Though he desperately refuses the conformities of modern novel tropes, George acknowledges he's just the same as every book character. A side character that is. Studying his way into writing a hit novel George has to master the ups and downs of his...
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"Said you're friends didn't want ya. But I swear I do...'" In My Room Chance Peña
⚠️ Slight violence, Drug mention, Knife mention ⚠️
George
I never thought I'd be able to describe my life as teetering between the metal gates of a prison door but here I am. Tightrope walking metal with my best friend and the guy I've had a thing for since the start of college.
Dream's text messages go unanswered for three days straight and Evander barely gives me time to breathe in between kisses and more. And more. And more. I almost hate how much more there is. He's asleep beside me in his penthouse apartment his scholarship somehow pays for and all I can do is leave to look out the window in his living room. It's finally quiet, no hot breaths or mindless TV shows playing in the background. The room feels lonely.
I flip my phone over and over in my hand before turning it on completely. Dream's texts are the first to come through about ten of them. All ranging from "what are you up to." To "wanna come watch a movie marathon?" Or "have you spoken to Karl?" And finally ending with "have fun with Kenneth :)."
I call him without thinking. It's nearly four in the morning and if he's smart he'd be asleep ready for practice. He answers on the second ring.
"George?" His voice is hasty and warm with sleep, "are you alright? What's wrong?"
"Hi," is all I manage to say.
There's rustling on the other end of the phone. I can imagine him all the way back at campus, tucked beneath those familiar blankets and fluffy pillows we picked out together. My hands pick at the seam of Evader's tight leather couch and listen to Dream's breaths even out.
"George, it's four... you're okay I assume?"
I swallow and look at Evander's closed bedroom door, "yeah. I'm alright. Sorry I called. I... I just..." there's a hum of silence, Dream's sleepy breaths coming over the line. "I think I hate sex."
He makes a nonsensical sound, muffled he asks, "Baby, what?"
"Baby?"
"Baby, snuckems, the apple of my eye, the feather in my wings, what the fuck are you talking about." It's hard to push down the giggle, I at least manage to keep it quiet.
"What are you talking about."
Dream huffs and rustles his sheets again, "honestly I don't know. I feel like I'm still asleep."
"I think you might be."
"George," his voice turns stern. "Why do you think you hate sex?"
My lip pulls tight between my teeth, because the answer is simple I just don't think I'm ready to admit it.
