dream smp oneshotsssss 😎

Oneshot No. 58 (810 Words)

context: bad, tommy and dream on a call

tw: throwing up

tw: swearing

CLAYS PERSPECTIVE:

"Would you guys be there for me if I was going through something?" I ask.

"'Course, mate." I can hear Tommy put his drink on his desk with a clank.

"Definitely," Bad says. "What's going on?"

"I'm so overwhelmed. I got big really fast, now theres people relying on me to pump out all these amazing videos and I have to keep a lot of people happy. 11 million in, what, a good few months? It hurts just thinking about it. I gotta keep up this reputation of being a super confident guy who fears nothing, and nobodies ever concerned about me. They always talk about Dream, but not Clay."

"I get you. It's hard, having such a big platform and having to keep this act up." Tommy continues, "maybe you need a break?"

"Can't take a break," I say.

"Why not?" Bad asks genuinely.

"Money reasons," I say blatantly. "Not to help I've been slacking with uploads lately."

"I thought you had some pre-recorded videos," Bad says.

"Yeah, every good youtuber has pre-recorded videos," Tommy chimes.

"That's the thing- I'm not a good youtuber. People just gave me clout, hype and subscribers," I rebuttal. 

"Hey, you're a great youtuber!" Tommy says. Tommy and Bad babble on about my content, but I zone out. I think about everything while they speak, and feel my heart begin to pound and sink. Wait, not my heart. My stomach. My stomach starts doing cartwheels and I feel bile rise in my throat. I take off my headset, throw it on my desk and make a run for the bathroom.

NARRATING:

"Clay? Clay!" Tommy yells.

"Where did he go?" Bad asks.

The two think for a bit.

"I think he's throwing up, he told me he hasn't eaten anything and he feels sick."

"Poor guy. A lot of pressure on him and he's only 21."

Buddy joined your channel.

"Clay here?" George joined the channel.

"Nah. He just dipped," Tommy says.

"He's throwing up," George said, worry shaking in his voice. "He never does, and he's vomiting like crazy."

"How do you know?"

"Told me. Tells me everything. He texted me telling me felt sick, like, two days ago."

"And?"

"I was like, take some medicine and just rest, and then he stopped answering for a good twenty minutes."

"Go on." 

"Twenty minutes after I texted him, he texts back and says he was vomiting the entire time."

"Throwing up for twenty minutes? That can't be healthy," Bad says, concerned.

"It's not. But he refuses to admit he's sick, or go to the doctors. I'm literally about to fly to Orlando and take him myself," George says. Bad thinks. He's probably not joking, the thought circles in his head.

"How longs it been?" George asks.

"Uh, like fifteen minutes," Bad replies, checking the time on his monitor.

"He's just purging at this point," Tommy scoffs.

"Tommy! That's so insensitive of you. He's sick. Really, really sick." George sounds so ridiculously worried. He's a good friend.

"Twenty minutes now..." Bad chimes in.

--  LATER --

CLAYS PERSPECTIVE:

I wipe my mouth with a cloth. The wave of nausea that had just hit me was so intense that I hardly made it to the toilet bowl before I emptied my stomach. Porcelain clashed with olive green, which had only made more vomit stream from my mouth. Vomiting was already a nasty thought but actually seeing it only made it worse. It had burst from my throat, practically choking me.

I looked in the mirror. I got skinnier every time I threw up my guts. My eyes had dark bags under them, and I was barely holding on. 

I walk, slowly and lousily, out of the bathroom. Into my room. I sit down at my monitor, put my headset on.

"My God, where is he? It's been forty minutes, holy shit," Tommy says. 

"I'm back," I say, my voice weak as my stomach. 

The discord call erupts in crackling mics. 'Are you okay?' or 'You need to go to the doctor!'

"I don't need to go to the doctor," I snort. 

"Yes you do, you're so insanely sick dude," Tommy roars.

"Please, for us," George pleads.

"No. I'm not sick, I'm not going to the doctors, I'm not doing what any of you ask of me. Quite frankly I don't give a fuck about your opinions on if I'm bloody sick or not, and I don't need to give a fuck. I don't. Get off my back about it, I'm not doing what you ask." Anger swirls inside of me. My blood boils.

"Language," Bad whispers quietly.

I grunt. Silence follows. 

"Are you okay?" Tommy asks. "Genuinely, are you okay?"

"Not really," I say. 

I continue, "I'm not okay, but it's okay."