Maple Syrup

Unsaid words, unwritten letters, unwanted guests

George-

I read somewhere that writing letters that I'd never send to people helps grief. Believe it or not, this is really hard for me. I still have your picture-

"Clay! She wants to talk to you!" A young man, who's name is Clay, but prefers to be called Dream, so we'll call him that, sits at an old desk in a musty attic. His younger sister, Drista, a blonde 14 year old pokes his back. He jumps, scaring her.

"Jeeesus Drista, don't do that to me!" Dream stands up, rubbing his face. "She wants to talk to you." She deadpans, looking up at him. "No shit Sherlock." Comes the mumble from her older brother. He opens the hatch down to the ladder and lets Drista go down first.

"What does she want?" Dream follows his tiny mini-me down the hallway. she shrugs, pausing to adjust an old photo on the wall. Dream turns his head the other way. He already knows what's in the photo. His mother has a habit of holding onto the past. He does too, as well. Though he'll never admit it.

It's of him, his old friends, George and Sapnap, and their class, around the age where they all were 11. It hurts him to even think about it. Dream pulls his hoodie even closer to his already thin body.

"Clay? Are you there?" He snaps out of his daze, turning to his little sister. "Sorry, yeah. I'll go now. I know you don't like being around her for long." Drista shifts uncomfortably on her feet, fidgeting. "What's wrong?" Dream's voice picks up a tone of worry. "It's nothing. You'd better go, she hates it when we make her wait." Dream reluctantly nods, walking away. He stops, turns around and pats her on her head.

Drista leans into the affection, like a sunflower reaching for the sun. Dream smiles. Poor little touch starved baby, He thinks.

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Dream walks into his mother's study. He shrinks away from the walls, covered in old photos of Drista and her old friends and George and Sapnap and everyone. Even his father is on the wall, with his stubbly chin and smile hiding infidelity and secrets even Dream hadn't searched through the house's library long enough to find. Worst of all, he looked just like his son.

"Ah, Dream. Finally. Don't make me wait again."

Dream turns towards her, and pulls back. She's shrunk since he last saw her, and her hair's grown more white streaks than blonde.

"You don't get to call me that. Not after what you did." Dream grits his teeth, baring his heart in iron bars to protect from whatever obvious bombshell his mother had to drop on him. His mother feigns hurt, putting her hand up to her heart and twisting her face.

"Well that's no way to talk to your mother." She walks forward and tries to hug him, but Dream flinches away. Her face flickers with anger briefly, but it's gone in an instant. "What do you want?" Dream's eyes follow her closely as she goes and sits down on a massive winged armchair that almost swallows her.

"Nikki and Wilbur are getting married."

Dream pauses. "Married?" He breathes. His mother nods. "Of course, you're not invited." She smiles wickedly, her mouth turning up at the corners grotesquely. "Clearly, or I'd've known." He juts back. "Anything else?" She shakes her head. "Then goodbye until next month, Kathyryn." Dream promptly walks out, his sneakers squeaking on the mahogany floors.

Dream loses himself in his thoughts as he walks back the hallways to his attic room. He absentmindedly traces a scar on his face, one that makes people switch sides of the road on the odd occasion he's out. It actually holds quite a fond memory, though tainted by heartbreak.

It's two small lines going upwards starting on the sides of his mouth and going about an inch. It gives Dream the look of always smiling, which he felt like he needed at the time. He still does, though perhaps for a different reason.

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Dream returns to his room, and looks around. There's photos on the dresser, old and new alike. There's a family photo on it, one taken in the calm time between his parents' violent divorce and his mother's descent into wickedness. It was a joke Drista'd gotten for his 11th birthday, when she was just 4.

It was a royal photo, with Kathyryn, their mother, sitting on a throne. Dream was standing next to her and little Drista standing between the two holding a tiny furball named Patches. She was a gift to Dream for his birthday from their distant father. The last they'd ever hear from him.

Dream turns to another photo. It's of him and George. They're smiling, and Dream is giving George a piggyback. Both their faces look like tomatos. George is wearing a thick purple sweater over a white button up. Dream looks away quickly, walking over to the other side of his room.

His hands flounder for a second for something warm to put on, as it's late October, and the attic is definitely below 50 degrees. The only thing his hands find, however, just add to the empty feeling in his heart.

It's George's purple sweater.

Dream sighs, his hands shaking. Patches comes and weaves between his ankles. Dream lifts up the sweater, begins to pull it over his head but stops, struck silent by a scent that hit him.

The scent of rain, and old books, melting chocolate and coffee.

It washed over Dream, ripping him out of his bleak reality and placing him into a wonderland of nostalgia. He remembered beach days splashing in the waves, and days in the woods playing make believe, days of rain staying inside and George falling asleep on his shoulder despite the extra caffeinated coffee he'd had that morning.

But there was something.. wrong with it. secrets and misunderstandings seeping in through the cracks. Her and his mother. How long had they been scheming together? Since they first met? His thoughts spiraled and he couldn't control it.

Dream ripped the sweater off his head and threw it across the room. It landed in a pile of Christmas decorations long unused and toppled them. Dream stared at the mess and turned on his heel.

I'll pick it up later.

Of course, for Dream, 'later' meant 'never'.

Just then, the doorbell rang, it's tone tinny and high from years of not being used. "I'll get it!" Drista's shout reached through the halls, grabbing Dream out of his thoughts. Faint footsteps and a door opening could be heard.

Silence.

That doesn't make sense, Dream thought, why isn't anyone talking?

"CLAY!" Drista's scream echoes in the house, filling any soul in the home mind with worry for what she'd seen. Dream stands up and bolts down to the entryway, materializing behind her.

His eyes widen when his brain processes what he's seeing.

It's a pale boy with wavy brown hair, with white circular sunglasses perched atop his head. His eyes, one sky blue, the other mocha brown, are wide as well. He's wearing a blue sweater layered over a white button down.

"George?"

"Hi, Dream."

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-end of chapter 1-