//Warning!!// Abuse, Hurt/Comfort
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It always reminded Clay of how he felt when the first time happened. Always compared it. Always heard the same lingering screech that was his mind and the same blinding look his father send him, the disapproval, anger and disappointment mixed together, telling him over and over how much he screw up, how much he should've done better.
When he was 10 he wanted to make his dad proud. When he was 13 he just wanted to be left alone.
It always was easier to find the similarities to the first punch rather than differences. The pain now felt much easier to handle but it still left his body in shock, as if it wasn't used to it, it still became limb if it was too bruised, still made him stagger, cry, curl into himself on instinct.
And while he no longer begged, his voice was still silently screaming for air.
But it always felt like the look he was receiving was the worst. His father disapproved. Clay wondered, is it because a part of him still wants to make him proud? But he would've never admitted it, realization too painful, as a slap to his face snapped him out of his thoughts, his father frowning and scolding him for not looking into his dark dark eyes that were no longer bright green when he was lecturing him. It hurt so much. All he did was drop a glass bowl.
"Dream?" George. "Dreeam, answer."
"...Hm?"
"So you could hear me! What's with you and pranking me?"
He chuckled. "NOW I can."
And his ribs hurt at that, flinching and leaning down in hope of softening the pain, but the chuckle was worth it when he could hear George's voice smile through the headphones. "Sure. Dumbass." Dream inhaled, breath catching, he was called that just yesterday, and exhaled because he knows. It's not the same. "You didn't show up to the collage yesterday by the way. Some professor walked up to me and was like 'Dream wasn't in today, pass the notes to him'." He mimicked a voice and Dream definitely had no idea who George was talking about. "I don't even live near you! Unlike Stinknap.. So I'll come over after taking a shower."
The fact that the professors come up to George even though they're not in the same class, Dream being two years younger, would make him glow in happiness because wow, they're known for being bestfriends (even if he wants more of different love) but it was quickly cut off with the idea of George seeing him.
Last time he looked in the mirror his cheek was red, his hair was ruffled, his eyes were red and swollen while tears kept on spilling onto the tear stained cheeks in the dark bathroom. Cleaning up the blood from his fingers, that was dripping down drip drop onto the cold white sink, leaving red splashing marks that would soon be washed off with the cold water that wet and stung but cleaned his digits and next time he looked up, looking at Dream Clay, his green eyes were void of emotions until he sighed and brushed it off.
Two pieces of glass got stuck in his hand and it was so painful to pull out.
Ten steps up the stairs could be heard as Clay winced but thankfully didn't hear the hoarse voice speak to him.
"And you're not answering again. Dream come on-"
Fuck He is out of it today. If only his father left for good but even then he's thankful he at least gets a break when he leaves for overseas. "Sorry, sorry, was checking my schedule. It's so big you know?" George huffed in playful (was it?) exasperation and Dream looked towards the hallway leading to the bathroom. "Come on now, I have a lot of things to do George." He tells it as a joke but it's the truth. He didn't bother bandaging himself but if he's seeing his best friend he needs to do it. "I'll come over instead."
"No." No? "I haven't been to your house. Ever. I'll come over."
And he disconnected just like that. Leaving Dream with a new task to do and annoyance because his friend never listens when Dream's so scared of him finding out.
George stood in front of his bestfriend's ? house, hair still lightly wet because he couldn't bother to dry it when being so weirdly excited. All he could do was cheer that he still had Dream's address he received long ago saved, otherwise the blond would never give it to him now.
Maybe it was a bit forceful. But well, he can't help himself.
He knocked on the door.
First he heard awkward shuffling, second doors getting unlocked. He had no idea what to expect out of the house, except maybe it looking organized as Dream always unconsciously cleaned George's room little by little, a small habit of his in which he always put the trash he found in a bin, no matter what, that was a bit weirdly cute. But one thing he did expect was a stupid grin and sarcastic welcoming words.
George got neither.
The house maybe looked nice but also empty. Devoid of any nice decorations, just blank walls with a clock. But he had no time to ponder on that when he looked at Dream. Dream, his always playful idiot of a friend he met in collage that he just wanted to smooch (questionable but he couldn't help it), always grinning, emotional and smart, that was looking back at him with eyes that tried to shine so badly, circles under them not helping though and a huge red cheek. Even his form was slightly slouched.
"George-" His voice was fine but he trailed off so fast likely to think George is either going to speak or because of the hard stare.
"Why.. What happened to your face?"
"...It would've been faster if you just let me come over instead. Would've been there 5 hours faster." He said that as if George wasn't there the fastest he's ever been. And ignored his previous question.
He gritted his teeth. "Dream." George is worried, way too worried for his liking. It might've just been Dream's friend mistake or a stranger but the look. It was worrying, so much that George wanted to punch, and he wasn't a fighter, whoever did that and make Dream sad. "Tell me..? What happened?"
Dream's mouth opened. And it closed, eyes darkening right after George muttered small 'Dream..?'. The corners of it rose but he didn't even bother trying to conceal the distaste in his eyes. "I'm fine you idiot." And he laughed. Laughed as if there was something amusing there. And it pissed George off from his ears that went red in anger to the core of his heart that shook as the beating rose.
"'Fine'? Fine? Who's the idiot here? Stop ignoring the question." Dream tensed. But George didn't care. He only stepped closer, coming inside and right up Dream's face. "Who did it?" Whatever the amount of his subtleness was before has gone to zero as he waited for the answer, only gripping his hand tighter before realizing as he heard and felt papers getting squeezed.
Dream still didn't answer.
George still didn't give him the papers.
And he was the first one to back out. Roughly grabbing the other's hand and pushing the college work into it. Was he so impatient. And then he stopped for a moment to look at the bandages that weren't there before and he wondered, the question swirling in his head like a hurricane even more, wind blowing even harder, what the hell happened? The shorter just wanted answers but all he got was radio silence and as he looked into Dream's eyes, they seemed ready to spill tears. Darn.
"Ah- Don't cry-"
It was too late. The papers flew on the floor, dropped by the shaking hand that quickly latched onto George's that was just by it. A wretched sob escaped Dream's throat as he inhaled, exhaled so out of rhythm. His shoulders shook and as the brunette put a gentle hand on his red cheek, his expression scorched in pain, Dream leaned into it, eyebrows furrowed and tired emerald eyes closed.
What happened?
Tires screeched as a car passed by and George jumped, remembering the wind still blowing on his back, the grass taken over by it and the bird chirping. He stepped closer, and it seemed like the sobbing Dream didn't mind (quite the opposite actually) and used his foot to get the doors at least closed, if not locked.
"..."
What does he do now?? Dream is crying. His eyelashes darker from the wetness and biting his bottom lip so much that blood might accidentally spill. George knows, Dream's suppressing his whines and chokes with it but it doesn't matter because another injury to this many won't help. And he thanked the gods that his thumb caressing the red cheek made Dream stop and open his red wet eyes.
"-S, Sorr'y."
"Shut up," George was a great comforter, so much that he winced at himself. This time he softened his voice as much as he could. "... You don't have to apologize. Sorry for pushing it but-"
"No."
"N-...?" But he trailed off. A door was opening upstairs and George could've sworn he remembered Dream saying he lives alone.
And then another man appeared in the stairway. Hair dirty blond with few white strands and an older face and presence. His looks really reminded him of Dream but his energy not as sincere and carefree if he can say that when the other is sobbing beside him, not carefree at all but strict. It made George's body tense up. It was so easy to tell it was Dream's dad.
Instead of smiling and greeting George when their eyes met or rushing to Dream's side when his gaze landed on his hunched shaking form like George's mom would, he simply sighed with annoyance, and it sounded so off George wanted to scowl, and walked down the stairs. "What's with the ruckus Clay?" He sounded cold and the way he spoke with authority confirmed that he was the dad. But a weird dad. A dad that made Dream's hand shake and tremble so much more, the grip on George's hand getting painful but he didn't get to ponder on the throbbing when he looked back at the expression of his best friend's face. He looked horrified.
His eyes were back to being visible. But much wider than George ever remembered them being. And so glazed over, so ready for something, flight or fight instinct taking over all of the summer like greenery George always saw in them. No longer teary and ready for a hug. And his teeth back to biting his mouth. It looked like he wanted to say something. But he only choked.
The scene wasn't pretty.
And it never got better. Only worse that would be reminding George of how much of an idiot he was for not realizing it earlier, on the call or even when seeing his friend, haunting George's dreams for quite a while and if that little haunted him, just how did Dream deal with the nightmares?
"...Not going to answer?" A warning. A warning for what? Something bad if George's heart sped up and Dream's breathing hitched. "I gave you so much time to answer. And yet, you're not doing it. And you bought a friend over? Clay's nice little friend?" It was taunting.
Dream twitched. His voice sounded so broken that George was ready to pull him into his arms and protect him with all his might even if he's the smaller one. "-Dream's.. friend." Dream corrected him. Which didn't seem to make the other man happy.
"'Dream'? Still using that name?" Not only unhappy but furious sending shivers down his spine. For the first time the man turned and spoke to George. "I think you need to go. Clay has to learn some stuff. It seems like I misjudged my capabilities at teaching manners."
And usually he was polite. An angel to all his friends' parents no matter how old George got. Taught by his parents that he should respect every elder and it became a habit to become docile and speak softer in their presence. Just like when he met Sapnap's mom for the first time and got made fun of for being so nice. But this time, "Uh- No, sorry." He wasn't going to be nice if that man stared straight at the shaking form of Dream and didn't even blink an eye. "I'm staying." Where did he get the sudden confidence? Was it the adrenaline rush after staring back into the glare of a much taller and stronger man or the need to protect the one who kept on getting worse, Dream's breathing getting heavier, faster with each passing moments that made George realize he's going to have a panic attack if he wasn't having one already and help as quick as he can. "-Or I'm actually taking Dream with me."
The atmosphere got darker.
The silence was louder.
The eyes piercing into each other were sharp while the other pair was looking between the two of them.
Dream Clay had no idea what to do but.. there was nothing to do. If he insisted George to go home, he'd get even worse injuries because he could just tell how mad his father was.
Though again, won't he get smacking and punishment later when he will have to come home?
And he worst of all, he was choking. In and out. Doesn't work. Did it ever work. He's suffocating but once he hears the two speak again he swears he's falling in love with George all over again, just like the tears.
"Whatever. That dumbass-" Dream winced. The insult jabbed him like poison. "doesn't matter. FUCK IT! Pay for him if you're this good of a friend."
"Will do."
---
"....What's that..?"
"Soup.." George would've been made fun of for it, for how bad it looks, by the usual Dream but this time wasn't it and he only got a laugh that was intended to be teasing but just came off as tired. "Dream. Do you wanna talk about it?"
"I just-" And he looked back down, the blond messy hair covering his eyes as he fidgeted with the bandages on his hands, ignoring the warm bowl in front of where he sat. "Just- My hands? I dropped a bowl and had to clean it up but it was a bit messy." Dream didn't talk into the details, how he had to do it while his father sat standing still observing as his son was made to pick the pieces up with his bare hands as a punishment for dropping it, seeing the boots right by his face, feeling so low and so useless. "And I got slapped and uh.. punched.. punched in the stomach... I guess." It was a description. Just a description of what was the latest thing that was done to him by his tired of life father that had to get his frustrations off somewhere.
But it was enough.
Enough for George to wordlessly pull the sitting man closer to his chest while standing by him, unlike his father not in a way of taunting him but making Dream feel love, and squeeze the blond's head into his chest. The voice was warm unlike the words so mad. "I'll kill that bastard with my bare hands." And maybe George won't live up to them because Dream will stop him no matter what but it felt nice, and warm, so much that he sobbed for the last time into the tight embrace, clutching to the shirt for dear life and weeping harder at the hand stroking his head.