Context: Dreams letter about becoming an EMT or not just got delivered. He's not home but gnf and Sapnap are. They open it.
SAPNAPS PERSPECTIVE:
"Okay, let's see," I say. I can see George's eyes skimming through the paper, and then I can physically see his heart drop.
"He didn't pass," he says quietly. He clears his throat, shaken up, "Score of 94.45. You need a 95 to pass, it says, 'Unfortunately, you have failed your NREMT.' You can retake all provided courses... have to pay for all them again... and you can retake the test in 18 months."
Before I can even process anything, Dream walks in the front door.
"Hey, did my letter come?" He asks, all excited.
"Uhh," George stammers, hands him the paper."
Dream looks nervous at me and George's facial expressions, and then he reads it.
He wipes a hand over his mouth, uses the back of his hand to wipe his eyes.
"0.55 percent," he says, almost sobbing.
"Dream..-"
"I worked so hard for this, and now I have to wait," he pauses to catch his hiccuping breathes, "18 months to go through it all again, and then that's my last chance," he completely breaks down into tears and sobs, and George goes up to him and hugs him tight.
"It's okay, it's okay," George hushes.
"You were so close, Dream, you're gonna ace it next year," I tell him. He pulls away from George and wipes his eyes with his sleeves.
"I'm not taking it next year," he says, he grabs his phone and starts walking away.
"What?" I say.
"What do you mean?" George asks, following him.
"I mean I'm not taking it. I'm not going through all the effort again just to fail it by, what, .55 percent? Half a question?" Dream sobs again, "I'm not retaking it, I don't care," he says, but he slumps down onto the couch because he curls up and cries again. This time, I hug him nice and tight.
I feel depressed for him. He's sobbing into my arms right now. He's studied for 5 years for this, literally throwing away so many potentials and opportunities because he was working towards becoming an EMT. He only failed because of the amount of hate he's been getting online, people even found out he's been studying for the past 5 years and have been making the worst comments on him. Saying he's too stupid for it, he'll never be an EMT, they'll find his station and get him jumped on the job, it'll be easier to find him, anything. But he really wanted this to work out, do you know how pressured he felt taking that test? Since those messages online had been creeping in, he has been overwhelmed with anxiety even just going out to his car or for a walk down the street. This is so unfair.
He sits for a good few minutes, his face buried into my hoodie, dampening the fabric as he sobs and sobs and sobs about how he's not good enough, he's never putting his mind to anything again. And then he suddenly says,
"im giving up on everything," he chokes out through cries. I hush him quiet, telling him it's okay and everything will be okay. George goes to Dream's room just to clean it up for him so he can just sleep peacefully.
He pulls away from me, eyes red and puffy and glassy, and looks up at the ceiling.
"You wanna go up to bed?" I ask him. He sniffles and nods, and I walk him upstairs. George leaves his room just as we walk up, and Dream pushes the door open. His beds made, his room is a lot cleaner than before. The AC is on, and Patches makes her way into the room with him.
He puts his phone and charge and gives Patches a kiss.
"Goodnight Dream," I say to him. He doesn't say anything, so I just close his door for him and walk downstairs with George.
"I feel so bad for him," George says.
"Same. He's worked for this for 5 years," I say. "And now he's basically thrown all those years away. Every opportunity that came with it, he'd say no because he had to study or he had a big test. He was so dedicated, I worry he'll never put his mind to anything again," I tell George.
A few days later, Dream has not left the house. It's been about 6 days, and he's been too bummed to do anything. He thinks he's already wasted 5 years of his life, so he'll just waste the rest of them.
GEORGES PERSPECTIVE:
I'm sitting downstairs with him, watching TV, and I look at him. He looks at me.
"What?" I say to him.
"What?? You look at me first?" He says.
I shrug, "yeah, cus look at you. You look like a depressed mess."
"I am a depressed mess," he scoffs," thanks for the kind words."
"Yeah, no worries."
He gets up, grabs his phone.
"You know, you're a real prick sometimes," he says, heading upstairs.
"Mm," I hum sarcastically.
"Fuck you."
"What the hell did I do?" I laugh. I stop laughing when he turns around and looks at me.
"What the hell did you do? Are you dense?" He says. He starts mocking me, "'you're depressed, look at you, you're such a mess,' yeah, thank you, I didn't need to be fucking reminded. You do this so much, George, you go off on things people are actually upset about and you take the piss out of them. Less than a week ago I found out that everything I've ever put my mind and time and effort into was taken away, the least you could do is have a little bit of sympathy- but you're practically cold-blooded. You actually don't give a shit about anyone else but yourself, so, please, go fuck yourself."