behind the streams | dnf

eleven | parallel

SAPNAP

The silence. Why is it so damn loud?

One arm sits tersely in my lap, phone corners digging into my palm. I cover my eyes with my free hand, the same elbow that props on the table as a slow, slow breath stumbles out.

It doesn't work. I've taken four and a half and I'm still not a hundred percent sure I'm not dreaming.

When the call lit up my screen, my mind rushed to a million places and not a single one was remotely close to what I just heard.

I thought, maybe he wanted to apologize. Again. 

Actually, many of the million tied back to this idea. Because I genuinely couldn't think of why else he would call me, with the afternoon we've just had, and the earlier one wasn't all too impressive either. 

Maybe he called me on accident. That's still ahead, in my list of reasons, than this.

Than... this. 

A confession. Dream. 

You wanted to help, right? The voice crawls up and I smother it quickly, screwing up my face at the nauseating callback. 

I did. I did.

But what am I supposed to do? This isn't something I can fix.

I remember asking him the same question. But gentler, of course.

Just needed to tell someone.

A low, twisted part of me feels awful accomplishment. The rest doesn't want it.

I want to help. But this...

Reaching up into darkness, I slowly wrench off my headset and lean away from the glare of the monitors. With the absence of the muffle around my ears, the air clings coldly and I feel goosebumps crawl along my arms.

Sleep distracts me, for a little. It's light, it's restless, it's nowhere near sufficient but it's a distraction nonetheless. I force the absolute most out of it, oversleeping several hours until morning bakes into noon and the harsh sunlight finally stirs me out of the overbearing heat.

For what seems to be a first, I'm the one that reaches out for a stream. Karl's ecstatic at the occurrence, adding me to a call and pushing the idea of finally playing Speedrunners live, before I can even comprehend what's happening. The eagerness in his voice gnaws regretfully at me, for several reasons.

The thought of him knowing that my rare enthusiasm is only the result of looking for a distraction, it furthers a quiet, stern, self-note that I should reach out more. To him. 

Quackity's in the call less than 10 minutes later, loud and rowdy and vividly describing his plans to win despite having never playing the game before. We turn our attentions to Karl as he announces that he's received the responses of the two invitations sent out.

Please-

Dream is free. George is not.

A breath cools. My shoulders drop as unexpected relief soars. -thank you.

It's a boisterous, high-energy, smart-mouthed two and a half hours. The only person I'm really in competition with is Karl, the only one who's even played this game before and he at least puts up a fight. It's clear from the very beginning that it's a two person race, but there's enough entertainment through Quackity's aggressive curses as he falls nowhere near winning, and the pure irony of Dream's struggle in a game called Speedrunners.

With the constant intensity of each round, especially as I'm in the top two the vast majority of the time, there's hardly any time off. It's busying, for sure, better than I could have hoped for as the quippy back-and-forths warm the atmosphere into something unfit for worries.