Chapter Text
Stress.
That’s the only thing that feels consistent in his life. The stress of everything.
Before, it was the stress of secondary school. All the classes and unforgiving teachers and the endless amounts of homework that seemed to get backed up no matter how hard he worked.
Then it was the stress from Uni, which was similar to secondary school, but had the pressure of being a new adult stacked on top.
Trying to manage classes and work along with scheduling appointments, getting a job, and looking for an affordable flat felt like it was too much.
But oh lord was he wrong.
The workload may have lessened since he completed Uni, but the stress felt even worse.
He had more sparetime and could actually indulge in his hobbies, but he felt guilty.
Sometimes, George regrets listening to Dream. Sometimes he wishes he had just taken a coding job and silently supported his friends.
Sometimes all he wants is for the constant pressure from being an “online influencer” to go away. To just vanish and let him exist.
But it won’t.
He knows this.
George takes a break for one day and suddenly there’s rumours he’s died, which always makes him question whether he’s actually alive or not.
Or the rumours are that he’s gone to Florida, which only makes him sad that he’s stuck in London for another month.
The worst is when it’s an issue and he doesn’t say anything or chooses to mind his own business.
Then he’s apparently racist, or homophobic, or antisemetic, or whatever Twitter has to say.
It’s too much.
George groaned as he slammed his forehead onto the desk. Why is editing so difficult?
It takes too long and it’s so tedious. Cutting out five seconds because he laughed too long or having to mute a part of the audio because of Sapnap’s profanity, why is it so much?
George practically shoved the mouse away, not caring when it hit the wall and bounced back.
His head felt like it was the weight of a bowling ball and throbbed with every motion.
His chest was tight and it was getting harder to breathe.
He couldn’t move, but he had to.
‘Call someone ’ his brain said. ‘Call Dream. ’
“No,” he whispered, attempting to shut down his thoughts.
But…
Should he?
I mean, what would be the harm in calling up one of his best friends, probably the person he’s closest to, and dumping all his mental baggage onto him like he’s some sort of therapist.
Yeah…
Bad idea…
But what if he just texted?
Then Dream wouldn’t see or hear the state he’s in, and he can still talk.
Slowly, he lifted his head. The pain was excruciating, pulsing in his skull like his brain was a time bomb ready to blow.
His phone wasn’t too far away, just on the edge of his desk. Reaching it shouldn’t take much effort, yet the physical pain he felt, along with the simultaneous emotional emptiness and overstimulation made the task feel as difficult as running a marathon in ten minutes.
George pushed himself up and flopped back in his chair, feeling limp as a rag doll, before opening up his phone and quickly switching to his messages with Dream.
You: hey Dream
The reply was almost instant.
Dream: hey Gogy
His chest tightened, winding up like a rubber band.
You: can we talk for a bit? I don’t feel like editing
Dream: sure! Just lemme get my discord set
Oh fuck, no no no-
You: can we just text? I don’t feel like calling either
Dream: is something wrong?
Yes
You: no, just don’t wanna call
Lies
Dream: are you sure?
No, he is absolutely not sure. His skin is three sizes too small for his body and he has a melon for a head.
You: I’m fine
Dream: are you not okay but don’t wanna talk about it?
He knows
You: Dream, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I just don’t feel like talking out loud right now
There was a pause.
It couldn’t have been for more than two minutes, but it felt like it went on for a century. What started as stress has morphed into a panic attack. Breath came in short bursts and George felt the need to cry, but he didn’t have the ability to.
He dropped his phone on the desk and pulled his legs up to his chest, palms buried in his face and shoulders hunched over.
Hot. Cold. Loud. Quiet.
Bzzz
His head shot up.
Slowly, George uncurled one of his arms and picked up his phone.
Dream.
Dream: what’re you doing? I’ve just been listening to music
Deep breath. In, and out.
Everything’s fuzzy. Head felt like it’s stuffed with cotton.
You: editing
It was all he could manage before it started. The tears that were previously blocked pooled in his eyes and slowly began trailing down his face.
He needed to get out of the chair. It’s supposed to be comfortable, but right now it was pushing against his legs and back in a way that felt overwhelming.
George removed his other arm from his legs and practically melted off the chair to the floor. His legs felt like jello, like they’d go limp if he put any weight on them.
‘ Heh, you’re pathetic…’
And why shouldn’t he think so? He’s a twenty-four year old grown man crying on the floor without the ability to use his legs at the moment.
He didn’t look up when his phone vibrated. He didn’t move from his spot for a while, just let himself lay on the floor and silently cry.
Where’d this event come from? He was fine a moment ago, just editing.
It didn’t stop.
It can’t stop.
Tears just kept coming and coming, spilling out of his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. He’d wipe them away, only for them to immediately be replaced within half a second.
‘Too much’
His phone vibrated again, but he almost couldn’t feel it. Just a small tickle against his arm.
Too much and too little at once.
‘ Go away go away, just everything go away!’
He doesn’t remember passing out.
He doesn’t remember throwing his phone.
He doesn’t remember hearing Dream’s ringtone from across the room.
He doesn’t remember any of this.
But he does remember waking up.
George groaned as he opened his eyes. Clearly he wasn’t in his bed, it’s too hard.
The view of the wires under his desk was confirmation of his place on the floor.
‘ What the-‘
Bits and pieces started coming back.
Sobbing on the ground, texting Dream for a bit, editing. But the rest was blurry, he couldn’t make it out.
Dream.
Shit.
George pushed himself off the floor.
His head was stuffy. George made a note to get some water after he checked his phone.
Where is it?
Why is it next to the door?
He picked the device from the ground and checked for cracks, luckily spotting none.
Next was looking at the messages.
His heart nearly dropped.
Dream: ugh, that’s not fun
Dream: what video?
Dream: hey, you still there?
Dream: George?
Missed call from Dream
Dream: I’m assuming either your phone died or you went to bed. Text me when you can okay?
You: sorry! My phone died
More lies…
He stuck the device in his pocket and left the room.
Water and maybe some painkillers.
~
After last night, George thought that was it.
He’d gotten his emotions out of the way and he could move on with his life. Right?
Wrong.
Very wrong.
It would have been fine if he was editing or even recording his own video. It would have been, except he wasn’t.
He was on Quackity’s stream. His live stream. Being broadcasted to over 70,000 people.
Of course now his brain decided to be stressed.
It didn’t help that Quackity was yelling so much. Jackbox really brought out all the noise and chaos, which is normally not an issue, but now…
“What the fuck is that?!” Quackity yelled as a drawing popped up on screen.
“I call it, nipple shield,” Dream said, matter-of-factly.
“The problem is ‘my nipples are always cold’ so here’s my solution.”
Quackity burst into laughter, the others in the stream (Tommy, Karl, and Tubbo) joined him.
George nearly took off his headphones, it was so loud.
He nervously joined in with the laughter so as not to raise suspicion.
“Dream, you’re an idiot,” he muttered.
This brought a chuckle from Dream.
The screen turned blue and showed a few words.
‘Fuck it’s my turn.’
George tapped his phone and the prompt popped up.
“I have trouble seeing your stupid face,” he read.
“So, I’ve come up with…”
The drawing appeared.
As best he could do. A stick man with a box on its head.
“Box.”
Pause for effect.
“Can’t see with it over your head.”
The game clapped, but no one else did.
No one said anything about it, just moved right on into Tubbo’s turn.
Did he do something wrong? Even a negative reaction or a “what the fuck” from Quackity or Tommy would have been better than this.
The silence was the worst thing that could have happened.
Them talking was too loud, but he wanted them to talk to him, to react to his picture, to just say something to him.
George tuned out the stream, staring blankly as Tommy showed a picture of what looked like a gun, talking loudly.
His chest started feeling tight again, only growing tighter as he began to panic.
George quickly hit the mute key and threw off his headphones. He covered his ears and hunched over, trying to bury his head between his knees.
Panicked gasps and sobs broke through the silence of the room. Hearing them made it worse, made him feel pathetic and weak. But he couldn’t take deep breaths, or even normal breaths. All he could do was gasp for air like a fish on land.
He clawed at his skin, trying to both peel it away and pull it closer.
Too much. Feels wrong. Tight. Too much. Too much!
He stayed like that for a while, not sure how long, but long enough for the stream to end. By the time he gathered himself and caught his breath, he was alone in the call.
Alone.
That’s exactly how he felt.
Alone.