Scratches // DNF

Chapter 18

Things finally perked up for Dream and George following Texas. The moment they'd arrived home, George called his college to arrange at home study in order to finish his degree. Meanwhile, Dream sent their CV's to a bunch of shops, bars, restaurants - anything he could find really.

Within a few days they'd both secured a job at a random local supermarket and George's college had agreed he could finish his final year rurally by attending lectures online.

And so George was content. His retail job was enough to get by until his graduation, when he'd then be able to work within the computer science world.

Dream on the other hand... well he wasn't exactly unhappy.

"I just don't wanna give up on the whole music-thing, y'know?" he'd said one night, leaning across the kitchen counter. "Do you think anyone would want me playing like once a week or something?"

George shrugged, taking a bite of an apple. "You could ask around."

And so Dream did. He emailed and visited a variety of venues in the hopes that anyone would allow him to play in front of a crowd for even thirty minutes. He didn't expect to be paid. Despite this, he met no luck.

As a last resort, he turned to busking near the city centre.

It wasn't that he needed the money - he had his day job at the supermarket for that. He'd told George it was all well and good playing his guitar in the house alone, but he wanted to be heard. He feared he'd lose the gall to perform in front of crowds if he didn't work the muscle.

I didn't quite believe he'd actually do it until he was sat alongside a park and a cluster of restaurants, perched above a crumbling wall. His guitar hung clumsily around his shoulders and he anxiously dug his fingers into the strings.

When he eventually gathered the nerve to begin singing, he hadn't set up his case to collect change. So when a woman wanted to give him a dollar, she had to interrupt his song to place the paper into his palm.

Around this time they'd finally dragged out my boxes from Orlando and sorted through them properly. They didn't lock objects and memories away, but instead actually sifted through everything. It was the exact sweetness I'd craved when they'd packed the boxes in the first place.

Though I didn't have many possessions, they created three piles. One of things to display, one to donate, and one to store. George had already taken my duvet, so the rest was mostly clothes and games. We were all of similar sizes, so Dream and George shared a few of my t-shirts between them, despite most of the material being cheap shit.

They propped my picture of us three onto a shelf and smiled at one another. Throughout the entire unhauling, they shared memories of me, laughed at anything and everything and didn't cry once at sharing such stories.

Throughout the weeks following Texas, despite George's promise, they still hadn't spoken about where they stood with each other. Dream had tried to prompt such a talk at numerous points, yet each time he'd been shot down by George, a master at quickly sidetracking conversations. Each time he did so, I witnessed Dream's impatience and irritation grow.

One afternoon, Dream was on his way out of the door to busk for a few hours. He tapped down his pockets, having forgotten something, so rested the guitar against the wall and collected whatever was forgotten from his room.

Upon his return, George was sat on the sofa with the guitar in his lap.

"Is this 'G'?" George asked, not looking up from where his neck stooped over the strings. His fingers were sprawled wildly across the fretboard in the attempted chord. I had never played the instrument, but from appearance alone I could tell it was incredibly incorrect.