Good At Pretending ,, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 [EDITING]

6 ᬄ͙͘˚

      He sat down on the white, messy sheets of the bed. Picking up the clearly oversized piece of fabric. It had weight to it, it fit a bit loose on Clay, meaning it was much larger on George. It filled out most of his shoulders, yet hung loosely from his body.

      He turned it over, squinting at the small design on the front corner. Maybe 2 inches in circumference, the outside of the face had a thin black edge, the inside white, the smiley on it in black as well. Upon running his fingers over it, he realized it was embroidered. It felt a bit bumpy as well, usually they didn't feel authentic like this.

      Had he made it? Wow, was there anything he didn't try to do himself? It's not like he needed validation from other people to feel important, it was hardly that.

      More-so just independence, instead of getting something that was plain, or that he didn't like as much, he had decided it would be better to make it.

      Warm feelings of admiration bubbled in his mind as he smiled down at the design.

      George had seen those eyes as well. The same weeping willows of green. But he wouldn't be honest if he didn't say they reminded him more of poison.

      Not sure if it was because they were scary, or addicting. However, it killed him a little inside every time he gazed into them.

      They weren't hazel either. There were no traces of brown besides the honey flecks that lingered in the headlights of the car behind them.

      That was the one thing he remembered. How clouded they were. Waiting.

      Not clouded physically, but he had watched them switch between dilated to pinpricks when the light arrived. A pretty mix between moldovite and peridot.

      How deep was he into this already? Instead of agony he felt butterflies. Tickling his gut like a backwards stomach ache. His face was warm and he hunched his shoulders down slightly, closer together like at the party.

      He wanted to bring his hands back up to his chest like when Clay had hugged him on the first night. Hands resting on top of the hoodie on his knees before he pulled up his legs, holding his arms around them.

      “ "You spilled your drink—it was cold outside." ”

      I can't stop thinking about it.
      Can't stop thinking about you.

      You're taking up too much of my thinking.

      He grimaced. He wasn't upset, it wasn't that. But when he had really remembered, when the memories flooded in, he knew Clay had realized. He ignored it. Didn't tell him; didn't want to clarify what had happened. Left George in the dark.

      It made him inclined to think this whole thing was stupid. That he should thoroughly forget that anything ever happened. As to not ruin their friendship. Everything was better this way, it was easier.

      He knew that. He knew that Clay understood what had actually happened yet he wasn't explaining it. Did it upset him that he hadn't been there. That Dream hadn't been there when he woke up? Not in a weird way, but instead, tossing him a water bottle and laughing about what shenanigans he had gotten up to while intoxicated and Oh no.

      George inhaled sharply. Standing up and tossing the hoodie off of him to look around for his phone. Thrown up by his pillow. He reached for it, turning the cold plastic case over in his hands. Pale fingers lingered over the icon for a moment. The red dot in the corner signifying he had an unchecked message. Cautiously, he opened the app, then—with sheer adrenaline. He clicked in his number.