't rawly ache. 

As the physical pain throbbed in sync with his heartbeat, the desperation morphed into something sharper, darker. He couldn't keep living like this. He couldn't keep hiding in the shadows of their lives, coughing up pieces of his soul while they laughed on stream. 

Looking down at his closed fist in the dark, Dream felt a dangerous shift settle in his chest. He was reaching his breaking point. He was starting to feel like he'd do anything - absolutely anything - to make this go away. 

I'll do anything

With a slow, agonizing effort, Dream pushed himself up from the mattress. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and knelt on the floor, reaching blindly underneath the frame until his fingers brushed the worn cardboard of the shoebox. He lifted the lid and dropped the fresh marigolds and hydrangeas inside, the dry rustle of past petals sounding like a cruel whisper in the dark. He shoved the box back out of sight, hiding the evidence once again. 

His throat felt like sandpaper, raw and scraped clean by the stems. He needed water. 

Stepping out of his bedroom, he looked toward the front door just to his right, then turned left, slipping quietly past the stairs. He walked down the short hallway that opened up into the massive kitchen. The space was dark, the marble island casting long shadows across the barstools. 

As he poured himself a glass of water, a sound broke the silence. 

It was faint, muffled by the distance, but unmistakable. He wasn't hearing them from the top of the stairs - the sound was drifting from the hallway past the kitchen, leaking out from the back of the house where the offices were. 

The door must have been left slightly cracked. A careless, domestic habit. A quiet, subconscious invitation for Dream to walk down the hall and join them. 

Dream stood frozen by the marble island, the cold glass pressed tightly against his palm. For a fleeting, desperate second, he actually considered it. He imagined walking down that dark hallway, pushing Sapnap's office door open, and just standing in the corner while they wrapped up the stream. He wanted so badly to be near them. He wanted to forget the flowers. 

But the moment the desire bloomed, the spiral began. 

'Cause lately I've been spiraling, oh

‘If you go back there, you’ll look at them,’ his mind whispered, a cold spike of anxiety piercing through the longing. ‘You'll watch the way George leans over Sapnap's shoulder to look at his monitor. You’ll see how effortlessly they fit into each other's space. You’ll feel that ache in your chest, and you won’t be able to stop it.’ The thoughts swirled faster, heavier, twisting into a dark panic. ‘What if you cough while Sapnap's mic is live? What if a blue hydrangea petal falls onto the office floor right in front of George? What if they look at the mess and realize exactly what you are? What if they think your love is a burden?’ 

 The mental image of their rejection was a physical blow. His lungs seized. 

A sharp, familiar tickle flared at the base of his throat, rapidly expanding into a suffocating pressure. He barely managed to set the water glass down on the island before a violent cough ripped from his chest. He gasped, choking on the sudden, frantic bloom of petals crowding his airway. 

Panic overtaking him, Dream turned and fled from the kitchen. He didn't want them hearing him from down the hall. He ran back past the stairs, bolted straight into his bedroom right by the front door, and shut it firmly behind him. 

Safe in the dark, he sank against the wood, coughing miserably into his hands as a fresh wave of marigolds and hydrangeas forced their way out. He squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the absolute silence of his room, knowing that just a few hallways away, his best friends were laughing together. 

He couldn't join them. Not tonight. He decided right then to just leave the texts unanswered - he truly couldn't handle facing them tonight. 

The morning sun cut through the living room windows, casting bright, unforgiving squares of light across the couch and love seat. For Dream, the transition from the dark isolation of his bedroom to the stark reality of the day was jarring. His throat still felt raw, a lingering, tight ache reminding him of the flowers currently hidden away in the box under his bed. 

He was aiming for the kitchen, desperate for a quiet bite to eat before he had to leave for his doctor’s appointment, when he ran into them. 

Sapnap and George were already up, lounging in the living room. The sight of them immediately brought back the echoes of last night’s muffled laughter, making Dream’s chest tighten instinctively. He swallowed hard, trying to smooth down the sudden panic before it could trigger a cough. 

"Look who finally crawled out of the cave," Sapnap called out from the couch, a relaxed grin on his face. 

George looked up from his phone, leaning against the armrest of the love seat. "Yeah, where were you last night? We texted you to get on stream. Were you sleeping?" 

The question hung in the air, simple and innocent. 

"Yeah, I was crashed out," Dream lied smoothly, offering a small, tired shrug to sell it. "Had a killer headache and just fell asleep early." 

George nodded, turning his attention back to his phone without a second thought. "Figures. You missed a chaotic one." 

A quiet wave of relief washed over Dream, bringing a small, silent trace of happiness with it. They believed him. They didn't notice the slight rasp in his voice, and they hadn't heard his muffled choking from down the hall. For a brief second, the armor of his secret felt secure. 

Then Sapnap’s eyes drifted over Dream’s outfit, tracing the jeans and clean hoodie. "Wait, where are you going anyway? You’re actually dressed for the outside world." 

Dream stiffened slightly, his mind racing for a cover story. He couldn't exactly tell them he was going to a clinic to find out how long it would take for the garden in his lungs to suffocate him. 

"Oh, I'm heading over to Skeppy's house," Dream said, the second lie slipping past his lips just as effortlessly as the first. "Just going to hang out for a bit, look over some project stuff." 

"Oh, nice. Tell him we say hi," Sapnap said, turning back toward the TV. 

Once again, they bought it. No suspicion, no follow-up questions. They trusted him implicitly. But this time, the relief didn't stay sweet. As Dream stood there near the bottom of the stairs, looking at his two best friends, a heavy, suffocating wave of guilt settled deep in his stomach. 

I'm not feeling like myself and

It was terrifying how seamlessly he had just lied to the two people he loved most in the world. He hadn't even hesitated. The fabrications had flowed out of him like second nature, masking his pain and his secrets behind a calm, easy face. They looked at him and saw their best friend getting ready for a casual day out - completely oblivious to the fact that every seamless lie was just another brick in the wall he was building between them. 

The guilt didn't just weigh on his stomach - it turned toxic. 

Nothing ever seems to help

Before he could even step toward the kitchen, a sharp, burning spark flared at the very bottom of his lungs. Dream’s eyes widened. It wasn't the usual slow, creeping tickle; it was a sudden, violent eruption. He clapped both hands over his mouth, a muffled, desperate gasp escaping his throat. 

"Dream? You good?" Sapnap’s voice called out, shifting from casual to instantly alert. 

Dream didn't answer. He couldn't. He spun on his heel and sprinted back across the living room, his sneakers skidding slightly on the floor as he tore past the stairs and threw himself into his bedroom. He slammed the door, the lock clicking into place with a sharp snap just as footsteps hurried after him. 

"Dream! What the hell? Open up!" Sapnap was knocking on the wood, his voice laced with deep confusion and growing worry. From a little further back, George’s voice chimed in, equally baffled. "Dream, what's wrong?" 

Dream ignored them, stumbling blindly across his bedroom and into the attached bathroom. He shut that door, too, twisting the lock with trembling, sweaty fingers. He needed a barrier. He needed to mask the sound. 

He collapsed over the sink, his upper body racking with a cough so violent it felt like his ribs were going to crack. He threw his head down, gasping and choking as the flowers fought their way up his throat. 

Lying had somehow made it worse. The realization hit him with a wave of sheer terror. The disease wasn't just reacting to his unrequited love anymore - it was reacting to the deceit. It was punishing him for building that wall. 

With a final, agonizing heave, he spat the obstruction into the white porcelain basin. 

Dream stared down, his breath hitching in a wet, ragged wheeze. Mixed in with the bright orange marigolds and soft blue hydrangeas was a deep, terrifying crimson. The petals weren't just damp this time. They were stained, dripping with stark, unmistakable blood. 

The sight sent a cold jolt of pure panic straight to his core. 

Outside the bedroom door, Sapnap was still calling his name, the knocks getting heavier. But inside the bathroom, the air was running out. The roots were tightening, clawing at his chest from the inside, refusing to let his lungs expand. The desperation from the night before rushed back tenfold, crashing over him like a tidal wave. 

He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't live in fear of a single conversation, suffocating in his own skin, bleeding out over a sink while his best friends stood entirely clueless on the other side of the wall. He just wanted to breathe. He needed to breathe. 

As he gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles turning white, the upcoming doctor's appointment felt less like a chore and more like a final, desperate lifeline. 

Dream leaned over the sink for a long moment, the cool porcelain chilling his knuckles as he watched the water wash the blood and petals down the drain. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took one last shallow, burning breath, and forced his face into a hard, unreadable mask. 

He didn't have time to process this. He didn't have time to be afraid of the blood. The clock was ticking, and he had to get to that appointment. 

Unlocking the bathroom door, he marched straight across his bedroom. When he swung the main door open, Sapnap and George were still standing there, their expressions a mix of frustration and deep worry. 

"Dream, what the hell is going on?" Sapnap demanded, stepping forward. "You can't just sprint away-" 

"I'm fine," Dream cut him off, his voice flat and entirely devoid of its usual warmth. He didn't look at either of them, deliberately staring at the wall just past Sapnap's shoulder. 

"You don't look fine," George said, his tone dropping the casual banter entirely. He stepped closer, reaching out a hand. "You look like you can barely-" 

"I said I'm fine," Dream snapped, slamming a brand new, towering wall down between them. The guilt from earlier morphed into a desperate defensive anger. If they kept pushing, they would find out. If they found out, everything would be ruined. He had to force them away, even if it tore him apart to do it. "I just need space. Can you two just back off and leave me the fuck alone?" 

The shout echoed sharply in the small hallway. Sapnap flinched, and George’s hand dropped back to his side, his expression hardening with a mixture of hurt and disbelief. They had never heard Dream use that tone with them. Not like this. 

Before they could say another word, Dream brushed aggressively past them, heading straight for the front door. He snatched his keys off the counter, stepped out into the bright morning air, and slammed the front door shut behind him. 

The moment the car door clicked into place and he started the engine, his lungs demanded retribution. 

The consequences of the screaming, the lying, and the emotional cruelty were immediate and punishing. Dream barely made it out of the driveway before a violent, suffocating spasm hit his chest. He gasped, his vision swimming with dark spots as he squeezed the steering wheel, gripping it so hard his knuckles popped. He could feel the stems twisting, the roots constricting his airways as if the flowers themselves were furious at the wall he had just built. 

He forced himself to keep driving, pushing through the agony until he finally hit the interstate. 

The car accelerated, the hum of the highway filling the cabin. Unable to hold it back a second longer, Dream rolled down the driver’s side window. The rushing wind whipped into the car as he choked out a fresh, agonizing wave of marigolds and hydrangeas - this time completely drenched in dark crimson. 

Without looking at them, he threw the bloodied petals out into the wind. They vanished instantly, scattered into pieces across the asphalt behind him, leaving nothing but a faint, iron-metallic scent in the car. 

Dream rolled the window back up, his breathing a ragged, trembling whistle in the quiet vehicle. He wiped a stray smear of blood from his lip, kept both eyes locked on the road ahead, and kept driving toward the doctor’s office. He was running out of time, and he knew it. 

-

The doctor’s office was sterile and entirely too quiet. The soft, rhythmic hum of the fluorescent lights overhead only amplified the erratic, whistling sound of Dream’s shallow breathing. 

Dr. Avery, a leading specialist in respiratory Hanahaki cases, adjusted her glasses as she pulled up the digital X-rays on the wall monitor. The images had been taken the week prior, but seeing them now made Dream’s stomach drop. 

The gray shadows of his rib cage were visible, but tangled heavily within the dark space of his lungs was an intricate, branch-like web. It looked like ivy, spreading outwards from his bronchia, anchoring itself directly over his heart. 

"Take a look here, Clay," Dr. Avery said, her tone professional but laced with a heavy, practiced empathy. "The root system is established, and we can clearly see the early dense clustering of what I assume, based on your symptoms, are the marigolds and hydrangeas. But medically speaking... the disease isn't far enough along for us to perform the surgery." 

Went to the doctor and she said I was fine

Dream blinked, his hands tightening into fists against his knees. "What do you mean? It’s getting harder to breathe every day. I’m coughing up blood, I’m suffocating-" 

"I know it feels critical," she interrupted gently, turning her chair to face him fully. "But Hanahaki surgery is highly invasive. Because the roots wrap around the pulmonary arteries, we cannot safely operate until the plant matures and the root structures calcify slightly. If we go in now, the risk of permanent, fatal lung damage is too high. You have to wait." 

Wait. The word felt like a physical blow. He had to keep living like this. He had to keep choking. 

"And," Dr. Avery continued, her eyes dropping to his chart before looking back up, "I need to make sure you fully understand the psychological reality of this procedure if we do reach that point. This isn't just a physical extraction. When we sever those roots, we sever the neurological pathways tied to the source of the growth." 

She leaned forward, ensuring he was listening. "If we do this surgery, you will never be able to feel romantic love for Sapnap or George ever again. You will still remember them, and a muted, platonic affection will remain, but the deep, consuming love you have for them? It will be gone. Forever. It will never be the same again." 

A cold, heavy silence settled over the room. 

A single tear slipped down Dream’s cheek, followed quickly by another, until he was silently weeping, his shoulders trembling. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop the downpour, but the sheer weight of the choice before him was too much to bear. 

But every movie that I see makes me cry

He was completely, utterly torn. 

A dark, desperate part of him - the part that had just fled his home in terror, the part that was currently starving for oxygen - wanted the surgery so badly. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to wake up in the morning without a raw throat, without a shoebox full of bloody evidence under his bed, and without the agonizing fear of his own heartbeat. He wanted the easy out. 

But as the tears slipped past his lips, his heart ached with a fierce, stubborn defiance. The thought of looking at George and Sapnap and feeling nothing - of watching them smile and feeling entirely empty inside - was a death sentence of a different kind. That love, as much as it was killing him, was the most beautiful thing he had ever known. 

‘I could just tell them,’ a small, terrifying voice whispered in his mind. ‘I could confess.’ If he confessed, there was a chance, however microscopic, that the love could be returned. The flowers could wither naturally. He could breathe and keep his feelings. But the risk of rejection, the risk of breaking their trio forever, felt just as fatal as the disease itself. 

Dream sat in the sterile room, trapped between two impossible futures: a life where he could breathe but could no longer love, or a life where he loved so deeply that it would eventually kill him. 

It's like somebody put a weight on my chest

Dr. Avery reached into a drawer, pulling out a small, amber plastic prescription bottle and sliding it across the desk toward him. "These are mild suppressants," she explained softly. "They won't stop the growth, but they will temporarily numb the nerve endings in your lungs and help reduce the coughing fits for a few hours at a time. It should give you a little breathing room." 

She paused, looking at him with genuine concern. "But medication can only do so much, Dream. You are carrying an impossible weight entirely on your own. My medical advice? Talk to a friend. Find someone you trust completely and tell them what's happening. You shouldn't be alone in this." 

Dream took the bottle, his fingers dragging against the smooth plastic. Talk to a friend. The advice sounded so simple, yet so profoundly impossible. 

The drive back from the clinic was a blur. When he finally unlocked the front door and stepped into the house, the silence hit him like a physical wall. The living room was completely void of its usual inhabitants. The couch and love seat were empty; the TV was dark. There was no laughter echoing from the back offices, no footsteps shuffling upstairs. Sapnap and George were gone - likely out to get food, or perhaps deliberately giving him the harsh, angry distance he had screamed at them to give. 

He had wanted them to leave him alone, but the empty house felt hollow, a stark reminder of the isolation he was forcing upon himself. 

Dream retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door and collapsing backward onto his mattress. He stared up at the blurry shadows on the ceiling, the small bottle of suppressants heavy in his hoodie pocket. Talk to a friend, the doctor’s voice echoed in his head. 

He closed his eyes. He couldn't tell George or Sapnap - that was completely out of the question. But what about someone else? What about someone outside the house? 

‘No one would understand,’ he thought, a bitter, suffocating wave of hopelessness washing over him. No one could understand. How could he possibly explain to a normal person that his lungs were filling with marigolds and hydrangeas because he loved his best friends too much? How could anyone comprehend the terrifying reality of bleeding over a bathroom sink because of a secret crush? 

Desperate, his thumbs moved entirely on instinct. He pulled out his phone, opened Discord, and clicked on Skeppy’s name. Since he had already lied to Sapnap and George about heading over there today, Skeppy was the first person on his mind. 

He started typing, his fingers flying across the keyboard before he could stop himself. 

Dream > hey dude. are you free? i really need to talk to someone. something is seriously wrong with me and i dont know what to do anymore

He hovered over the send button, his heart hammering against his ribs. The words felt incredibly heavy, a fragile lifeline thrown out into the dark. But the moment his thumb twitched over the screen, panic seized him. ‘What am I doing?’ he thought wildly. ‘I can't drag him into this. He's going to think I'm insane. He's going to look at me differently.’ 

Panicking, Dream quickly backspaced the entire message, deleting the confession before it could leave his screen. He swallowed hard, forcing his fingers to type out a casual, completely different text to save the conversation before it could get too serious. 

Dream > hey actually nevermind, totally forgot what i was gonna say lol. just random coding stuff. u streaming later? 

He hit send, letting out a shaky breath, hoping the defused message would just brush it under the rug. But Skeppy wasn't stupid. He had likely seen the "typing..." indicator bouncing for minutes, and the sudden, awkward pivot was a dead giveaway. 

A few seconds later, the phone buzzed. 

Skeppy > bro what? u dont just type a whole paragraph just to forget it. what’s wrong?

Dream’s stomach dropped. He stared at the screen, another text sliding down immediately after. 

Skeppy > seriously dream. is everything ok over there? youve been distant lately. And i covered for you earlier with George and Sap. talk to me? 

Skeppy wasn't backing down. The genuine concern in the messages was supposed to feel comforting, but to Dream, it felt like an interrogation. The walls were closing in on him again. The pressure in his chest flared, a terrifying tickle threatening to explode into another coughing fit if he let the anxiety get any higher. 

I should talk to a friend

Terrified of the incoming notifications, terrified of the questions he couldn't answer, Dream didn't reply. 

He held down the power button on the side of his phone until the screen swirled down into absolute blackness. He threw the dead device onto the mattress beside him, cutting off his connection to the outside world entirely. 

But I can't get out of bed

He curled on his side in the quiet, dark room, pulling his knees to his chest. He was completely alone now. Just him, his silent phone, and the hidden shoebox of bloody flowers resting beneath his bed. 

The amber plastic bottle sat on the nightstand, catching the dim afternoon light like a cruel joke. Mild suppressants, the doctor had said. Breathing room. Dream stared at it from the mattress, his chest hitching in a shallow, stuttering pattern that sent sharp, needling pains through his ribs. Every exhale tasted like iron and bruised petals. He couldn't take another breath like this. He couldn't live through another suffocating spasm. 

My head is spinning and my stomach is sick

With trembling fingers, he reached out, uncapped the bottle, and swallowed one of the small pills dry. 

He lay back down, counting the seconds, desperately waiting for the magic to happen. At first, there was nothing. But then, a strange, artificial numbness began to bleed into his chest. It started at the base of his throat, a cold, chemical chill that crawled down into his bronchial tubes. 

The tickle vanished. The agonizing weight behind his ribs suddenly... dissipated. 

Dream expanded his chest. His lungs flared open, wide and unrestricted, pulling in a deep, clean, uninterrupted rush of oxygen. He didn't cough. He didn't wheeze. Tears of pure, unadulterated relief stung his eyes. For the first time in months, he could breathe. It felt like a miracle. 

Fueled by the sudden rush of false security, Dream stood up. The silence of the house no longer felt like a prison; it felt like a blank canvas. The pills worked. He was safe. He could go back out there. He could pretend the morning never happened, patch things over, and just be near his favorite people without the threat of choking to death. 

He opened his bedroom door and walked down the hallway. 

He found them in the kitchen. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut. Sapnap was leaning against the marble island, staring blankly at his hands, while George sat on a barstool, swirling a glass of ice water with a look of quiet, profound hurt on his face. They looked exhausted - worn down by the random, explosive anger Dream had hurled at them just hours before. 

"Hey," Dream said softly, his voice clear, smooth, and terrifyingly free of any rasp. 

Both of them snapped their heads up. Sapnap braced himself, his jaw tight, clearly expecting another round of shouting. George just looked at him with guarded, distant eyes. 

"Look, about earlier..." Dream swallowed, offering a small, fragile smile. "I'm really sorry. My head was just pounding, and I... I snapped. I didn't mean it. I don't want to be left alone." 

Sapnap searched his face for a long, agonizing moment. The anger in his shoulders visibly melted, replaced by a heavy, unconditional relief. "Dude... you scared the shit out of us," Sapnap muttered, letting out a breath he’d clearly been holding. "We thought you hated us or something." 

"Never," Dream whispered, walking closer, his heart swelling. 

George let out a quiet sigh, the ice in his eyes thawing just a fraction as he looked up. "Don't do that again, idiot. We actually worried." He reached out, his hand lightly gripping Dream’s forearm - a brief, casual touch meant to ground him, to bring him back into the fold. 

It was exactly what Dream had been starving for. It was the closeness he had been dying to experience. 

But the moment George's fingers pressed into his skin, the safety net didn't just drop - it shattered. 

Deep within Dream's chest, a sudden, violent spasm erupted. It wasn't a cough. The suppressant completely blocked his body's ability to clear his throat. Instead, it was a silent, internal blooming. The emotional surge of George’s touch and Sapnap’s forgiveness triggered the disease instantly, but with nowhere for the petals to go, the flowers grew inward. 

A rapid, aggressive cluster of hydrangeas and marigolds exploded deep inside his lungs, their stems wrapping tighter, roots digging fiercely into his breathing pathways like claws. 

Dream’s smile froze. 

He tried to take a breath to respond to George, but his lungs wouldn't expand. They were entirely packed with dense, suffocating velvet. Because of the medication, the nerves were entirely numb - he couldn't feel the physical pain of the tearing roots, but he felt the absolute, horrifying reality of suffocating in total silence. He couldn't even cough to scream for help. The suppressant held his respiratory muscles hostage, paralyzing his ability to expel the blockage. 

"Dream?" George asked, his brow furrowing as he noticed the way Dream’s eyes suddenly widened with sheer, primal terror. "What's wrong?" 

Dream stood perfectly still in the center of the beautiful, sunlit kitchen, staring at the two people he loved more than life itself. They were right there. They were forgiving him. They were reaching out for him. And he was entirely unable to pull a single atom of oxygen into his body. 

Say I'm in love, so it's hard to admit

His vision began to vignette, dark spots dancing at the edges of his sight as his heart battered frantically against the suffocating wall of flowers inside him. The medicine hadn't saved him. It had just trapped him in a silent, painless execution chamber built by his own love. 

The air in his throat wasn't just gone; it was locked away. 

Dream’s hand flew to his neck, his fingers digging into his own skin as if he could manually tear open an airway. George’s hand was still resting on his forearm, the warmth of the touch now feeling like a catalyst for his own destruction. 

"Dream? Hey, look at me, what's happening?" Sapnap stepped forward, his face instantly pale with panic as he saw Dream’s eyes roll slightly, losing focus. 

I can't eat, I can't sleep

Dream couldn't speak. He couldn't even emit a wheeze. The suppressants had done their job too well, entirely freezing his vocal cords and cough reflex while the roots aggressively choked out his lungs from the inside. If he stayed here, he would drop dead on the marble floor right in front of them, suffocating on a secret they could never know. 

With a final, desperate burst of adrenaline, Dream ripped his arm out of George’s grip. 

He didn't look back at their terrified, shouting faces. He spun around and lunged out of the kitchen, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated as hypoxia began to set in. He stumbled past the stairs, his shoulder slamming hard against the wall, but he didn't feel it. The numbness was absolute. He was a ghost in his own body, running on nothing but pure survival instinct. 

He threw his weight against his bedroom door, burst inside, and slammed it shut. His trembling hand fumbled for the lock, twisting it just as the sound of Sapnap and George sprinting down the hallway reached the wood. 

"Dream! Open the door! Let us in!" Sapnap was throwing his shoulder against the paneling, the wood groaning under the force. "George, call an ambulance! Something's wrong with him!" 

Inside, Dream didn't make it to the bathroom. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the carpet right beside his bed. 

The silence in his own head was deafening. He lay on his side, his mouth open in a useless, silent gasp, staring blindly at the dark space beneath his bed frame. Just a few inches away sat the cardboard shoebox. 

The irony was a cruel, crushing weight. He had taken the pill to escape the pain, to escape the flowers, but the disease had simply adjusted. It had trapped the marigolds and hydrangeas beneath his ribs, forcing them to bloom thick and dense in the dark, suffocating him without letting him shed a single petal. He couldn't even throw them up to save himself. 

"Dream, please!" George’s voice was cracking on the other side of the door, muffled and desperate. "Just talk to us! Tell us what to do!" 

Dream squeezed his eyes shut, a tear cutting a clean path through the sweat on his cheek. He lay paralyzed on the floor, listening to the panicked frantic cries of the two people he would die to protect - and who were, entirely without knowing it, killing him. 

I think you're what's wrong with me

They didn’t break down the door, and the ambulance never came.

Eventually, as the chemical numbness of the suppressant slowly began to wear off, Dream’s cough reflex returned with a violent, agonizing vengeance. He had spent an hour on his knees by the mattress, dry-heaving and choking up crushed, mangled petals that had been trapped in his airways, until he could finally drag a ragged, burning breath of air back into his lungs. He had called out to Sapnap and George through the locked door, his voice a broken, unrecognizable whisper, spinning a frantic lie about a sudden, severe panic attack to keep them from calling paramedics. 

They had stopped pounding on the door, but the damage was done. The kitchen incident had proven one undeniable, terrifying fact: closeness was a trigger, and the suppressants were a trap. 

So, Dream did the only thing he could do to survive. He built the wall higher. 

-

Three weeks bled by in a blur of forced isolation and quiet decay. 

I keep looking for distractions

The house dynamic shifted from a warm, chaotic trio into a cold, tense ecosystem of avoidance. Dream stopped coming out of his room during the day. He stopped sitting on the couch in the living room; he stopped making coffee in the kitchen when anyone else was awake. If he heard footsteps coming down the stairs, he quietly locked his door. If he heard them talking in the back offices, he stayed on the opposite side of the house. 

He only took the suppressants in strict moderation now, using them like a shield purely so he could record videos or hop on mandatory calls without coughing. But the cost was heavy. Off-camera, he was a ghost. 

Hope the feeling passes

Every time he accidentally passed George in the hallway and caught a glimpse of that familiar, concerned, yet deeply hurt look in George's eyes, Dream’s chest would seize. Every time Sapnap knocked softly on his door just to ask if he wanted to order food, only for Dream to mutter a cold "not hungry" through the wood, the roots would twist tighter. Pushing them away hurt them, which broke Dream’s heart - and the broken heart only fed the flowers. 

Underneath his bed, the single shoebox was no longer enough. 

But I've got to say

It had been joined by a second, then a third, all tucked away in the dark dust beneath the frame. The cardboard lids were beginning to bow upward, unable to fully close against the sheer volume of blood-soaked orange marigolds and faded blue hydrangeas he was burying away every single night. 

He was running out of space to hide the evidence. He was running out of time before the roots calcified enough for surgery. And worst of all, the silence from his friends was growing heavier - as if they were finally starting to accept the wall he had built, and were beginning to let him go. 

It's getting harder every day

The true test of his isolation came a few days later, during a mandatory recording session. 

Dream sat in his downstairs office, the small day-bed in the corner looking entirely untouched. He had taken a suppressant twenty minutes before hitting the record button, his eyes watering from the dry swallow, praying it would give him enough of a window to get through the video. 

For the first twenty minutes, it felt like old times. He was laughing, shouting, and bantering with Sapnap and George as their avatars raced across the screen. Hearing their voices so loud and clear in his headphones filled his chest with a warm, familiar joy - but deep down, he could feel the terrifying, silent pressure building behind his ribs. The flowers were blooming, trapped beneath the chemical numbness. 

Then, the timer on his desk crossed the thirty-minute mark. 

A sharp, distinct prickle flared at the back of his throat. The suppressant was wearing off early. 

And I can't seem to get around it

Dream’s eyes widened in sudden panic as his avatar froze mid-jump on the screen. He could feel the familiar, heavy mass of petals forcing their way up his trachea. His cough reflex was snapping back online with a vengeance. 

"Dream? You threw? You literally just walked off the ledge," George’s voice laughed through the headset, completely lighthearted. 

"Dream, hello? Are you trolling?" Sapnap chimed in. 

Dream frantically slammed his thumb down on his microphone's physical mute button. The little red light flared on, cutting off his audio just as a violent, hacking cough tore through his throat. He doubled over his desk, grabbing his headphones off his ears and dropping them onto the mousepad. 

He coughed until his vision went blurry, his hand cupping his mouth as full, blood-slicked orange marigolds and fragments of blue hydrangeas spilled past his lips. He was wheezing sharply, a wet, ragged sound that echoed off the acoustic foam panels of his office walls. 

Through the headphones resting on the desk, he could faintly hear George and Sapnap still talking. 

"Wait, is he muted?" George asked, his tone shifting from amused to slightly confused. 

"Yeah, his Discord icon isn't lighting up. Dream? Can you hear us?" Sapnap called out. 

Dream frantically wiped his mouth with a handful of tissues from his desk drawer, shoving the bloodied petals out of sight into his trash can. He forced himself to take a deep, shaky breath, fighting down the remaining tickle in his throat. He couldn't let them hear this. He couldn't let them know. 

He unmuted the mic, his voice coming out slightly strained, though he forced a laugh. "Sorry, sorry! Someone was knocking at my front door, had to check it. Where are we at?" 

There was a beat of heavy silence on the other end of the call. 

"A knocking?" George asked, his voice entirely flat now. The playful energy from before was completely gone. "Dream, Sapnap and I are literally sitting in our offices right down the hall from you. Nobody knocked." 

Dream froze, his hand hovering over his mouse. He had forgotten. In his panic, he had completely botched the geography of his own lie. 

"I... I thought I heard something," Dream stammered, his chest tightening further, a fresh wave of anxiety threatening to spark another bloom. "My bad. Let's just finish the video." 

"No, forget the video," Sapnap said, his tone dropping into that firm, unyielding territory that meant he was completely done being pushed away. "We're coming in there." 

“Wait, no, don’t-”

The call disconnected. 

Before Dream could even stand up from his gaming chair, the sound of heavy, fast footsteps echoed down the office hallway. His office door - which he had forgotten to lock in his haste to start recording - was thrown open. 

Sapnap stood in the doorway, his chest heaving slightly, his expression a mix of fierce frustration and deep hurt. George was right behind him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes locked onto Dream with a guarded, heavy intensity. 

"We're done with this, Dream," Sapnap said, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind them, trapping the three of them together in the small office space. "For three weeks, you've been a ghost. You scream at us, you lock yourself away, you lie to our faces about where you're going, and now you're making up fake door knocks just to mute your mic. What the hell is going on with you?" 

Dream sat paralyzed in his chair, his heart hammering violently against the cage of roots in his chest. George stepped around Sapnap, his eyes scanning the desk, narrowing slightly as they lingered on the crumpled, slightly stained tissues overflowing from the small trash can by Dream's knees. 

"You look sick, Dream," George said softly, the anger in his voice cracking to reveal a profound, terrifying worry. "You're pale, you're shaking, and you can barely breathe. Talk to us. Please. Why are you pushing us away?" 

The closeness was suffocating. Being in the same small room with both of them, feeling the sheer weight of their collective worry and love, was the ultimate trigger. Deep in his lungs, the marigolds and hydrangeas began to claw their way up, completely indifferent to the fact that he had nowhere left to hide. 

The pressure in his throat exploded. He couldn't even force out a syllable to answer George’s question. 

Dream bolted from his gaming chair, his knees knocking against the underside of the desk and sending his keyboard rattling. He didn't look at Sapnap’s shocked expression or the way George jumped back in surprise. He crossed the small office space in two frantic strides, threw open the door to his attached bathroom, and practically dove inside. 

He slammed the bathroom door shut and twisted the lock. The metallic click echoed like a gunshot in the cramped, tiled space. 

"Dream! Open the door!" Sapnap was right on the other side, rattling the doorknob violently. "Are you throwing up? Are you sick? Let us help you, man!" 

"Dream, please!" George’s voice was right against the wood, tight with absolute panic. "Just let us in!" 

Dream didn't hear them. He couldn't. The sound of his own blood roaring in his ears was deafening. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, his hands gripping the porcelain bowl so hard his knuckles turned white. 

The dam had completely broken. 

Without the suppressants to freeze his throat, his lungs convulsed violently. He hacked, a choked, wet sob tearing out of him as full, intact orange marigolds and heavy, tangled clumps of blue hydrangeas forced their way up his esophagus. They poured past his lips, a horrific, beautiful mess, entirely drenched and dripping with dark, thick crimson. 

The blood splattered against the white porcelain. 

He was suffocating, his chest collapsing in on itself as the roots fiercely thrashed against his lungs, punishing him for the sheer proximity of the two boys outside. Every desperate gasp for air only pulled the scent of copper and crushed petals deeper into his throat, triggering another wave of agonizing dry-heaving. 

"Dream! I'm going to break the lock if you don't answer me!" Sapnap slammed his fist against the door, the wood vibrating against Dream’s back. "I mean it! One... two..." 

Dream stared down at the absolute horror in the toilet bowl. Tears blurred his vision, mixing with the sweat on his face. He was trapped in a tiny, locked bathroom, entirely out of breath, bleeding out from a disease caused by the very people trying to break the door down. 

Through the haze of his fading vision, the counting outside the door felt like a countdown to his own execution. 

“Three!” With a frantic, trembling hand, Dream reached up and slammed his palm down on the toilet lever. The heavy rush of water roared in his ears, dragging the crimson-soaked marigolds and hydrangeas down into the pipes. He grabbed a handful of toilet paper, desperately wiping a smear of blood from the porcelain rim and throwing it into the spinning water just as the wood of the door groaned. 

A sharp, splintering crack echoed through the room. The lock gave way. 

The door burst inward, slamming against the tiled wall. Sapnap stumbled into the small bathroom, his face twisted in sheer, terrified adrenaline, with George pushing in right behind him. 

They didn't see the flowers. They didn't see the blood. All they saw was Dream. 

He was collapsed on the cold floor, his back propped weakly against the base of the toilet, his head lolling to the side. His skin was a ghostly, translucent pale, his lips tinged a faint, terrifying shade of blue. He was shivering violently, his chest barely moving as he took tiny, shallow, microscopic sips of air. 

"Dream! Oh my god, Dream!" Sapnap dropped to his knees, his hands instantly flying to Dream’s shoulders to keep him upright. "George, help me lift him! Get him to the day-bed!" 

George moved on pure instinct, his hands trembling as he grabbed Dream’s arm, pulling it over his neck. Together, they hoisted his dead weight off the tile. Dream’s sneakers dragged heavily on the carpet as they carried him out of the bathroom and into the office, carefully lowering his limp body onto the small day-bed in the corner. 

The moment his head hit the pillow, the sheer proximity of them - George hovering over him, checking his pulse, Sapnap pressing a frantic hand to his forehead - made the roots deep in his lungs give one final, agonizing twist. 

Head just keeps on pounding with

Dream’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and out of focus. He looked up at their faces, seeing the absolute, unbridled terror written across both of them. Even now, with his body shutting down from a lack of oxygen, the instinct to protect his secret was a reflex he couldn't switch off. 

"I'm... 'm fine..." Dream mumbled, his voice nothing more than a faint, dry wheeze. He tried to force his lips into a reassuring smile, but it looked like a grimace. "Just... panic attack... I'm okay..." 

"Shut up, Dream, you're not okay," George choked out, a tear finally spilling over his eyelashes as he gripped Dream’s cold hand. "Stop lying to us. Please." 

The simple thought

"Just... need to sleep..." Dream whispered, his hand limply twitching in George's grasp. "Don't... don't worry..." 

It was the final lie his body would allow. 

The dark vignette at the edges of his vision rushed inward, swallowing the sunlit office and the terrified cries of his best friends. His eyes rolled back, his eyelids fluttering shut as his head sank heavily into the pillow. The hand clutching George's went completely slack. 

What if this isn't what I want?

Dream passed out into the dark, leaving Sapnap and George alone in the quiet office, staring at their unconscious best friend, completely blind to the garden blooming violently over his heart. 

The rhythmic, electronic beep... beep... beep... of a heart monitor was the first thing that drifted into Dream’s consciousness. 

When he finally managed to crack his eyes open, the harsh, sterile white of a hospital room replaced the familiar shadows of his office. A transparent oxygen mask was strapped over his face, delivering a steady, cool hiss of pure air that made his lungs feel lighter than they had in months. 

Sitting in a chair beside his bed, reviewing a tablet, was Dr. Avery. 

Went to the doctor and she said I was fine

She looked up the moment she heard him shift, her expression grave but calm. "Welcome back, Clay," she said softly, stepping closer to adjust the IV line in his arm. "Your friends brought you into the ER. You were severely hypoxic when you arrived." 

Dream’s hand moved instinctively to his throat. "Are they...?" 

"They’re out in the waiting room," Dr. Avery anticipated, crossing her arms. "And they are incredibly frantic. They’ve been demanding answers, but because of medical privacy laws and the fact that you never listed them as authorized to receive your medical data, the staff hasn't been able to tell them anything. As far as they know, you just collapsed from exhaustion." 

Dream let out a ragged exhale, the plastic of the mask fogging up. 

"However," Dr. Avery continued, her tone dropping into a serious, clinical register, "we ran a localized chest scan when you were admitted. The trauma of today's episode accelerated things. The root structures have experienced a rapid, stress-induced calcification. They are stable enough now, Dream. If you want the surgery... I can schedule the operating room for tomorrow morning." 

The words hung heavily in the sterile air. Tomorrow morning. He could be cured. He could finally breathe on his own again. 

"I... I need time," Dream whispered, his voice cracking against the plastic mask. "Please. Just give me a little bit of time to think." 

Dr. Avery nodded understandingly, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping out to afford him some privacy. 

The moment the door clicked shut, Dream pulled the oxygen mask down around his neck. His hands shook so violently he could barely unlock the smartphone the nurses had placed on his bedside table. He bypassed Discord entirely, dialing a direct cellular call. He couldn't type this out. He couldn't hide behind a screen anymore. 

Skeppy picked up on the third ring. "Dream? Oh my god, dude, Sapnap texted me, he said you were in the hospital-" 

"Zak," Dream choked out, a raw, broken sob ripping from his throat. And then, the dam broke completely. 

Sitting alone in the hospital bed, Dream unloaded everything. He told him about the first petals months ago, the hidden shoeboxes beneath his bed, the choking incident in the kitchen, the blood in his office bathroom, and the horrific reality of the Hanahaki disease. He confessed the source of the growth - that he was entirely, hopelessly in love with both Sapnap and George, and that his own body was executing him for it. He told him about the surgery, and the terrible, hollow price of losing his ability to love them forever. 

On the other end of the line, Skeppy was completely silent for a long, stunned moment, processing the sheer, impossible weight of what his friend had been carrying alone. 

"Dream..." Skeppy’s voice was entirely stripped of its usual loud, energetic banter, sounding incredibly small. "Man... I'm so sorry. I had no idea it was this bad." He took a deep breath, trying to stay grounded for Dream’s sake. "Listen to me. If you take that surgery, you're changing your life forever. You're giving up on a part of yourself. Before you let them cut those flowers out... you have to try confessing. You have to tell George and Sapnap how you feel. Give them a chance." 

"No," Dream whispered, his eyes widening in a sudden spike of terror. "No, I can't do that. You don't understand." 

"I do understand!" Skeppy pushed back, his tone growing desperate. "If there's even a one percent chance they feel the same way, the flowers will die on their own! You won't have to lose your feelings! You have to talk to them, Dream, please-" 

"I can't!" Dream yelled, a sharp, needling panic piercing his chest. "I can't risk losing them completely! I hate that answer, Skeppy! I'm not doing it!" 

Before Skeppy could argue further, Dream slammed his thumb down on the red button, terminating the call. 

He threw the phone across the bed, his chest heaving as a full-blown panic attack seized his airway. The walls of the hospital room felt like they were actively closing in on him, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor spiking into a frantic, chaotic rhythm. The decision was a crushing boulder resting directly on his shoulders. 

He didn't want to lose his love. He didn't want to look at George and Sapnap for the rest of his life and feel absolute, hollow nothingness. He wanted to confess - the desire burned in his soul - but the timing was atrocious. How could he dump a life-threatening romantic confession on his best friends right after collapsing into a hospital bed? It felt manipulative. It felt impossible. 

Not now, he decided wildly, pressing his palms against his burning forehead. Just not right now. 

An hour later, against Dr. Avery’s strong medical recommendations, Dream signed his own discharge papers. He refused the surgery for now, forced his oxygen levels up, and walked out into the waiting room. 

The moment he emerged, Sapnap and George scrambled to their feet, their eyes bloodshot and anxious. 

"Dream!" Sapnap breathed, rushing forward to support him, though Dream instinctively took a small step back. 

"I'm okay," Dream lied, his voice thin and thoroughly exhausted. He looked at both of them, forcing his expression into a dull, defensive wall. "The doctors figured it out. It's... it's a really severe, highly contagious respiratory virus. That’s why I’ve been acting so weird and keeping my distance these past few weeks. I knew I was getting sick and I didn't want to pass it to either of you." 

Sapnap and George exchanged a long, heavy look. The lie was flimsy. It didn't explain the explosive anger, the locked doors, or the sheer terror in the bathroom - and looking at Dream’s haunted, pale face, they clearly barely believed a word of it. 

But looking at how fragile he was, they didn't have the heart to push him down the hallway of the hospital. 

"Right," George said softly, his voice thick with a profound, quiet hurt. He pulled his hands into his pockets, stepping back to give Dream the distance he was so clearly begging for. "A virus. Okay." 

The drive back to the house was entirely silent. The warmth that used to define their trio was completely dead, replaced by a suffocating frost. 

The moment the front door unlocked, Dream didn't look at the living room, and he didn't look toward the kitchen. He walked straight past the stairs, stepped into his bedroom, and shut the door firmly behind him. He locked it, turning the room into a pitch-black sanctuary of isolation, and crawled back onto his mattress entirely alone - surrounded by the dark, the dead silence, and the boxes of rotting flowers he still couldn't bring himself to destroy. 

-

The house was quiet, save for the soft, ambient murmur of the TV in the living room. 

Dream stood just inside his bedroom door, his phone clutched in his hand, watching a tiny digital map icon crawl toward their address. He was desperate. The suppressants were a death trap, confession was impossible, and the crushing weight of his reality was starting to fracture him. He just needed something to dull the sharp edges of his mind. He needed a different kind of numbness. 

When the notification finally flashed across his screen - Your DoorDash order has been delivered - Dream waited a beat, holding his breath, listening for any movement. 

Opening his bedroom door, he stepped out into the hallway. 

To get to the front door, he had to pass the living room. The TV light flickered, casting a soft, blue glow across the couch and love seat. There, curled up together beneath a heavy blanket, were Sapnap and George. They were tangled together effortlessly, completely at peace, seeking comfort in each other after weeks of Dream's cold distance. 

Usually, a sight like that would draw Dream in like a magnet. In a past life, he wouldn’t have even hesitated - he would have walked over with a laugh, thrown himself over both of them, and squeezed his way into the middle of their cuddle until they were all complaining and laughing. They would have welcomed him instantly. 

This time, Dream just froze at the edge of the room. 

The sight of them so close, so perfect without him, sent a sudden, razor-sharp pang straight through his chest. He could feel the roots beneath his ribs twitch, threatening to expand. He forcefully swallowed down the rising tickle, his eyes stinging as he looked away. 

Without saying a single word, completely ignoring the quiet warmth of the scene, Dream slipped past the couch to the front door. He unlocked it quietly, snatched the heavy brown paper bag containing two bottles of wine off the porch, and closed the door with a muted click. 

He didn't look back at the couch to see if they had noticed him. He carried the clinking bag past the stairs, through the dark kitchen, and straight down the hallway to the back of the house where the offices were. 

He slipped into his office, shut the heavy door, and turned the lock. 

Tried meditation with a bottle of wine

Safe inside his isolated sanctuary, Dream pulled the first bottle of wine from the bag. He didn't bother with a glass. He sat down on the edge of the small day-bed in the corner, cracked the seal, and took a long, heavy swallow straight from the bottle, welcoming the burn in his throat. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring into the quiet dark, entirely alone. 

-

The empty bottle of wine had rolled onto the carpet, but Dream didn't care. He lay flat on his back on the narrow day-bed, staring blindly at the dark ceiling of his office as the world slowly tilted and spun around him. 

The alcohol had brought the numbness he craved, but it had also stolen his control. He felt entirely paralyzed, his limbs heavy and useless against the mattress. Every time he tried to blink the room into focus, his head reeled, a sickening wave of nausea washing over him. 

Part of it was the wine. Most of it was the guilt. 

I should talk to a friend

His phone was somewhere near his hip, a dead weight. A fractured thought drifted through his mind - he should apologize to Skeppy. He should call him back, or type out a messy, slurred text saying sorry for screaming, sorry for hanging up, thank you for caring. But he couldn't bring himself to move. The sheer effort of lifting his hand felt like trying to lift a boulder. 

But I can't get out of bed

Desperate to escape the suffocating anxiety, Dream tried to force his mind onto something else - anything else. A code he was working on, a video idea, a random memory from childhood. But his brain was stubborn, lubricated by the alcohol and heavy with sorrow, and it dragged him right back to the one thing he was dying to escape. 

His love for them. 

My head is spinning and my stomach is sick

The wine tore down his defenses, and suddenly, the memories rushed in like a flood, bittersweet and agonizing. He remembered the nights they used to spend tangled together on the couch, or the times the three of them would end up piling into Dream’s bedroom downstairs because nobody wanted to walk back to their own space. He remembered how effortlessly they used to fit together. 

He thought about their work - about how, even if only two of them were scheduled to record a video, the third would always just sit in the Discord call anyway. They would stay on mute for hours, entirely content just to listen to the others talk, laughing along in silence just to be a part of the moment. There was a time when Dream could literally feel the love radiating off Sapnap and George. It was a physical warmth, a steady anchor that made him feel entirely safe. 

Say I'm in love, so it's hard to admit

And now? Now everything was broken. The house was a frozen, silent wasteland. 

‘I did that,’ Dream thought, a fresh tear slipping into his hairline as his chest throbbed. ‘I made things tense.’ He was the one who had shouted. He was the one who had lied, locked the doors, and pushed them into the cold. And the most terrifying thought of all settled deep into his spinning mind: what if the disease hadn't just gotten worse on its own? What if his own deceit, his own desperate walls, had fed the roots? What if by trying to protect his love, he had actually made the poison stronger? 

I can't eat, I can't sleep

He lay alone in the dark, suffocating under the weight of his own creation, while the two people who used to be his safe harbor slept just a few rooms away, entirely out of reach. 

I think you're what's wrong with me

Streaming was the only escape left. When he was live, he wasn't Dream the dying friend; he was Dream the speedrunner. For the past four nights, he had pushed himself to the absolute limit, aiming for that twelve-hour mark where YouTube would automatically cut off the broadcast. It was a brutal, exhausting cycle, but it was the only thing loud enough to drown out the noise in his head. 

Now, it was the fifth night. The stream had started at 5:00 AM. 

Dream sat in his office chair, his eyes bloodshot and heavily sunken. He hadn't eaten a single bite of food in forty-eight hours. The adrenaline that usually carried him through a record-breaking run was entirely spent, leaving him running on empty. 

I'm not feeling like myself

On screen, his movement was sluggish. His routing was sloppy. The sharp, high-energy persona he usually put on for the audience was completely fractured. He couldn't force the laughter anymore. He couldn't fake the hype. 

The chat was flying by in a blur of escalating panic: 

Is Dream okay? 

Dude sounds completely exhausted. 

Wait, he's literally shaking. 

Dream, please go sleep, this is the 5th night in a row. 

Upstairs, in George’s bedroom, the atmosphere was just as tense. 

Sapnap and George were sitting on the edge of the mattress, the stream pulled up on a laptop between them. The room was dark, the blue light from the screen illuminating the tight, worried lines on their faces. They had been awake since 5:00 AM, waiting for the notification. They had watched every single stream this week. To them, this wasn't a grind - it was a desperate, public cry for help. They were watching their best friend slowly destroy himself in real-time, and the worst part was, they had no idea why. 

All amber lights and warning bells

Downstairs, two hours into the broadcast, the ticking clock finally ran out. 

A sudden, violent spasm erupted from the very depths of Dream's chest. It was massive, a tearing sensation so fierce it made him completely drop his mouse. He lunged forward, his hand scrambling wildly for the physical mute button on his desk - but his coordination was entirely gone. His fingers slipped. 

He didn’t hit the button. 

I'm not feeling like myself

A horrific, wet, hacking cough echoed directly into the microphone, blaring through the headsets of thousands of viewers - and straight into George’s bedroom upstairs. Dream doubled over, a choked sob ripping from his throat as his lungs violently convulsed. 

But it wasn't just petals this time. 

With a sickening, suffocating heave, two heavy, intact shapes forced their way past his lips. Dream gasped, his eyes wide with horror as they fell onto his desk. 

Not petals. Full, unbroken flowers. A perfectly bloomed, vibrant orange marigold and a dense, heavy blue hydrangea, both completely dripping and matted with thick, dark crimson blood. 

The sight sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror through his veins. He looked up at his second monitor. The chat was moving so fast it was a strobing wall of text. WHAT WAS THAT SOUND? DREAM?! 

Realizing the red light on his microphone wasn't on, Dream frantically slammed his palm down on the mute button, cutting the audio. Shaking violently, he scooped the two bloodied, solid flowers into his trembling hands, his mind screaming in a panic. 

He needed his boxes. He needed to hide them before anyone saw. He quickly ended the stream and stood up, kicking his chair backwards. 

Dream burst out of his office door, his legs weak and heavy from starvation as he sprinted down the dark hallway. He tore past the kitchen and lunged into his bedroom, slamming the door open-

He froze. 

And I'm not hiding it well

The overhead light in his bedroom was turned on, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow over the space. Standing right in the center of the room, looking down at the floor, were Sapnap and George. 

Between them on the carpet sat the three cardboard shoeboxes. The lids had been removed. Inside, the thousands of rotting, blood-soaked marigolds and hydrangeas were fully exposed, filling the room with the heavy, inescapable scent of copper and decay. 

George looked up first. His eyes were red, tracks of tears shiny on his cheeks. Sapnap stood beside him, his jaw set, but his shoulders were shaking, a look of profound, devastating realization breaking across his face. 

Dream stood paralyzed in the doorway, his chest heaving as he stared at them, his own hands still tightly cupping the two freshly coughed-up, bleeding flowers against his chest. The secret was out. The wall had crumbled. There was absolutely nowhere left to hide. 

The silence in the room was absolute, heavy with the weight of months of hidden agony. Dream stood entirely exposed, his knuckles white as he subconsciously tried to shield the two bloody flowers in his hands from their sight. His mind braced for the impact - for the confusion, the anger, the demands for an explanation. 

Instead, neither of them yelled. 

Went to the doctor and she said I was fine 

Sapnap took a slow, deliberate step forward. The fierce, defensive tension that usually held his shoulders rigid was completely gone, replaced by a devastating softness. "Dream," he breathed, his voice cracking with an unbearable tenderness. He didn't look at the shoeboxes on the floor; he kept his eyes locked onto Dream's pale, trembling face. "Oh, Dream... why didn't you tell us?" 

"I- I'm sorry," Dream whispered, his voice fracturing as a fresh wave of tears blurred his vision. He took an instinctive step back, his spine hitting the doorframe. "I'm sorry, I didn't want... you shouldn't see this." 

But every movie that I see makes me cry 

"Hey, hey, stop," George said softly. He didn't stay back this time. He crossed the room with quiet urgency, entirely bypassing the gruesome evidence on the carpet. He reached out, his movements incredibly gentle, and carefully placed his hands over Dream’s tightly closed fists. "Drop them, Dream. Let go." 

"No, George, don't touch it, it's-" 

"I don't care," George cut him off, his voice thick with tears but completely unyielding in its warmth. Gently, pryingly, he uncurled Dream’s stiff fingers. The fully bloomed marigold and hydrangea tumbled out, hitting the carpet with a soft, heavy thud. George didn't flinch at the blood staining Dream's palms. Instead, he just took both of Dream's hands in his own, holding them tightly. "We don't care about the flowers. We care about you." 

Sapnap closed the distance from the other side, wrapping his arms around Dream's trembling shoulders in a firm, grounding embrace. He pulled Dream in close, burying his face into the side of Dream's neck, anchoring him. "You're starving yourself, you're choking to death in the dark... and you thought we'd be mad at you? We love you, man. We love you so much. You're our whole world." 

It's like somebody put a weight on my chest

The sheer, unfiltered warmth of their touch - devoid of any judgment, overflowing with unconditional love and desperation to protect him - slammed into Dream's chest. For the first time in three weeks, the roots didn't constrict. The sharp, terrifying thorns didn't dig into his airways. 

Instead, a strange, dizzying warmth bloomed behind his ribs, loosening the iron grip around his lungs. 

I should talk to a friend

Dream collapsed into them, his forehead sinking onto George's shoulder as a devastating, full-body sob tore out of him. He let himself be held, surrounded by the two people he had nearly died to protect, finally feeling the icy wall he had built melt away in the heat of their care. 

But I can't get out of bed

The frantic, high-stakes panic of the stream and the sprint down the hallway slowly dissolved, leaving the bedroom quiet, save for the sound of Dream’s ragged, exhausting sobs. They didn't let him go. Sapnap kept his arms securely around his shoulders, while George guided him gently toward the edge of the bed, ensuring he sat down before his trembling knees could give out completely. 

George left for a brief moment, returning with a damp, warm washcloth. He sat beside Dream, completely ignoring the horrific sight of the shoeboxes, and carefully wiped the drying crimson from Dream's palms and fingers. 

"Drink this," Sapnap murmured, pressing a glass of cool water into Dream's hand. 

Dream took a small, hesitant sip. The water cooled his raw, battered throat, but the real miracle was his chest. It felt lighter than it had in weeks. The suffocating weight of the flowers hadn't vanished completely, but the iron-tight grip of the roots had relaxed, entirely appeased by the gentle, unconditional care radiating from the two boys sitting on either side of him. 

But as the immediate physical danger faded, a new, heavy tension filled the silence of the room. 

George set the washcloth down, his eyes scanning the three overflowing boxes on the floor before finally coming back to rest on Dream. His expression was a devastating mix of profound relief and deep, aching confusion. 

They knew what Hanahaki was. Everyone did. It was a disease born of a very specific, tragic reality: one-sided, unrequited love. They knew someone was breaking Dream's heart from afar, entirely oblivious to the fact that they were suffocating him. 

My head is spinning and my stomach is sick

"Dream," George began, his voice incredibly soft, almost afraid to break the fragile peace in the room. He reached out, lightly touching Dream's knee. "We're not going to force you to talk if you're not ready. But... we need to understand. Someone is doing this to you. Someone is making you carry this all by yourself." 

Sapnap leaned forward, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective determination. "Who is she, Dream? Or who is he? Just tell us a name. Who is the person that's letting you rot in this house without realizing how much you love them?" 

Say I'm in love, so it's hard to admit

The question hung in the air, a massive, terrifying crossroad. 

Dream looked at them, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. They were asking out of pure, unadulterated love. They wanted to fix it. They wanted to protect him. And they had absolutely no idea that the "someone" they were so furious at, the "someone" they wanted to confront, was currently sitting right next to him. 

The physical wall was gone, but the emotional truth was staring him right in the face. He could lie again - make up a fake name, create a fictional crush to throw them off the scent - but he knew exactly what his lies did to his lungs. Lying would bring the blood and the suffocation back tenfold. 

I can't eat, I can't sleep

His choice was entirely laid bare: keep hiding behind the wall and let the flowers destroy him, or take the terrifying, impossible leap and tell them the truth. 

Dream’s grip tightened on the glass of water until his knuckles turned stark white. He looked from George’s wide, anxious brown eyes to Sapnap’s tense, waiting expression. The air in his lungs felt clear for the first time in weeks, but his throat felt entirely tight with a brand new, terrifying kind of suffocation. 

He couldn't lie. Not anymore. The three open shoeboxes on the carpet were proof that his lies were a death sentence. 

I think you're what's wrong with me

"Dream?" Sapnap prompted gently, leaning closer, his voice an encouraging murmur. "Just tell us. You don't have to protect them, whoever they are." 

"It's not a 'whoever,'" Dream whispered. His voice was raw, trembling so hard the water in his glass rippled. He set the cup down on the nightstand before he could spill it, his hands shaking uncontrollably. "There isn't... there isn't some secret person outside this house." 

George frowned slightly, his brow furrowing as he tried to parse the words. "What do you mean? Dream, the flowers... Hanahaki only happens when you're completely in love with someone who doesn't-" 

"I know what it means, George," Dream cut him off, a sharp, ragged sob escaping his chest. He finally looked up, letting his tear-filled eyes lock squarely onto both of them, exposing every single ounce of the desperate, agonizing secret he had been dying to keep. "It's you." 

I think you're what's wrong with me

The room went entirely, shockingly still. The ambient murmur of the TV down the hall felt miles away. 

"It's both of you," Dream choked out, the truth finally tearing its way past his lips. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, the tears pouring down his face, hot and unyielding. "It's not some random crush. I am completely, hopelessly in love with both of you. And the more I tried to hide it, the more I tried to push you away so I wouldn't ruin our trio, the worse it got. The marigolds... the hydrangeas... they're for you. They've always been for you." 

He slumped forward, his shoulders shaking as he hid his face in his hands, completely braced for the worst. He waited for the confusion to turn into awkwardness. He waited for them to pull away, to realize that their best friend had ruined everything. He waited for the roots in his chest to tighten and punish him for the rejection he was certain was coming. 

But the rejection never came. 

I think you're what's wrong with me

Instead, the silence was broken by a sharp, hitched breath from George, followed immediately by the shift of the mattress as both Sapnap and George moved at the exact same time. 

Before Dream could pull his hands away from his face, he was completely overwhelmed. 

George didn't slide away. He lunged forward, his arms wrapping tightly around Dream's neck, burying his face into Dream's shoulder with a force that nearly knocked them both backward. "You idiot," George choked out, his voice thick and fiercely emotional, a wet tear soaking straight through Dream's shirt. "You absolute idiot. How could you think we wouldn't love you back?" 

On his other side, Sapnap’s hand clamped onto Dream's forearm, grounding him before his own arms came around Dream's waist, pulling him into a crushing, suffocatingly warm embrace. "We've been waiting for you," Sapnap whispered fiercely, his voice shaking with a mix of leftover terror and profound relief. "Dream, we’ve both been in love with you for months. We were just too scared to say anything because we didn't want to ruin what the three of us had." 

Dream sat frozen in the center of their shared warmth, his brain struggling to process the words. They loved him back. Both of them. 

As the reality of their words settled into his mind, an incredible, physical shift occurred deep within his chest. The heavy, clawing mass behind his ribs didn't just loosen - it completely, entirely dissolved. The sharp thorns melted away into nothing. The thick, suffocating roots turned to ash in his lungs, leaving behind a profound, sweeping emptiness that was instantly filled with a rush of clean, cool, completely unrestricted oxygen. 

He didn't cough. He didn't wheeze. The disease was gone, eradicated by the one thing that could kill it: mutual, unconditional love. 

Dream let out a long, shuddering breath, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips as he finally wrapped his arms around both of them, pulling them as close as physically possible. They held onto each other for a long time, the quiet of the bedroom now filled with soft, relieved whispers and the occasional watery laugh as the sheer exhaustion of the last few weeks finally caught up to all of them. 

"We're not leaving you alone tonight," Sapnap said definitively, pulling back just enough to look Dream in the eyes. He wiped a stray tear from his own cheek, a small, familiar smirk finally returning to his face. "In fact, I'm pretty sure neither of us is ever letting you out of our sight again." 

"Good," Dream whispered, his voice clear, deep, and beautifully healthy. "Don't." 

George stood up briefly, walking over to the three cardboard shoeboxes on the carpet. With a gentle kick, he slid them far under the bed, hiding the remnants of the nightmare where they could rot away into nothing. "Tomorrow, we throw those out," George said, walking back to the bed and kicking off his shoes. "Tonight, we sleep." 

The three of them laid on the bed just like they used to in the old days, but everything felt entirely different now. The tension that had haunted the hallways for weeks was completely erased. 

I think you're what's wrong with me

Sapnap claimed the space right against the wall, stretching out and pulling Dream back against his chest. George curled up on Dream's other side, resting his head directly over Dream’s heart, his hand draping comfortably over Dream's stomach. 

Dream lay in the center of the mattress, his eyes finally fluttering shut in the quiet dark. He listened to the steady, rhythmic breathing of his favorite people on either side of him. Beneath George's cheek, Dream's heart beat steady and strong - completely free of flowers, entirely full of love, and finally, beautifully at home. 

The harsh morning sun filtered through the blinds of the living room windows, but inside, the world was completely still. 

The TV was on, casting a soft, flickering glow over the couch and playing some mindless show that none of them were actually paying attention to. Beneath a heavy, shared blanket, the three of them were curled up together, their limbs completely tangled to oblivion. Sapnap was stretched out along the back cushions, one heavy arm slung securely over Dream’s shoulders, while George was tucked tightly into Dream’s side, his fingers loosely hooked into the hem of Dream’s hoodie. 

It was a chaotic, messy pile of blankets and bodies, but to Dream, it was absolute perfection. 

Every now and then, Dream would take a deep, slow breath, just because he could. His lungs expanded fully, pulling in the clean, familiar scent of the house and the boys beside him, entirely free of the burning, suffocating tickle that had defined his life for months. The nightmare was buried under the bed downstairs, waiting to be thrown in the trash, but out here in the light, the reality of their mutual love was a physical warmth that anchored him to the cushions. 

He looked down at George, whose eyes were half-closed, completely relaxed, and then glanced up at Sapnap, who was mindlessly tracing small, soothing circles on Dream's shoulder.

Dream closed his eyes, a quiet, completely peaceful smile resting on his lips as he leaned deeper into the embrace. He couldn't imagine being anywhere else. He couldn't imagine a life without this love, without the effortless way the three of them fit together when all the walls were finally torn down. 

And as he felt George squeeze his hand beneath the blanket and Sapnap pull him just a fraction closer, Dream realized with a sweeping, overwhelming sense of relief that he never, ever had to. He was safe, he was loved, and he was finally home. 

I think you're what's wrong with me