finding happiness

feeling heavy

ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴ ᴏᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ

:]

george is staring up at his ceiling, limbs feeling weighed down against his mattress as he traces his gaze over the popcorn texture, trying to find the pictures that he would once see in the meaningless pattern.

he's hard in his boxers.

he woke up this morning with enough morning wood to build a boat but he's too fucking tired to even do anything about it.

recently, his libido has been completely gone. more than once he's wondered if his empty feeling was somehow a result of being so sexually inactive, and he'd actively tried to put on porn and get himself even half-bricked but he'd had no hope. now, he is so hard that it hurts but the idea of actually doing anything about it is draining.

george isn't even sure if wanking off right now would be safe considering how lightheaded he feels from just lying there. he didn't eat anything after breakfast yesterday - not because he is starving himself or he's insecure or anything like that, just because he couldn't be bothered to haul himself up and go make himself something.

he considered cereal as an easy meal to tide him over but he already knows he hasn't got milk and he thinks living off dry cereal would just be embarrassing. george can't get much lower than the state he's in now, but he thinks dry cereal would knock him down another notch.

the brunette moves one hand under the blanket to cup his dick in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure he is feeling as it presses hard against his boxer shorts.

he lets out a breath at the feeling, letting his eyes slip shut at the simple touch. the brit knows he hasn't got the energy to get off, but he will lie here unmoving and hold his dick for as long as it takes to go soft again.

maybe other people would get up and ignore the morning wood. other people probably have commitments to live up to, important things to get on with. not george, not right now, all he cares about now is breathing slowly and willing his muscles to relax.

george's phone buzzes against his bedside cabinet and he knows it will be one of his friends, probably asking if he wants to film something or hop on someone's stream. he distantly remembers karl saying he wanted to play quiplash soon and wonders if it could be that, but he doesn't care enough to check.

if he looks, he'll feel a responsibility to reply, and he would rather avoid the guilt and pretend to be sleeping.

then again, he would rather avoid giving his friends and fans any more ammunition for their "george is always sleeping" bit.

he would never say anything, because he doesn't want people to think he's being all bitchy over a little joke, but he hates that bit more than any of the others. for someone who hardly sleeps, being told you sleep too much feels like a stab to the fucking heart.

after that one stupid war on the dream-smp, it's like everyone feels the need to make constant jokes. little do they know, george had been awake for almost three days when he had passed out that day, sleeping through his alarm and the calls he'd received. that day he had felt like death, and waking up to feel like a disappointment didn't help.

so maybe he should stream today just to make up for the stuff he has missed recently, too in his head to work up the courage to smile and laugh.

but he streamed yesterday, and even now he can't forget how the chat had non-stop been asking if he was okay. it seems, unfortunately, that they do in fact notice george's withering appearance. he thinks that the white shirt he chose made it worse, but the number of people making comments on his sunken appearance made him feel almost queasy.

george tenses his hand around his length and, unsurprisingly, finds himself soft.

still, he keeps his hand in place. it's gross, maybe, but it's warm and the comfort it brings him seems worth it. he has no intention of getting off, but the feeling of his dick in his hand brings him just enough pleasure to relax against the bed.

his phone buzzes again and he refuses to look. again, he knows it can only be one of his friends. there's a chance it'll be his mum but she'll just be reminding him of her love or asking when he'll see them next, so those messages can wait.

george probably couldn't even stream if he wanted to, not without forcing himself to shower and finally washing the grime from his hair. his fans had pointed that out yesterday too, and he knows it's only gotten worse from a night of restless sleep, tossing and turning against his unclean bedsheets.

if he had the energy to change his pillowcases, he might not have to shower so much. george can't work out which he hates more, cleaning himself or his room. he tries to do the maths on time and energy consumption and if it would be worth it to save himself showering time but ultimately decides against it.

who cares if he hasn't changed his bedsheets in a while? it's only him that will be sleeping there and he doesn't care so he doesn't see why it should be a big deal. no one else has a say in the comfort that george gets to choose.

the brunette sighs, forcing his eyes open from where they'd closed. the realisation that he is lying there, dirty in an unclean bed, with his hand in his pants, is embarrassing. he doesn't like the person he is but he can't change it. he's tried, nothing works.

at the very least, george can take his hand off of his dick. so he does.

he takes away the little bit of comfort he had because he wants to be better for the world that isn't even perceiving him. george wants to impress the people who can't see him by making himself more uncomfortable.

he doesn't understand why people have to abide by some stupid rules of etiquette, especially when they're alone, but he does it anyway. he has a following and he is a role model and he needs to be better. maybe correcting his behaviour behind closed doors will make it easier for him to be a good person in front of the camera.

the brunette looks over towards his en suite, contemplating taking a shower.

he can't.

he genuinely can't do it.

and the worst part is that he doesn't know why he can't. he wants to shower, he wants to be better, he wants to get up and do stuff and be a role model and be happy but he can't bring himself to fucking move.

the thought of showering makes him feel queasy even though he loves the warmth and the water and the steam. why does something he loves seem so daunting?

he loves food too -good food, shit food, sweet, savoury. george has always been a foodie but the idea of forcing himself out of bed for something so futile makes his body feel even heavier. all of the things he loves seem so far and unattainable and he doesn't know why.

[:

grammarly decided not to work today so i take no responsibility for poor quality proofreading! let me know if there's any mistakes <3

hope you enjoyed this chapter!

i love you forever :}

-kit