𝗵𝗶𝗯𝗶𝘀𝗰𝘂𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ° ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐⁿᵒᵇˡᵃᵈᵉ

𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 | 四

CHAPTER TW
slight internalized biphobia
mentioned homophobia
jumbled thoughts

▪

The rain had stopped an hour ago.

The white noise of the twinkle of rain was instead replaced by the soft snoring of Drista residing in the bed beside him, the light of her left-open laptop providing a glow around the dim room.

The empty ceramic plates now took its place on the carpeted floor along with the half-full soda cans and littered wrappers of cheap, store-brand snacks that his beloved cat nabbed from the grocery sale about a few months ago with its expiration nearing its date.

It was quarter to four.

He looks over to his sister, making sure that she was indeed fast asleep before taking out the phone in his pocket. His fingers quickly punched in the password, a small part of his brain getting distracted by the lockscreen photo of a younger Drista carrying an equally young Patches on her arms.

Chasing the nostalgic feeling, Dream scrolls further down to his gallery, smiling as he sees various pictures of Wilbur and Tommy and Drista and Patches in which was lovingly compressed in a nameless folder to section away from all the other photos on his phone. (He thinks about naming the folder but Wilbur said he's too sappy.)

His gallery were various sorts of mess.
Most were junk from school when he didn't have enough motivation to jot down notes in class while some were pictures of Patches wearing different outfits that Phil's wife gifted to them.

It was a good distraction before he realized he had to scroll up to the most recent of photos, the feeling of uneasiness coming back to his stomach albeit just a tad bit managable than last time.

His fingers hover above the picture, as if one mistake would make him feel much worse than before.

The photo was nothing special, just a blurred composition of all sorts of blue taking up the screen and the lighting from the curtained window of the science laboratory looked like absolute shit, looking almost as if that it was taken from the seat of a speeding bullet train with Dream trying to capture the ever so moving sight in front of him. It looked like a rendition of a modern, senior highschool painting by Edvard Munch, a mess of colours that Dream couldn't be bothered looking for its underlying message.

But he's enamoured by the mess.
And as much as he doesn't want to admit it to himself, Dream noticed much more than he wanted to.

He noticed the littlest of sun bouncing off the top of George's hair, creating a small halo of rays on his head. He noticed the quirk of his lip while examining the steadily decaying petal of the hibiscus on his hand, fingers clasped gently contrast to the massacre of multiple plucked flowers in front of him.

The George on this photo was oblivious, much different to the quick-witted, sharp-tongued boy that Dream knows. He was ethereal; he concluded that in the moment, George looks like he belongs in a different era of art. The renaissance, maybe, because Dream feels like he's one of the creations of Munch's, instead. He felt a whirlwind of emotions as much of a mess as the vomit of colours.

This was much greater than what he felt when he carded his fingers through long, blonde hair. Her hair was blinding when it meets the sun and yet it still gave him warmth, nonetheless.

He knows what he felt before. He knows he loved her so why does he like him now?

Dream feels his hand shot up to his mouth as he supresses a gasp, completely taken aback from his own thoughts.

Fumbling, he deletes the mocking photo from his gallery. He shuts off his phone and opens the back lid, hastily prying off the battery from its place and shoves his phone under his pillows.

With an exhausted sigh, Dream sinks further onto the matress of his bed, wishing that the blankets could just swallow him whole. He opted to snuggling the blankets closer instead.

He was well aware of his hypocrisy.

It was hilarious how he was willing to fight his father for bad mouthing Wilbur's brother despite not knowing him well enough, or how he could recklessly throw himself onto a fist-fight for the sake of Ant and his boyfriend to the point of bruised ribs and three weeks of walking with a limp, or how he was almost suspended from trying to defend the freakishly tall kid from his history class against his professor's remarks but he could not, for the life of him, fight for himself.

What would George think of you if he knew?

Stop, Dream argues to himself, dragging a hand down his face, closing his eyes shut. You sound just like your father.

He allows himself a moment of silence before a familiar thought plagues his mind; the tall kid from history class.

He envies Eret. The brunette just seems to have it all figured out, oozing courage whenever they show up in a bright pink dress or openly talk about her identity despite the words constantly thrown at him.

How does she do it?

Feeling the phone under his pillow, Dream hesitantly puts back the battery back in its proper place, powering the device back to life.

The cursor blinks at him.

To: Eret | From: You

[ 4:33 am ]

hi eret. can i ask you something?

They wouldn't mind, right?