Scratches // DNF

Chapter 1

A/N: I started writing this a while back, which is why there may be a mention of Christmas. Also I'm not American so keep that in mind if I've written something which isn't really a thing in America.

Live laugh love.

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George didn't get himself out of bed for the first week after I died.

Dream wasn't much better. He only picked himself up to make sure George ate and fed himself as a second priority.

They wouldn't talk when he'd enter George's bedroom. Dream would sit at the end of the bed in silence, making sure George emptied the plate's contents. There wasn't much to say; they were both aware I was plaguing every single thought that entered the others' mind.

He'd leave then, taking the plate and closing the door. He'd known George long enough to know that he needed space when something was bothering him. In the past when George came home upset or angry, he'd lock himself in an empty room and wouldn't come out until he'd calmed down. Dream and I knew this, unsaid understanding would pass when our eyes met and we'd wait until George was ready to come out and talk to us. We had a system, we understood each other, it worked.

But then I died and suddenly the system was scrunched up and tossed into a gathering pile of misery. Mourning was new territory of which neither knew how the other dealt with such unfamiliar emotions.

Even though George didn't know I was there, I still left him alone in his room and didn't try to look inside the closed door. I may have been a ghost, but my friend still deserved his privacy.

Dream on the other hand hadn't ever dealt with his emotions responsibly. He tended to lash out and then later think over why he was hurt and acted how he did. Seeing George grieve and isolate himself left Dream alone, without me to talk to.

He didn't go crazy as I feared he might. For the first week he screamed, wept and would drift into shivering naps throughout the day and night. He only paused this routine for the necessary feeding twice or three times a day.

But Dream was never one to dwell on his emotions. He seemingly decided a week was long enough to mourn and immediately threw himself into work.

During the day, he stuffed in as many shifts as humanly possible at the grocery store. He used his breaks to call George. A dagger of fear would push further into my stomach with each unanswered ring, but he would eventually pick up, having very little to say. Alas it was enough to satisfy Dream and drag him back to his shift.

The work was mundane, he completed the jobs his co-workers avoided in order to pass the time and carry him to the evening. He'd stock shelves, serve rude customers and make small talk in a zoned out state whilst continually glancing at the clock.

When the sun would begin to set his spirits would lift ever so slightly. He'd change in the shop's bathrooms and walk to the bus stop where he'd be given a lift to the bar. There he'd sit near the counter and sing with his guitar, being ignored by the majority of individuals.

He didn't care, he wasn't there for their validation. He'd previously told me immersion in music was the best tool for distraction. During those early weeks I was grateful he had the guitar if nothing else.

The glint in his eye would return for those few hours with the instrument in his lap. My death had caused a dark grey cloud to coat his iris', which would only clear with the aid of the strumming strings. I'd momentarily catch the bright emerald colour return in the dim lighting - it made me happy. In a brief break from the thick, sad atmosphere of the apartment; I was happy.

He'd play until he was told to leave by the owners. He'd receive a stingy payout and use it to pay for his and George's dinner on the way home.

When he'd walk through the familiar door, he'd trudge through to eat with George, who hadn't left his room the entire day. It was usually early to mid morning by this point so Dream would leave and try to sleep.