Forced love // dreamnotfound

18

"What do you mean? I just haven't been streaming so much lately, because i have a lot of stuff to do." He furrowed his eyebrows, but tried to stay as active and peppy as he's supposed to.

On his screen appeared a 3. It soon was changed to a 2, and then to a 1.

They were teleported to the outside of the small room where they were sitting, and on much bigger platforms now, with everyone in front of them and cheering in the chat.

They three had crowns, different colors, all according to their places.

They got off and George wanted to end the stream at once, his smiling muscles will break any second now.

"Bye! Goodbye everyone! Thanks for watching!" He waved and ended, laying down on the floor at once. He sighed and didn't want to leave the cool floor that was cooling off his hurting, red face.

Dream opened his door and saw George laying on the floor, not moving and looking towards the opposite of Dream.

He leaped towards him. "George? Are you alright?" George looked at him with confusion, did Dream really think he just died or something?

"Yes, I'm just hot." He looked away after he said that and furrowed his eyebrows at himself. "Phew, I thought you passed out." Dream stood up.

"I'm not in the mood to make anything, you can come downstairs and find food yourself." Dream left the room.

There is nothing worse than trying to find something to eat in his confusing and huge kitchen. He doesn't know where anything is and what he even has got.

Looks like he isn't going to eat lunch.

The evening soon arrived, he was still writing his story. The words stopped making sense, and he lost all motivation to write anything. He overexaggerated the writing, extracted all the vocabulary and ideas in his mind. There's no way he could possibly think of anything else now.

Only maybe if he started a new story, something fresher and newer, a new start with a bunch of possibilities, not squared in by everything that he has already written and been forbidden from using again.

The new idea was now waited for. If it wants to be made into something, it has to come to George itself.

But seemed like there wasn't anything that wanted to be trapped on paper, a story held down by ink. He could write the ending to his own story.

It's not something that happens every day. Being kidnapped by your angry best friend. He didn't feel like writing the whole story from the beginning, maybe just from this evening.

The ideas weren't flowing too constantly, but enough to keep up the writing pace. His hand was raw, starting to impair since yesterday.

Maybe he should rest it, or learn to write with his left hand, but the story needed to continue. He was soothing himself with the happy events that were taking place in the pages.

The text started taking over the pages, leaving very few ones empty. George was rushing to get the beautiful, happy ending that he felt like he didn't deserve, but still desired so strongly.

His handwriting wasn't improving from all this writing at all, it only got more careless and neglectful.

The words were not making any sense to George himself too, they looked like scribbles and nothing more. Lines that went in many different directions, but not the ones they should be going in.

He flipped the page and saw what he dreaded the most, the dreadful resolution to all his good thoughts that he was forcing inside his head, to numb the bad and stressing ones.

It was the last page, and he had to get to the good ending that he needed so badly. How could it even end? Dream is thoughtful of every single move and thing, there's nothing out of place in his plan.

He could get out only by murdering Dream, but did he really want that? He knew he didn't, but he still tried to tell himself that he did want that, even if it's not true.

The flow in his brain was closed, a dam built in front of his river of thoughts.

The ending wasn't coming to him, he could only wish to have the thought process of Dream when thinking of anything like this.

He closed the book and shut down his brain. It wasn't going to happen.

He laid down and tried to hold the tears that were trying to break out so impatiently.

The fact that he had zero ideas of possibilities how to get out of this whole thing means that maybe there just aren't any. They're non-existent.

He looked at his aching, red hand with all of the circling blood pumping trough it.

It was shaking, dried out of any strengtht it has had. If he wouldn't be deprived from food he would feel better, in a better mood and better strengtht.

George didn't feel anything left in him to push himself onto his legs to go downstairs. He couldn't move, it didn't seem possible.

His eyelids closed themselves as George wasn't awake anymore, them not having any use being open.

A hand shaked him awake, but still, he couldn't move, couldn't talk, couldn't hear and couldn't see. It was all blurry and nothing looked real.

The first sense to jump back to him was hearing. He could hear a voice. The voice of an angel that he wanted to hug and hold on to forever. He listened to it with all of his emotions scrunched up in one place, not letting the voice slip away.

The voice got closer to him and closer, louder and louder. It was beautiful.

His name was being said and his eyes opened. He still couldn't see or feel anything. The choice of moving or talking still not even near him.

His name was being repeated, many times, but all he could do was sink in.