Scratches // DNF

Chapter 13

George's wrinkles deepend. "Are you drunk?"

"Who cares?" Dream threw his hands up theatrically. "I wanted to see you and now you're here so now I'm happy."

He stumbled backward, having leaned too much weight into one hip. He accidentally knocked into a man standing behind him. Said man was awaiting service with his arms firmly crossed, protruding the veins of his muscular arms. He looked to be no older than forty, bald and really fucking tall.

"Hey watch it," he'd said, tensing his arms to stay balanced, refusing to let Dream's stumble knock him backward.

Dream raised a palm in apology and began to turn back to face George, only for the tall guy to rip an arm free to grasp Dream's bicep.

"While you're at it you can join the back of the queue like the rest of us," he said sternly. "No special treatment just 'cause your buddy works here."

Dream shrugged his arm free, glaring at the man. "Let it be. I've had a rough night."

George began to lean over the bar, trying to nudge Dream and bring his attention back.

"I couldn't care less, get to the back."

Dream had fully turned around by now, giving the situation his undivided attention. "I actually dropped my friend's ashes all over the floor. So I'm gonna stay here, thanks."

George gasped from behind Dream. "You did what?"

Dream ignored him and watched the tall man's lips curl as he spat, "Oh we've all got sob stories, man. Tell me, what was your friend's name?"

I didn't see how that was relevant. And I didn't like where this was heading with the rising tensions and the turning bystanders, observing the disruption. I wanted to grab Dream and turn him around. This man looked like he searched for trouble and enjoyed every moment of it. It flooded me with nothing but unease.

"Sapnap," Dream said, the two syllables blurring into one with his slurred speech.

The man scoffed, the sound churning at the back of his throat. "Fuckin' hell, what's he - a pokemon?"

Dream's hands formed fists. I begged him to uncurl them. It was a joke, it wasn't deep, could he just go home and leave it, please?

"He's dead. Have some respect," he spoke through gritted teeth.

"And what, you think your friend would be proud of the state you're in now?" the man laughed.

Yes, I would always be proud of him.

Dream suddenly swung his fist upward and punched the stranger across the cheek, his rage seeking a release.

Okay, maybe not.

It all happened without warning. His arms were by his side and then suddenly they were not. It wasn't a particularly hard blow. After all, Dream had no experience in combat. But it was enough to trip the man backward and snap his head in the direction Dream's fist guided it.

The hit caused a couple people to gasp and stagger backward to avoid the trouble. George's view was largely hidden by Dream's back, but he saw enough to exclaim, "Dream!"

He began to rush along the bar to make his way around. He only managed a few hurried paces before a hand emerged and clutched his forearm.

"It's alright." It was the manager. "You don't need to lead him out - don't make more of a fuss."

His shirt was ridiculously unbuttoned, almost down to his belly button as if to gloat his untrimmed chest hair. He still had his annoying, calm demeanour about him, as though this were a common occurrence in his bar. Perhaps it was.