It's Called: Freefall

|Do You Like Cigarettes, Dominoes, Rum|

Enjoy! Vote and comment while you read <3

Lmk if there are typos!! I didn't proofread this lmao

It didn't take long to arrive at the restaurant/bar Dream had planned for them to go to. George was curious to meet whoever Dream was meeting with.

It unsettled him a bit to know they worked together, but George held out hope that this guy would be normal.

Eventually, they sat down at a high-top table and ordered a basket of fries and nothing else.

"So who even is this guy? Like what's he do?" George asked as casually as possible.

Dream glanced over at him from where he'd been watching the door. "He, uh... He cleans stuff up. Scary good with disposing of... not bodies."

"Smooth one."

"Thank you," Dream said proudly and quickly. Then, clarifying, "He helps with clean-ups. And covering up our tracks. He's a forensics nerd, so he fucks up crime scenes sometimes."

George couldn't help but feel a little sick, because... woah. Dream's closest friends are arsonists and crime-scene tamper-ers (if that even made sense. George didn't know). He understood it was fucked up, but hearing about the process was a whole different thing.

Still, when George looked at Dream, he just saw his roommate. A guy who was definitely a little off but was overall really nice. "Do you just... off whoever you're paid to kill?" he asked in a hushed tone through his teeth.

"I— No! Just, like, bad people!" Dream lowered his voice. "Like really shitty people. Sometimes, you just need an abusive dad or neighborhood creep to disappear. I'm willing to do that for people."

"You make it sound like you're proud of this," George said nervously. He completely understood wanting to get rid of awful people, but the way Dream was talking about this was unnatural. It was like he was trying to convince himself it was okay.

Dream looked shocked. He stared for a moment, before looking almost angry. "Is that what you think? I don't just do this for fun, George. I'm stuck in this line of work, but if I'm going to be have to spend my life killing people, then I at least need the satisfaction of knowing they weren't great people either," he whispered sharply.

"Damn, sorry for being skeptical," George said bitingly.

Dream looked like he was going to say something back to the brunette, but before he got the chance, the chair between Dream and George squeaked. It was pulled back loudly and dragged against the floor before a man who was unreasonably tall sat between them. George was immediately attacked by the smell of cigarettes.

"Who's this?" the man asked Dream. George suddenly froze, not having realized he didn't know he'd be joining them.

Dream glared at him with a cold expression. "Wilbur," he greeted.

The man, Wilbur, shook his head. His outgrown brown hair shook with it, and George couldn't help but notice a long white strand in his hair. "I think you're mistaken. See, I'm Wilbur." He grinned. His teeth were yellowed. Wilbur turned his full attention to George and looked him up and down before his smile widened exponentially. "You are?"

"George," he responded. In all honesty, he was trying to sound as casual as possible while also being incredibly nervous. See, this guy is who George imagined to be doing the murdering.

"Perfect." He glanced at Dream with fake contempt. "See how easy that was?"

"God, I forgot how fucking annoying you are." Dream spoke in a way George had never heard him speak in before. He didn't speak sarcastically, or in a way that let George know he was being ingenuine. He insulted Wilbur like he meant it and the look on his face gave George the same idea.

Wilbur's smile didn't falter, though. Instead, he flipped Dream off in an overly cheery— almost creepily cheery— manner before excusing himself and going up to the bar with no further explanations.

Dream rolled his eyes and let out a quiet low sigh. George stifled a laugh before questioning, "I thought you two were friends?"

Dream looked suddenly confused. "We are." He studied George for a moment more before continuing. "I just hate him so much that it makes me want to hit him with a car."

"You don't have a car," George deadpanned.

Dream quirked a smile— finally— and glanced at Wilbur behind him. "I said a car. Not my car." Wilbur started back, balancing four shots between his fingers. "I don't care how I acquire the car. I am simply going to hit this greasy motherfucker with it." Dream rose his voice near the end of the sentence, purposefully allowing Wilbur to hear.

Wilbur placed all four shots down on the table with a clatter, sliding back into his seat. "You shouldn't talk that way to your best crime-scene clean up guy, Dream." Wilbur smiled as he slid one small glass to Dream. Dream cut his eyes toward George. Wilbur followed them, and his dark eyes— that uncannily seemed almost red in the lighting— went wide. His overdramatic court jester-like personality suddenly dropped and he looked very serious. It reminded George a little bit of a cartoon villain. "Does he...?" He looked nervously from George to Dream, who just nodded. "Thank Prime," he said with a sigh.

"Prime?" George asked out of pure curiosity.

"It's a cult thing. You wouldn't get it." Wilbur shrugged.

"You're in a cult?" George asked skeptically with minimal humor in his tone.

"I run a cult, thank you very much." Wilbur placed a hand over his heart and George could definitely see Wilbur's flair for theatrics. It was a little funny, but overall the man had a vibe that one could only refer to as "off". George couldn't tell if he was kidding or not.

George glanced down at the remaining three shots Wilbur kept. "I'm not drinking, by the way," he said. "Might ruin my brain forever, I think."

"Perfect." Wilbur, and he very quickly took each of the three shots right in a row.

"You're cut off," Dream said.

"You can't cut me off! I just started!"

"You just took three shots of vodka, you idiot. You're going to be drunk. Also I'm paying, so yes. You're cut off." Dream grabbed his wallet from his pocket, getting ready to pay Wilbur back for what he bought. He rummaged around in his wallet for a moment, clearly confused. "Where's my card..." he mumbled to himself.

"I opened a tab," Wilbur said proudly.

"You pick-pocketing little..." Dream paused and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You handle the aftermath of the crimes. You do not do the crimes." He said with resignation.

"Yes, I do." Wilbur responded. He crossed his arms and George noted a burnt hole on the sleeve of his long coat.

"I hate you," Dream announced with an unimpressed look on his face.

1140 words

Wilbur is more like Revivebur, if you couldn't tell. I swear the plot is really going to start picking up soon.