𝗵𝗶𝗯𝗶𝘀𝗰𝘂𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ° ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐⁿᵒᵇˡᵃᵈᵉ

𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚠𝚘 | 九, 二

Why are you so reluctant on telling him? Was definitely not what Dream would've expected zoning back to.

He had told the older over the now hundreds of exchanged messages that he'll be busy for the next hours or so planning the sketch for the hibiscus illustrations, to which Techno brushed off, continuing to ramble away at his notifications. It was a fresh sight but not unwelcomed. Dream enjoyed talking with him, anyways.

The messages were still awkward around the edges, with the usual spark of piqued conversations over their love for arts before it dies back down to nothing but small talk to which Techno unbashedly describes as "a talk with the underexperienced school counselor." Dream would've agreed if not for the sole reason that Techno's advices were actually helpful, unlike his actual school counselor back in middle school where he was given a time table to better his time management skills at classes-- a time table, for god's sake! How is that gonna help at all?

Red lead screeches to a halt on the computer paper in front of him, adding an abrupt line across his sketch before breaking into small fragments. The question caught him off guard that he couldn't even bother being annoyed that his drawing was ruined and that he had to start everything over later.

what? He types, confused.

You know. Techno replies back, not even seconds later.

i really don't. He frowns, glancing at his paper. plus you ruined my drawing.

Ah, yes. A stranger from hundred miles away had somehow ruined your masterpiece, my apologies.

techno >:^/

Okay, sorry. The message reads. I just meant that it seems like there's nothing dangerous about telling this boy about how you feel.

You talk about him fondly and in our daily conversations, he seems like he's showing, while not romantic, reciprocated interest at least. Even if it turns out that he doesn't like you in that way I'm sure that he would remain open-minded nonetheless.

Dream brings the end of the broken red pencil up to his lip, tapping an unknown rhythm, deep in thought.

What would he lose if he tells George anyway? It's not like they have a strong friendship in the first place, they're merely acquaintances who happens to be lab partners in a stupid collaborative project as well as having a few mutual friends here and there.

It's not like Dream has anything to lose if he tells George how he feels.

What would he even tell him? That Dream finds him pretty and that he wants to take those nimble, intricate fingers on his own? That he wants to bring each knuckle to his lips?
But the thing is, Dream is an artist and artists are meant to be connoisseurs of something beautiful and it just happens to be that George was as pretty as the flowers he twirls around between his fingers.

He's an artist, he's supposed to see the beauty in everything.

Isn't that what it always have been?

maybe i just like looking at him. Dream settles for a response.

Yeah, right, Techno shots back. Don't you think there's a correlation why you're in this website asking a queer kid for advice because a pretty boy won't stop plaguing your thoughts?

i don't know.

I think you do know. I think you're just scared to put a name for yourself.

Dream purses his lips, fingers hovering over the keypads of his phone. He types out the smallest hints of confession, acceptance hanging over the words.

i don't want to put a name for myself because i need to understand my identity for someone else's existence.

He types out the next set of messages, fingers slightly shaking. and why would it matter if i just happened to like someone different this time?

Dream watched the bubble linger on the left side of his screen, the older typing something much longer than his usual quips of one-liners.

You're right. It doesn't matter. The response came moments after, careful and gentle.

But telling him how you feel is not for his own comfort, it's for you. It doesn't matter if he does or does not like you back. He made you understand something that you'd been holding on for so long and that's what matters.

Then another bubble comes up, something that twists the knobs on his chest with warmth.

But you finally realized it, haven't you?

He closed his phone but he sees it. Something that he doesn't hear quite often in this god-forsaken town for someone like him.

I'm proud of you.