Philophobia And Mizpah

Chapter 4

CW: Blood, violence

The wind howled in his ears, cutting his face. The scenery blurred as he focused in front of him. The forest became darker the deeper he entered it. He panted, desperately trying to get some air in his lungs. The mask was blocking his airways, but he didn't bother taking it off. He had to take care of something first. He had to get rid of this flaw in his plans. Tommy was an intentional flaw, a flaw everyone could see. A flaw that didn't hurt him as much. Except for this one.

His heart was beating out of his chest, ready to break free from its cage anytime. His legs cried, but his adrenaline refused to stop. He jumped over the obstacles in his way, old muscles memories working flawlessly. He took another route, this one leading to the back of the tiny house. He didn't want to meet anyone. His clothes were cold and wet, and the wind whipped them on his skin, awakening old wounds. His adrenaline gave him focus vision on his target, ignoring the branches that cut his cheeks, ignoring the uncomfortable clothes, ignoring his lack of breath.

The house had old white walls, almost blending with the ground. He couldn't help but smirk. What a baby. Couldn't even take care of the house. The tug dug its way out of the protective barrier he had formed with his adrenaline. He wanted to punch his chest, to shove it deeper, where it would never see the light of day again. He couldn't focus on that, unfortunately. He slowed down as the walls and the mushrooms became clearer.

He didn't think this far, hoping the rage would guide him. He was at the door. He wanted to kill this liability. He wanted it to disappear so that it never bothered him again. His rage and ambition roared in his ears. He knocked on the door. The door opened, to his surprise. His friend was glaring at him. Dream didn't bother to understand it. He could read George like a book, but now, he wasn't focused on that. He wasn't seeing George. In front of him stood an obstacle and he was ready for anything to tear it down.

"What do you want?" George asked him.

"It's all your fault," Dream said, almost cutting him off.

Better start accusing then realizing what the tug meant. Bite where it hurts most. He knew how to do that.

"What?" asked George, bewildered.

"It's your fault if L'Manburg started a war," Dream continued, the rage flaring up in his nostrils, "it's your fault that you couldn't be neutral like I asked you to do, it's your fault that me and Sapnap left you."

George growled. "What do you mean this is my fault?! It's your fault to continue this war with Manburg." George slammed the door behind him and pressed a finger on Dream's chest, pushing him after each counterpoint. "It's not my fault that I'm not perfect for you and it's definitely not my fault if we all went our separate ways."

Dream couldn't let George win this. He won at everything. He needed to know which buttons to push. He towered over George.

"Well, it's your fault for always fucking falling asleep when we needed you." Dream stomped his foot, trying to assert his dominance. George didn't budge. Dream tossed the accusing finger out of their way. "Maybe if you've been more present, none of this would be happening."

"And what is this exactly?" George frowned. The tug wanted to admire these wrinkles, wanted to admire the messy hair, wanted to admire the collarbone that peeked from the shirt. Wanted to kiss it, to make this stop. The rage and ambition blocked those thoughts for more arguments, to block the hurt, to keep the adrenaline pumping, to make him win. "Tell me, Dream."

"My server wouldn't be controlled by little fuckers who think they can rule the world," Dream replied immediately, feeling his rage rise, "if you'd helped me, I wouldn't be a fucking murderer."