behind the streams | dnf

thirty seven | iloveyou

nsfw [implication]
i dont think i can express how ... MUCH this chapter is (its a lotta lotta words). like the fact i actually need to write this as a heads-up, but this chapter deserves it, take ur time n happy reading!!

~

DREAM

Bright, bright blue sky. The saturation looks straight out of a children's storybook, the complete lack of clouds in the sunny expanse is too clean to be anything natural.

Ahead, our main character stumbles through the last of the sunflower fields, and there their lover stands.

The idyllic sight spills outwards from its digital display. After half a night, the brightness of the television is turned to the lowest setting, but some movie scenes are still a bit harsh on the eyes.

Like the one currently playing, in this room of shadows and unholy hours to be awake. On the living room table, the boxes of now-cold take out and napkin stacks suddenly have a much more distinctive shape.

My attention glides back to the screen, just in time for another line of clunky, painful dialogue.

To my right, where Sapnap slouches, there's an audible groan. Some of us are less vocal in our annoyance.

The current exchange isn't as bad as we've seen it, but it's up there. Of course it is; with the movie about to end, it chooses to wring out every last bit of their stale, simpering personalities like it hasn't been shoved in our faces already.

Sapnap makes a regular show of retching all throughout the conversation, until a testy chide from George shuts him up. He then mutters something to me about George's questionable movie likes, going unheard as he indeed remains invested in 'his mushy, mushy rom-coms'.

Finally, the camera affords the main characters a last loving look, and pans up and out of the picturesque shot.

Rural landscape and sunny sky fade into black. From one sickeningly-sweet song to the next, white blocky letters begin to scroll up on the screen with names none of us make an effort to read.

"Three." George states, breaking the unimpressed silence. "Or four." In the poor lighting I see him reach towards the table, taking a small bite of food before patting a napkin over his mouth.

It doesn't sound like much. But with the duration of the films, the number of hours have been exhausting, in a way that isn't fatigue.

Three, four. I squint, trying to distinguish between the first two hypothetical movies. The night's been long enough that I can hardly even remember.

The one before this, however, I can recall with no trouble.

A horror movie, in this dead of night. And it just happened to have spectacularly good jump-scares and a jarring plot; we wanted a wake-up call and a wake-up call we got, for sure.

Yet we survived the entire sub-two hours, barely. Just in a constant state of them both clinging to me, whether it was to avoid the on-screen sights or to muffle their hysterical, terrified giggles.

A break was necessary.

Flick the living room lights on; the corners of the room seemed much more ominous now. Take a breather. The time it took for our nerves to calm was almost ridiculous.

Munch down an hours-old portion of deep-fried chicken and potatoes in all its glorious forms.

Sleep was far, far out of the question. But that was the original intention of this marathon, so we chugged on, only with the agreement to maybe tone the intensity of what we watched down a little.