Dreamnotfound oneshots

Whatever makes it okay

There was a weight in his lungs immeasurable and an aching behind his eyes unbearable. He felt heavy and cold and detached in the most horrifically all-encasing way.

Despite effort after effort, his body remained immovable. It anchored heavily to the mattress beneath him, duvet that partially covered it providing no help in thawing the ice within. The frigid temperature in his core felt as though it were seeping through the pores in his skin and diffusing about the room.

He hadn't the effort to go and turn the air conditioning off, nor the effort to pull the sheets up from where they were draped over his legs. The cold sweat that had formed a sheen over tan skin and drenched through thin clothing proved that the effort would be worthless and only cause further problem.

It felt pathetically degrading to be able to do little more than blink and breathe all because he'd let his own mind get the better of him; let that horrible dark shroud seep over his eyes and blind him from reality.

A thick, sickly guilt settled in his lungs like tar as he listened to George's echoing footsteps pass past his door, only weighing them heavier.

George had come to visit, had come to see him. George had taken the nine hour flight to come and be with him in person, to see the sights and to spend time with his best friend and yet Dream was selfishly holing himself away in silent solitude.

He hadn't the heart to tell George that he ought to just go home; that sometimes Dream was simply like this and he likely wouldn't be useful for the duration of George's stay. He hadn't the heart to tell George that he'd wasted his time.

A dark, dismal voice told him that George already knew.

George was so bright, blindingly so; so happy; so kind; so uplifting, even when he was spouting insults. He was warm in the way he called Dream stupid; soft in the way he'd excitedly display every moment that his kitten decided to accompany him; quiet in the way he mothered Dream when Dream had flown over to visit.

That only served to make Dream feel worse.

George had been such a good host when he'd flown over on a whim. He'd made the house feel like home, had never made Dream do any chores for himself, had even offered to bring his fan down from the loft when Dream had offhandedly mentioned missing the ambient sound.

He'd had a nervous energy to dispel, sure, but he'd still put so much silent care into assuring the Dream enjoyed his first time in rainy old England. And here Dream was, entirely ruining George's first time in Florida because he was too weak to get past the cruel commentary of his conscience.

He didn't deserve George at all, let alone to have his company. He had half the mind to buy him a connecting flight to Texas - he'd likely have more fun with Sapnap than he'd have with Dream in this state.

But that wasn't the root of it and Dream knew it. He wasn't just upset over being a bad host. He was upset over being a bad friend - a bad more-than-friend if he was willing to risk spiralling.

Two soft knocks on his door roused him from that train of thought, however. After failing to do little more than twitch his fingers in attempts to get up and open the door, he instead let out a low, rumbling hum. George peaked tentatively around the door.

"Hey, just wanted to ask whether you wanted any dinner." He asked with a lopsided smile and then, as though it would entice Dream, he added in a singsong tone "I made pizza."