Dont read this, this is just for stories i want read

Tender, Fierce and Tender

Dream’s favourite part was the emotion.

It cascaded out of his body like an uncontrollable waterfall. Emotion poured through his bloodstream like a wildfire, all the way down the tips of his fingers where they gripped the paintbrush so delicately.

The way his hand moved instinctively to the right spot, building a new picture, often one he had never seen before. In these fantastical worlds he sees reflections of his own mind, the way he thinks, but there is something else there too. He doesn't know what, perhaps he just imagines it, but when he paints he feels closest to his emotions and it gives him a peace he cannot find another way.

For Dream, It’s an outlet. A way to switch off and express what he is really feeling and a way to navigate the hate in his heart into something beautiful.

Sometimes it was anger, other times it was fear, or sadness. But more often than not, it was a way for him to depict the past. It was his own way of facing things he would normally shut away and leave in the dark depths of his mind. Every sting of suffering, tears of hurt lingered out onto the canvas, representing the pain and sweat that goes into his art. And his paintings were a story of healing. His healing.

He brought things to life.

Even if they had been dead for a long, long time.

But his favorite pieces of art were in the moment. If anything caught his eye, a notepad and pen would be in his hand within an instant. Time always seemed to stop around him, as if he was the only person in the world.

And competition day was his favorite. His ambition flooded out of him and onto the canvas, portraying anything and everything, and his competitiveness only exemplified his art.

Winning awards for his art boosted his ego. It was physical proof that the emotional turmoil that he seeped into the canvas was worth it, a piece of evidence of his talent. A way to show off what he was capable of. Even if he was faceless, and nobody, except his ex and his best friend, knew that he was the infamous Dream.

And this upcoming competition would be the be-all-and-end-all for Dream. The finale of his faceless career. He was ready to show the world who he really was and he would only do that by winning this competition.

But today was the showcase, a way for Dream to witness people admiring his work, and take a look at his competition before the big day.

Currently, he was standing by his new piece, a predominantly blue canvas, azures and cobalts stroked perfectly across the page. Whites drifting peacefully in the air, hung like puppets. A head in the clouds hid within the colors, a soft male face, tranquil and a small purple tear rolling down the sleeping mans face.

It was one of Dream’s favorite’s by far. But the backstory hurt him. The painting came from heartbreak and weeks of aching and crying, but he channeled it into the paintbrush, and created this award winning art piece. And the title?

“’404’” A gentle but condescending voice read from behind Dream, a smug smirk clear in his tone that Dream could picture perfectly, even if he wasn’t looking.

He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. He simply stood with his arms crossed, still looking up and admiring his work and ignoring the presence judging him from behind. His voice was a sting enough, but if Dream had to see his face…

Despite Dream’s silence, the voice spoke up again, this time less gentle and a bit of a bite with his words, “When are you going to get over it, Dream?” The british accent didn’t do anything to cover his annoyance, it only made Dream hurt. The voice brought a lot of memories to the surface that Dream could only wish would drown at the bottom of the deep blue sea of his mind.