GEORGES PERSPECTIVE:
Dream has been staying at his mom and dads house a lot recently because he got diagnosed with POTS and hasn't got it under control yet. He faints a lot, at least 8 times a day.
I come over just to say hello and I'm just talking to his mom and Drista about it.
"So, where is he?" I ask.
"He's in the guest room, but it's kind of his bedroom now. You can go see him if you want," Drista says.
"But, remember, if he faints- don't try to wake him up. It'll only be a few seconds." His mom reminds me.
I nod, and say thanks, and then go to his room. I open the door and he's in bed with the lamp on, just on his phone.
"George!" he says. He gets up, too fast, and pauses for a second. He stumbles and reaches out and puts his hand on the desk nearby him. He puts his hand on his chest for a second and takes a long breath.
"You okay?" I ask, closing the door.
"Yeah I just- I just felt funny for a second," he says, blinking a little.
"Maybe you should sit back down-"
"No, no- it's fine. I'm fine, it's fine, it's fine..." he trails off and walks steadily over to me. He gives me a hug, but when he steps back he almost falls over.
"Dream, seriously. Sit down," I say.
"Okay, okay. God," he mutters.
"Sorry for not wanting you to faint," I spit. Dream sits back down.
"I'm just gonna close my eyes for a second," he says, laying down. He closes his eyes, but you can tell he fainted. I sit down next to him, and after 10 seconds or so, he blinks himself back awake.
"D'you just faint?" I ask.
"No shit, sherlock," he says.
"Why are you being such a dick?" I suddenly ask.
He scrunches his face up a little, almost in disgust.
"Did you know that getting told you have a chronic illness can make you just a little bit emotional?" he mocks.
"Kay, look, i get that this is really fucking hard for you, but I'm trying to be there for you and you're making it really difficult."
"Maybe I don't need you here for me. I didn't ASK you to come over, you just did," he says. He starts ignoring me and goes on his phone.
"What, you want me to leave?" I say.
"I just don't care," he responds plainly.
"Okay. Bye," I say. I grab my phone and leave the room.
"Leaving already?" his mom asks.
"Yeah, what? You were in there for, like, 5 minutes," Drista says.
"I don't think he wants me around right now. He just needs some time to himself, is all. It's fine. I'll come back in a few days."
I go home, and when I get home, Nick is on the couch.
"Why are you back already?" he asks, pausing the TV.
"He was being such a dick. He got up and said he felt funny, so I told him to sit back down but he ignored me. Literally five seconds later, he sits back down and faints. He says, 'no shit sherlock,' and I asked him why he was being a dick. He was like, 'did you know that having an illness can make you emotional?' And I asked him if he even wanted me there and he said he doesn't care, so I left. He doesn't care, I don't care. It's whatever. I don't care."
"Seems like you care just a little bit," Nick says. "But he has a point. He sounds like he was being a dick, but he got told he's incredibly ill a week ago. You would be a dick too if you got that type of news."
"No, I wouldn't. And if my friends came over just to see me, i would love it. He didn't need to be so rude. Whos side are you even on?" I ask.
"There's no sides, George. Give him time."