dial tone

this time i sweat

Dream thinks he knew, theoretically, that getting married was stressful.

He's only ever been to two weddings in his life: his sort of distant cousin's in Omaha when he was eleven, and his aunt's during his freshman year of college.

The Omaha wedding was at some church that didn't seem well-equipped enough for any wedding that invited more than ten people. The ceremony was, in Dream's opinion, far too droning and far too religious, because he had opinions on that sort of thing in the sixth grade.

After, they'd driven to his grandma's house, all tricked out with scattered floral arrangements and folding tables in the backyard. Dream had forgotten most of the night except for being horribly disappointed at the state of it, but his mom and aunt had gossipped to him when he'd gotten older that his cousin's new husband had gotten embarrassingly drunk and ripped her dress, and they'd started shouting at each other in front of everybody.

His aunt's was nicer, he thinks. Anything probably would be, but hers was considerably nicer. She and her now wife had been together since high school, seventeen years by the time she'd proposed to her. They were engaged for three and a half years before they'd gotten married, so they'd had time, spaced things out to plan. They'd gone for a more intimate thing, anyway, only fifty or so people attending.

Dream had had a single sip of champagne, spat it out, and cried four separate times before the night was over. He doesn't think they ran into any problems except for not being able to find the rings twenty minutes before the ceremony and the power going out a little bit afterwards.

He's only seen some of the behind the scenes of weddings—but he guesses, yeah, maybe he had some sort of idea that they could be good at getting cortisol levels up. But, that being said—

"I don't give a fuck about fucking seating arrangements! I don't—why is this something that fucking matters?" Sapnap tosses the pile of index cards in his hands onto Dream's kitchen table, putting his head in his hands. "I'm going to fucking kill myself," he mumbles.

—Dream didn't know getting married was this stressful.

Or at least not when it was Sapnap getting married.

It's still kind of hard to wrap his head around.

His best friend, the same guy he'd known and stuck by since he was barely able to walk, is getting fucking married. He's having a wedding. He's going to be a fucking husband. Sapnap, a husband. And he'll have one, too.
That part was a little unexpected, Dream will admit.

He'd sometimes teased Sapnap about boys in high school, specifically Karl Jacobs whenever he'd bring him up, but he didn't think that any of them really thought much of it.

He didn't think that Sapnap would end up fucking marrying the guy.

Karl, in Dream's admittedly shoddy memories from high school, had a penchant for cheap weed, out-there music, and throwing parties at the drop of a hat. He never knew him that well, and never held anything against him, but never really had the desire to know him, either.

Sapnap, apparently, did.

The first time Dream had heard about Karl fucking Jacobs from high school since high school was when Sapnap had sat down on his couch on a Tuesday evening and told him all about how Karl had reached out to him with an invitation to a party he was throwing or something. Or an event he was invited to. Dream doesn't know. He didn't go.

But Sapnap did. And he'd called him later that night, gushed about Karl, and the way his humor was fast-paced and intelligent, and how he was just that much taller than him, and the way he dressed, and Karl, Karl, Karl.