princessnotfound

[princessnotfound]

'Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @drcxmlcss

George is still in a somewhat dazed state. It takes quite a lot out of them to keep themself awake for the sake of letting Dream install whatever it is he's trying to install on their phone. As much as they loathe it, sleep has become a very important aspect of recovery. Quite frankly, it's awful and boring. They're well aware that rest is necessary to give them the best results, but they find themself staring into empty space so often with nothing to do, to the point where every passing second feels dreadfully long. Even with how much time passes while they're unconscious (they have been frequently dipping in and out of consciousness ever since waking up the first time, and the exhaustion is proving to be extremely frustrating), days still feel stretched into passing weeks or months at a time.

Yet, in spite of it all, they watch Dream with their brows furrowed together curiously. The weight on their eyelids will soon become heavy enough to not be ignored, but for now they can manage. Somehow, simply watching their rival type away on his laptop is the most entertaining thing they've been subject to watching for the past few days. Fundy's company is more than they could ever ask for, but seeing a fresh face is always welcome. The quiet clicking every time he hits a key is certainly refreshing to hear over the constant beeping of hospital machinery. Although, they do have to squint a little at the brightness of Dream's laptop screen -- even if it is facing away from them, it is considerably bright in the darkness of their room. "Could you turn down the brightness?" they ask. There's no bite to it. They're too tired for that. "Sorry, I know it's dark in here, just- it kinda hurts my eyes."

It's tempting to close their eyes just to avoid the light, but they know better than that… even if they're very close to doing so. George hisses at the ache in their limbs when they reposition themself to sit up. Laying down is only feeding into their tiredness. At least, this way, they don't ease into their pillow so comfortably. Raising their eyebrows, they observe Dream with a look that can only be described as impressed, but hidden by a poker face that would've been much more convincing if they were fully awake. George tilts their head, "you programmed every chess term? How.. how long did this take you?" And, with a light smugness to the edge of their voice, they add, "this is starting to seem almost thoughtful, you know…"

The best part is that they can smile without Dream knowing, because they told him not to look at them. Sue them for feeling some sort of appreciation, even if they are rivals, towards Dream for restoring their ability to participate in something they have a deep passion for. George is still human. They felt they were going insane without the ability to write, sew or move pawns across a chequered board. It was one of the many facts that kept them so miserable and frustrated the entire time spent here. Single-handedly, he has relieved them of one of their most important problems. Even if it was for his own selfish gain - though they doubt it - George is happier than they have been at any point during this journey to recovery. Maybe it won't be so slow with their chess rivalry to keep them occupied.

George turns as best as they can to look at their phone on the table. Beneath a flimsy, ugly hospital gown, bruising is still vivid and painful, so they can only move so much. The strain isn't too bad to turn their body, thankfully. Squinting at the screen and hesitating before saying, "yes..?" They seem surprised to see the match begin. A little chessboard lights up their phone, and they can see Dream's first move. "Okay, I guess that's pretty cool," they say, grinning. It lacks the dismissiveness they tried to add. "So, just chess notation? Like, I have to say C6, or can I say 'Caro-Kann' and it'll understand?" The piece moves at the sound of their voice, anyway. They don't know which phrase it responded to, so they raise an eyebrow at Dream, expectantly.

’Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @princessnotfound

Lighthearted scoffs are new. Interesting. Curious in such a way that Dream’s stance shifts. Relaxed, raised shoulders compliment a gentler pace, as if he’s been granted the gift of walking on air. Right, he totally doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Definitely. At least George doesn’t seem bothered by all this. Solemn as per usual, but not distressed or agitated.

He’s not sure why he cares, though. Not sure why the sound of George’s playful tone sticks in his brain, either. It’s not as grating as it usually is. This time, it’s soft — and he wonders if he could make them sound like that more often. Sure, it’s fun to irritate them into bitterness, but this may be as intoxicating as the venom.

Illogically so.

Dream presses his hold harder over his eyes, spirals of colors returning from the force. Come on now. The table. Focus shifts. With it, he’s able to accomplish what he set out for. The phone is secure in his free hand. All he needs now is confirmation of his position. But patience is not kind. It curls and wraps claws around his throat, aggravating sensitive skin.

Thankfully, George does speak up. Eventually, Dream’s mind huffs, but he keeps that to himself. Complaints can wait. Lowering his makeshift ‘blindfold’, Dream blinks into the darkness of the room. It takes a moment for him to adjust, but when he does, he realizes is indeed facing the wall. Good. Swinging his backpack off his shoulder and in front of him, he plops it by his feet. The laptop is swiftly retrieved when he sits, drawn out and onto his lap.

Cable there, connection set, and…

He gets to work. “Just a few minutes for the transfer. I had to create a fairly large database for the voice recognition to be effective.” He smiles to himself, pride swelling. “I mean, since there are so many chess terms… I didn’t want you to be unable to make a move just because I missed something.” That’s the absurd part, isn’t it? The fact that he went through and compiled the system himself, ensuring its functionality and vocabulary were perfect.

In hindsight, he recognizes that now. This is… hard to excuse as selfish. Ah. Damn. Dream sighs and taps his fingers mindlessly against the keys, from pinky to index and back again. A hypnotic tempo. The screen illuminates his face — or what isn’t hidden, anyway — with a dull blue glow. His hair, too, looks even paler in the lighting. Ethereal. He remains animated even still. Posture straight, shoulders rocking back and forth to a silent rhythm, as if nothing can stifle his spirit.

When the transfer finishes, Dream unplugs George’s phone. He reaches to set it back on the table, too, without turning his head. “Alright. Let’s try this out.” Satisfied, he opens a new tab and navigates to the app’s website. “The mod relies on chess notation. At any point, you can ask the computer to recite the game so far as a refresher.” There’s no need to explain more than that, he’s sure. George can figure it out. All he has to do is set up a game and—

“Dream has invited you to a chess match!” a computerized voice resounds from the phone. “1: E4. Accept the request?”

[princessnotfound]

Make my muse chose between two people. ANY TWO PEOPLE.

[princessnotfound]

'Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @drcxmlcss

They could've. But it's harder to think of better insults when they don't loathe him in this moment. For once, George sees through their own honest eyes -- not the arrogance that clouds their persona so frequently. Thick mist before their vision thins out and they realise that the company warms their heart. Dream can claim that he is visiting out of his own selfish greed all he wants. His desire for spilt blood over chequered tiles and wooden souls to feed the slacked maw of tyranny. It's alien, to feel about him this way. To feel about him in any way that doesn't make his muscles tense and his mouth burn with built-up venom, but it isn't something they can change, not when his presence lingers beside their deathbed to grant them a wish.

At the end of the day, whether they both choose to acknowledge it or not, this is meaningful. George will not weep into the emptiness of midnight when their fingers will not bend. They won't mourn the chess pieces that litter their desk at home, which they cannot save from demise because their hands will not move. Dream is giving them back a piece of their heart that they thought would not return for months. And while they wish they could press ink into paper, too, they're thankful for this, at least.

George hums quiet confirmation. Eyes dimming while they watch Dream's hand chase their own twisted one. For a moment, they pause, and jealousy bubbles beneath their skin. Their appreciation does not die out, but they will always prefer to hold a pawn between their fingers rather than drag a digital one across the screen of their phone. They gather themself for now, however. Guiding Dream to the bedframe and watching him cautiously. Some part of them questions what urged them to have to physically guide him rather than just give him verbal directions. George blames it on their exhaustion. "Yeah," they say, "you got it. Just walk around the edge."

The corners of their lips quirk upwards, barely, briefly. "How am I the idiot?" they scoff. It's surprisingly light-hearted, in comparison to the tone that they usually hold. While responding to Dream's insults, anyway. "You don't know what you're talking about. Just- shut up and find the table."

It is pretty amusing to watch. Dream edges around their bed slowly, and George's grin grows with every feeble step he takes. The part of them that is still nailed to violent black and white prays upon his downfall (George knows they won't be able to contain themself if Dream does indeed trip over), but they also can't help their eyes from wondering back to Dream's hand. The ridges of his knuckles stealing the place of his eyes. Marrow mountains protecting their image, and he does it all willingly in spite of the supposed animosity that burns between them.

"Oh, yeah, you can look," they reply eventually, drawing themself back from their distraction. Tipping their head to one side, cheek nestled into the pillow of the hospital bed. Dream has his back turned to them, but they watch him anyway. Hands aching and resting by their sides. Drowsiness tugs at their eyelids all the while. "How long is this gonna take..?"

’Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @princessnotfound

Idiot? “Like you could’ve come up with anything better,” Dream retorts, though there’s a smile in his voice. Cocky, albeit missing his usual overconfidence. After all… George’s laughter resounds in his ears. It should be like nails on a chalkboard. Should be grating and foul and all things detestable. But it isn’t. It feels rewarding.

He almost considers doing a 180 and stumbling to the door again just for that. Almost. George seems willing to try guiding him, so he continues his bold stride through the room. That remains the case, of course, until spunk depletes and silence sours the air. Uncertainty is not supposed to sink so cruelly into his chest.

“The bedframe?” Dream tries to visualize the space. He can somewhat imagine where the bed is now, based on where he walked to, but which side he’s on… is debatable. He slips one hand over both eyes, letting the other fall to his side as he thinks. That’s enough for George to take the initiative.

The tips of splints press to the back of his knuckles. Instinctively, he turns to reach out and follow the touch. Yeah. Broken hands. Teeth grit, Dream does his best to prevent obvious tension. As George instructs, he finds the edge of the bed, the sensation of sheets familiar.

George shouldn’t have moved. They should’ve just let him bruise his shin on the edge of the bed. He’d figure out what it was from that and could’ve followed it just as easily. Why would they strain themself? Are they worried about him? Distaste coils around his ankles. He moves briskly even still, fighting a mix of emotions he doesn’t dare name.

“You’re the idiot,” he says. There’s a bluntness to the comment that holds some upset. But George must already know this. The stupidity of the gesture is… nauseating for all the wrong reasons. They shouldn’t have put themself in that position, not when flesh and bone struggle enough as is to mend.

He hates that he’s concerned.

Bit by bit, Dream makes his way around to the other side of the bed. His eyes remain covered by his other hand, firm enough that he sees splotches of color despite closed lids. He relaxes ever so slightly, recognizing the lip of a table when his fingers bonk against it.

There’s the bed… and there’s the table… so the wall must, theoretically, be in that direction. Dream turns just enough so George will no longer be in his potential vision. His hand glides across the table until it feels the chill of a screen and takes hold. From, there, he lifts the phone off its charging pad and keeps it by his chest… hesitating before opening his eyes.

“Am I good to look now?” Dream asks, cautious as ever. Already, he’s planning the motions it’ll take to dig his laptop out of his backpack. Five steps ahead — not once glancing back. It’s an easy transfer. Should only take a few minutes once George gives him permission to start.

Curiosity nevertheless stings the back of his neck. It’s a miracle he’s had enough self-restraint for this.

[princessnotfound]

🎵

[princessnotfound]

'Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @drcxmlcss

Ideally, Fundy would be here to guide Dream through the process of getting and accessing George's phone, but they'll have to make do without him for now. They aren't so selfish as to call for him now. While George doesn't exactly get along with Dream, the two of them have danced the tango of rivalry for long enough to understand the synchronicity between them. Maybe their harmonies clash at times, but they can coordinate, with time.

"Literally?--" they repeat in question, cut off by the collision of the door as it is swung open. Dream stands in the doorway, but before they can bring themself to say anything, they find their lips curling upwards, fondly, at the sight of his hands thrown over his eyes. Literally. Try as they might to suppress their amusement, George cannot entirely silence their snickering. It's almost endearing, in a way. They had every reason to believe that Dream would not care to respect their wishes of not being seen, but going to these lengths just to ensure that he doesn't catch a glimpse of them? If he wasn't such a prick, the gesture might even be sweet.

"Oh my goodness," George grins, tilting their head. "You're such an idiot. I mean- I appreciate it, but you're such an idiot." Guiding him is a little bit more complex, though. Studying the distance between the doorway and the short path it'd take Dream to get to their phone. Furrowing their brows, George exhales and frowns a little, "well, I'll try my best, but since you aren't walking on an eight-by-eight checkered board, it's a little bit more complicated... but yeah. It'll probably be fine."

Before he can give any instructions, Dream is already moving. Striding forwards with a confidence that is all too tempting to snuff out. It'd be funny, if they guided him to walk into a wall head-first, but something keeps them from being so cruel. Wordlessly, they watch as Dream gets closer to the side of their bed. Hesitation is only brief. But it is long enough for George to realise that they did not open their mouth when Dream was mere centimetres away from the bedframe. Something is going to go wrong here, not at all intentionally.

For a moment, they say nothing, before grasping how untrustworthy their silence must be. George nods even if Dream isn't looking, "yes, of course I will. But- let's just make this easier. You're by the bedframe right now."

It's a stupid idea, but they reach out for him. Fingers stiff against splints. They can lean just far enough to brush against Dream's knuckles, though they cannot curl their fingers around his wrist. Even so, they do what they can to guide his hand to the edge of the bed, wincing. "Just feel around the edge. The table is on the other side of the bed."

’Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @princessnotfound

Ah. Of course the phone is inconveniently placed. Dream bites his lip, dissatisfied with the development. Even if he’s careful, there’s a chance he’ll catch a glimpse of George by accident. He doesn’t— That’s not. Hm. George seemed uncomfortable by the notion. Beyond that, Dream promised he wouldn’t stare. That takes precedent. Genuine assurances should be upheld. So…

“Alright.” A pause, contemplative. “Alright,” he continues, “I have an idea.” And then, he opens the door. He doesn’t step through it, though. No. He waits in the hall, letting it swing open enough to allow entry. “This is, uh… It’s going to seem ridiculous. But, I’m covering my eyes. Literally.”

True enough, he presses his palms over his gaze. Vision obscures instantly, but he has enough sense of direction to keep track of where the doorway was. Smoothly, he enters, chin lowered and hands still firmly covering emerald hues.

Maybe the silliness isn’t a bad thing, now that he thinks about it. He probably looks absurd. With any luck, George will get a laugh out of it. If nothing else, an eye-roll.

“Just— Think of it like chess, except this time, you’re directing a living breathing person who would prefer not to stub his toe,” he jokes. “Warn me when I’m getting too close to something, yeah?”

It’s anxiety-inducing. More so than he realized. Bit by bit, nerves ignite, dizzying him without the stability of sight. The plan, however, is simple. Over and over, he reminds himself of it. He’ll move to the bedside table, turn to face the wall, and get to work. George can tell him when it’s safe to look. They’ll be his eyes, ensuring he doesn’t mistakenly peek, and keeping him from smacking into furniture. Hopefully, anyway.

Dream makes it far before he needs guidance. He teeters close by, confident strides turning slow the further along he gets. He’s less sure of himself. A strange thought for him. Being unsure.

At one point, he extends a foot to poke at something in front of him — the bed’s frame. Not knowing what it is, though, brings another bout of confusion. “You’ll tell me when I reach the table and can look, right?” he asks, disoriented. Perhaps this was a terrible idea after all, trusting an enemy. Someone who couldn’t care less about his well-being.

Why did he try, then? Why did he bother to go to such lengths? And why was he too stubborn to say ‘fuck it’ and give up now? Vulnerability is an awkward position to be in, but— It’ll be worth it. It’ll be worth it when he can pester George over chess again. When he can send the victory emotes he always does to their phone, mocking them for their mistakes. When he can, for all intents and purposes…

Until then, he’ll await instructions, ignoring the urge to see with all his might. Control can be postponed.

Probably.

Just this once.

[princessnotfound]

Send me 🎵 and my muse will tell you what song they think fits your muse best.

[princessnotfound]

'Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @drcxmlcss

The knocking at the door to their room is what brings them back to consciousness before slumber can fully claim them. Three dull taps just to their left, and they can tell by the voice that the man who they are supposed to loathe has truly decided to visit them; George can’t help but feel awfully conflicted. Company is fleeting because they cannot expect to be watched over all the time, aside from by Fundy, who refuses to let his own life continue while George’s is restrained by fear and broken bones. Any sort of company they can appreciate, but this… This is Dream. And they appreciate the effort he has gone through to make his way here. That is the part that bugs them the most.

Their eyes feel heavy, weighted by their eyelids and the shadows hung beneath them, as they turn their head to look at the door. Hesitation is expected. There is the dilemma of whether Dream will be kind enough to respect their wishes of not being looked at, or if they simply came to mock his condition and fool them into thinking he would ever bother to make something as complex as a chess mod for them. Now that they look into the situation with more depth, George cannot fathom why they are trying to trust him at all. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe they have a concussion that they weren’t aware about, too?

It takes them a moment to realise that they have been silent all this time, pondering. While they aren’t sure if Dream is still waiting for their response, they call out anyway, “hey, yeah, I’m awake.”

Eyes drifting to the small bedside table that is positioned to their right, upon which their phone sits charging. It’s inconveniently placed on the opposite side of the entrance, not to mention how close it is to them, and they begin to reconsider this entire visit. If Dream so much as catches a glimpse of them, they aren’t sure how they’ll handle it at all.

“It’s, uh,” they say, brows furrowed, “it’s on a bedside table next to me. You’ll have to walk around the bed.”

Part of them wishes that Fundy was here right now, but it’d be cruel of them to demand his presence when this is one of the few times he is out of the hospital. He limits his own freedom for no apparent reason other than to appease them, but George does not know how else to explain that the appeasement is only temporary. Their heart aches without him, sure. They feel at ease when they hear his voice at their side. But when Fundy falls asleep in the chair pulled up beside the hospital bed, that is when the weight of the guilt makes itself apparent. Branching out over their shoulders until they can barely take it and plead with Fundy to take some time for himself.

It rarely works. They’re glad he is out on his own accord, for once.

If they are met with mockery the instant that their rival enters the room, then so be it. This is a risk that they are willing to take out of desperation and loneliness. Being beneath the limelight for so long has made them afraid of the dark. Attention from Dream is still attention, with or without eye contact.

’Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @princessnotfound

Dream’s backpack feels heavier than usual. Not because of the content, no. He’s sure he hasn’t stuffed more in there since last time. Just his laptop and a few notebooks lay within the waterproof material, protected and secure. It nevertheless burns against his spine, weighted by more than physical objects. He tries to shrug it off, rolling his shoulders as he enters the hospital, but it only worsens.

Fantastic.

The receptionist gives him a flimsy ‘visitor’ sticker, which he presses against his chest just above his heart. It’s a little lopsided — hastily applied — but that doesn’t matter. He’s not going to be staying here long. He has classwork to do by tomorrow, and it’s already late afternoon. Visiting hours may go for another several hours, yet he’d never take advantage of that.

After all, Dream’s only here to install the mod on George’s phone. Nothing more, nothing less. Around his wrist is a cable bracelet. He normally uses it to charge stuff during lectures. This time, it’d connect George’s phone to his laptop, letting him transfer over the necessary files. He fidgets with it in the elevator, twisting the wire around and around until the doors open.

Even then, Dream hesitates. His steps down the hall are slow, purposeful, and overthought. For the first time in a long while, he doubts his code. Worries it might not pick up George’s voice the way he hopes. Frets over glitches and unexpected faults. Even the most carefully written lines of code aren’t guaranteed perfection. Under his mask, he chews his bottom lip. It’d be embarrassing if he’d have to come back here to sort through bugs or deliver updates.

Why he’s so concerned with it being foolproof, though, is beyond him. He shakes his head, stopping in front of a door. This is the one he was told to go to. George is right in here. His fist hovers over the entrance, hesitating. With a frown, he knocks. Three quick taps with the back of his knuckles resound down the mostly-empty hall. He doesn’t wait for silence to fill with mechanical beeps.

“Hey,” he greets, leaning near the door. “You awake?” If not, he’ll have to text Fundy and ask where George’s phone was left. Or maybe call it and follow the sound of its rings. Looking anywhere else is… Well. He won’t. He’s determined as always to keep to his promise. Once it’s made with genuine intentions, it’s set in stone. And somehow, he can’t fathom turning back on this one. “Just let me know where your phone is, and I’ll be in and out ASAP.”

[princessnotfound]

Cupid's Arrow // thread with @drcxmlcss

Maybe it isn’t much, but George glows at the reaction he receives. Only briefly can they see the whites of Dream’s eyes illuminated with a frustration so deep it will be drilled into their memory for the rest of the evening. Preferably longer. Even if he insists on keeping his mouth shut, George has known him long enough, studied him long enough, to read his expression like an open book. They feel his lips twist into a smile beneath their thumb and fight the urge to claw it off his face. His irritation is much more amusing than his mirth.

They cannot deny how he startles them in the way he grabs their wrist so suddenly. Instinctively tugging their arm away. It doesn’t come free, though that doesn’t surprise them nearly as much. Moments ago, they were sure he wouldn’t lay a hand on them even if it cost him his life. But in this short time span, they have been more connected in proximity than they ever should have been. Breathing the same humid air and sharing the same bite of intoxication and ivory. Connected in flesh and bone, teeth and tongue, rather than carved wooden pieces or polished glass.

Competitiveness has limits. George questions if they have already surpassed them -- if they’ll wander further into this selfish game. They attempt another tug to free their wrist of Dream’s constricting grip, seething, “I would gladly never touch you again for the rest of my life.”

It isn’t entirely true. As much as their skin crawls whenever they are in his presence, tonight has been… eventful, to say the least. They taste him on their lips, still. Lingering where he pressed too close and pushed crimson from his tongue to their very flesh. And one day, they will get him back for it. Wield a brush with red deep enough to mimic blood. “What effect,” they drawl, unamused. “You mean making people want to claw your eyes out? Yeah, I know that effect all too well.”

Is it wrong of them to fantasise maiming him like they do his soldiers? Driving him into the ground and having him beneath the sole of their shoe, until he recites his place in prayer? George excuses it with the haze in their mind and the bloodthirst that commonly accompanies adrenaline. They hardly notice that they are still trying to gather their breath back, running their tongue over their bottom lip. He lingers there, too. “Right, noted, I forgot you don’t think before you speak, I guess there’s no point reading into your bullshit.”

They scoff. If anything, it sounds more disappointed than annoyed, because they’d expect anyone but Dream to pull the most basic card in the deck. And the worst part is, he is right. Their skin burns crimson under the influence of liquor and they aren’t thinking the way that they usually do. If George didn’t feel quite so light and airy, they would have left by now. It is their sensibility that has abandoned them in their time of need. They love to watch Dream’s hatred writhe beneath the perfected image of his composure, but if they were in their right mind, they would have departed by now and spared themself the taunting. Perhaps it is about time.

They are quick to swat his hand away. Lips parting to consider what they should say before they part, but the words do not form quick enough when their mind is so swayed and dizzy. George only sighs before turning around. Waving off their rival dismissively, shrugging the strap of their wing that he corrected off their shoulder, and losing themself in the crowd. They have what they came for.

End of thread.

Cupid’s Arrow // thread with @princessnotfound

Darling. The nerve. Dream couldn’t roll his eyes any harder, teeth grit. A thousand replies circulate his mind, each one begging for an utterance. None of them reach his lips, though. They settle on his tongue, heavy, lingering with the taste of sparks and iron. Instead, he huffs, his smile lazy. Inconsequential. So what if he was? So what if he’d fueled flames? George hadn’t snuffed them out.

George added just as much kindling, in fact. Is still adding it, thumb on his bottom lip, laughter in the air. They must want him to combust. To ignite so rapidly, he’d be unable to turn back. Why, he isn’t sure. They’ve always liked to push his buttons, as if doing so would expose the intricate networks he’s spent ages concealing. He resists. A siren’s song means nothing. Holds no sway, either.

The corner of his mouth quirks up, perpetually at ease. Or, at least, seeming that way. He keeps his thoughts at bay, ignoring the blaring alarms regardless of whether they’re warranted. “Nope,” he says simply. “I was afraid you would. I mean, look at you even now.” He grabs their wrist firmly, long fingers curled tight around skin and bone. Dwarfing George’s own palms, he can’t help but smirk as he pries their touch away. “Can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

He releases to prove his point, to emphasize just how much more self-restraint he has. “So sorry. I have that effect on people.” Emeralds trail back down to his phone. Mindlessly, he responds to some of the messages he’s gotten since the party started. Not much. Most everyone must be here, partying. Their phones are the least of their priority. And as a result, Dream fails to find a good enough distraction. Attention keeps diverting to George, who still stands close. Dangerously close.

When Dream realizes his mistake, it’s too late to correct it. ‘Enough.’ He hadn’t thought about it, but… “Of course you would read into the stupidest of things,” he scoffs. Fingers itch where they hold his phone, urging him to finally reposition his mask. He doesn’t. Caving now would be a show of cowardice. That doesn’t mean he enjoys this, however. The expression he wears betrays no discomfort, but there’s a stiffness in his jaw that won’t quite go away. A blush on the tips of his ears, too.

Flattered, huh? “No, you’re—” A sigh. “You’re tipsy,” he counters, tucking his phone away. It’s a sad excuse, he’s aware, but one they can’t fully deny. He’d tasted the bite of alcohol when he’d kissed them. “You’re grasping at straws, angel.” Teasing bite. He takes one of George’s glowing wings in between his fingers, lifting the material as if to mock its beauty. He could tear claws through shimmering magic if he wanted to. Corrupt perfection, leaving George utterly grounded. Apteral. Vulnerable.

But instead, he trails down to correct one of the straps. Skin briefly brushes skin, alighting nerves. “Go fly somewhere else, yeah? Before you end up ‘fallen’.”

He lets go.

[princessnotfound]

'Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @drcxmlcss

George is completely and utterly bored out of his mind.

Being bedridden is uneventful enough. Being unable to use his hands makes it all ten times worse; he cannot even scroll mindlessly on social media to keep himself occupied, even if only for a few moments. He'd much rather scan through the meaningless opinions of anonymous nobodies than bare another minute listening to the constant, repetitive beeping of hospital machinery. It feeds into the constant ringing in his ears and nearly compels him to suffocate himself in the awful discomfort of thin white sheets.

Part of him is beginning to miss the company of the pain. At least the dull ache accompanying the filthy browns and purples that now spatter his flesh made him feel something other than exhaustion. Medication eases the excruciating pain he was in previously, sure, but it also pressures him beneath the waves of drowsiness. George's eyelids hang heavy, cupped by dark shadows beneath his bottom lashes, and it takes a lot of willpower just to keep himself functioning. If it weren't for someone intending to visit soon, he would have allowed himself to drift off by now.

It doesn't quite register to him that he is disrupting his much needed rest and recovery time just to appease the presence of his greatest rival. It makes less sense the more he thinks about it, because he does not even have a method of retaliating against Dream, this time. Snarky quips do not fabricate quite so easily when his mind is slowed so severely by the liquid flowing into his veins. He cannot battle back with confident royalty, either, and his hands cannot carry the weight of his armies anymore. Here, George is vulnerable. Entirely so. And he questions why he is allowing Dream to come and visit him at all.

Maybe their competitive matches mean more to him than he would like to admit. Repeated battles among a familiar no-man's land have developed such a deep attachment that he feels lost without it. Just as lost as he feels without the ability to inscribe the ink of his bleeding heart onto pages, just as lost as he feels when he cannot fit thread through a needle. This hindrance has affected him too greatly. His heart aches thoroughly, with or without medication.

George sinks back into the pillow behind him. The lights are off - squinting irritates the bruising ebbing too close to his eye. It's tempting to let himself rest, and as his eyes close, he nearly gives in.

[princessnotfound]

What happened, exactly? Lots of rumors going 'round, so I wanna hear it from you. The right thing to do, I think

I don't really want to get into the details but let's just say some people were looking for trouble after the spring party and I happened to be on the receiving end.

[princessnotfound]

r u ok? uh. genuinely. kind of worried since u havent been posting much, ngl

I'm okay but unfortunately there is going to be a lack of content for a while. I apologise in advance and I'm happy to answer any asks in the meantime.

[princessnotfound]

Cupid's Arrow // thread with @drcxmlcss

It isn't their fault that Dream is looking too deep into their intentions. If he chooses to see their makeup as a mark of ownership, that's his own problem. If anything, George finds it oddly amusing. They'd have to be insane to want Dream as their own when they can hardly stand the guy as it is. Smeared lipstick and the blood drawn by ivory bones is nothing more than the simple animalistic desire to whittle down and conquer. Mark the doomed prey as a target board is painted upon. The only things of his that they would care to have in their possession are the winding pathways of his mind, or his insufferable unpredictability; that'd be nice to keep under their thumb.

"Come on now, don't act like it was all me, darling." They find it within themself to turn back around and face him. While the darkness conceals their own rose-tinted embarrassment, flushed and spreading sick over the bridge of their nose and the firm lines of their cheekbones, they wish they could see his face. Daring enough to extend a hand to their rival's chin and thumb away a little smudge of crimson that they didn't quite get. It comes off easy, though George hopes he will see it consistently in the mirror.

Biting into a polite smile, as if they did not wound him with the same eager teeth a moment ago. Still stained vermillion at the tips. Red is meant to stain ivory. Blood circulates their brittle bones every waking moment -- it isn't wrong of them. Surely.

Instead of pulling back, they lean into the proximity. Pressing down on Dream's bottom lip with their thumb, with a touch so delicate it is almost like they think him fragile, and they laugh at his hipocrisy. With such a reputation to uphold, George has perfected the art of a seraphic front. Innocence is a delicate thread. It takes time to weave something so thin fragile into a vessel. Dream trying to act as though he was not the one setting them off, intentionally pushing them to their breaking point, is considerably amusing.

"Pretending that you weren't moments away from biting me, too, I felt it. It's not like you to pussy out, Dream. What happened?" They take his chin between their thumb and index finger, tugging him close. A little too close for comfort. Mouth twisting with mirth, "afraid you'd like it a little too much?"

It's only fair that they get to piss him off back. Karma bites hard and they are nothing but right in serving him consequence. Whether it be through the bite of their tongue or their teeth. Wounding him with what they'd dare to say or where they'd dare to make him bleed. George's eyes follow Dream's phone with an air of amusement about them. There was no need for him to record the video on his own phone, when George is the one who needs to submit it. Sue them for jumping to a reasonable conclusion. It's too difficult to stop their lips from curling into a grin, head cocked at an angle.

"Obsessed enough?" they repeat with raised eyebrows. Maybe not enough. But certainly -- apparently -- somewhat. "That wasn't what I was insinuating at all, but since you just confirmed your little obsession without even being prompted… Aw. I'm flattered, really."

Cupid’s Arrow // thread with @princessnotfound

Lipstick smears down Dream’s chin, staining skin red. He raises his brows at the gesture — at how George lingers in shared proximity — but doesn’t make a move to wipe it off. His gaze does, however, narrow. Irritation covers confusion. What are they doing? That wasn’t part of a kiss. Or a game. At least… not the one he thought they were playing. Not Cupid’s Arrow.

Then again, were they ever playing it? Maybe at first. But here, close enough to breathe each other’s air, things feel different. Weird different. The kind that leaves his own cheeks rosy, dull in the darkness. How long had it been this way? Or, rather: When did he slip? At some point, gears switched through ever-changing rules. He should’ve known better than to assume straightforward victory.

There’s always more at stake when George is involved. Twists, turns; ups, downs. Predictability and strategy only go so far. Not even his own style can carry him through an unlit maze. He strayed from his path, and these are the consequences.

“Could ask the same,” Dream says, caving and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I mean, come on. Possessive much?” Right. Bites and smudged makeup are unnecessary. They’re the one who got carried away. He’s not theirs; what makes them so inclined to leave marks?

…Of course, he knows who truly pushed it. A quick peck would’ve done the trick. But then, he wouldn’t have won anything. George will already get their stupid prize. He deserves the chance to taunt them in exchange. It just didn’t end the way he intended.

They let him. They surrendered. They acted with placating ardor. It’s an outcome he didn’t foresee, and— And that’s why they did it, isn’t it? Yet again, they’re holding something over his head. In giving up, they’ve ticked him off. God, he hates them. They always find a way to stick, to circulate through storms of thoughts with undulating persistence.

It wouldn’t be as much of a problem if he knew he’d done the same. Yeah, he could lie to himself. He could declare compliance a sign of success and move on. But he’s not an idiot. This isn’t true submissiveness. This is a tie. Worse, George did whatever they could to stand taller, and if he keeps overthinking it, he’s going to let them.

Fuck that.

Dream refocuses on his phone. Their voice drags him back, though, as if they refuse to let him go. Keep it? “I— What?” he scoffs. “Don’t kid yourself. I’m not saving it.” Playfully, he rolls his eyes. The video is, in fact, deleted from his camera roll. George isn’t worth wasting storage on. Nonetheless, their concern is funny.

“Where’d you get that idea from, huh?” He reclines against the wall once more, eyes glued to his screen. “First the lipstick… now you think I’m obsessed enough to save a video of you?” Jests run rampant as heat dissipates. He needs to get the last word in. “Seems almost hopeful. Would hate to see where else your mind goes, George, if you misunderstood me trying to piss you off that badly.” Because that’s all the kiss was. Him trying to piss them off.

[princessnotfound]

😱🫁

😱 Shaking 🫁 Ribs/Lungs

T/W // Whump ahead ! ! ! (little blood mention)

(7/7)

His skin is too hot to process that they are no longer touching him; his body is burning up, in spite of the Devil’s hour bringing chilled winds with it, battering against his bare skin. Through darkened, broken vision, George notices the slightest movement. The scuffling of shoes in front of him. Soft chattering and devilish laughter and his own hushed weeping. Barely holding onto the fingertips of consciousness with his warped, destroyed hands. Begging it silently, please don’t let me go.

Trying to dig his nails into the cracks of the pavement and drag himself out of the alleyway, but the slightest bit of pressure against his shattered fingers sends violent jolts of pain up his arms. His attackers don’t seem to like his failed attempt. A forceful kick tips him onto one side, and another blooms dead flowers atop his stomach, robbing his lungs of all his air. Bruising isn’t enough for the insatiable appetite of heartless devils – he knows all too well, they want to see him bleed inside and out. Until his skin is as vermillion as the imps that ride their left shoulders. 

George hopes to whatever divine being that he is hallucinating when he hears another faint crack, when someone’s shoe collides with his side – they may not have his faith, but he would devote his time and belief if they would only just save him. Prove the hand of their benevolence and give distribute the karma of the damned.

These bruises will stay behind for quite some time, that much is simple. No amount of makeup will conceal the ruptured blood cells beneath his flesh. His torso will be lit aflame and his skin will be dyed crimson, for the following months. Beauty flees him. No longer wanting to home a vessel so terribly damaged. Trembling from the frigid cold, from the constant ache, from the fear that the next time he blinks, his eyes will refuse to reopen. There is a final kick to his back and everything stops.

Only momentarily. Fingers comb through the messy remains of his hair and tug his head up to meet the eyes of someone he has never met nor wronged before. Cruelty. George’s face is slick with sick and blood. He hears them clearly this time, even if his eyes roll and slip into darkness, spat hate is vivid as ever, “not so perfect now, are you?” They drop him. His head collides with the floor hard enough to knock him out cold.

In a mess of his own making. Akin to a crime scene. Footsteps shift into the distance and leave death in their wake.

[princessnotfound]

💪🦴

💪 Muscles 🦴 Bones

T/W // Whump ahead !!! (bone breaking, vomit mention)

(6/7)

Waves of nausea hit so greatly, he knows he will not be able to handle it much longer. Brutal agony has his head spinning and he cannot focus on anything around him. He feels too much. A broken nose and bruised face pinned against the cold floor with enough force to send blinding pain through his veins. Every twitch of his fingers forcing fresh tears from his eyes. His knees ache from being dug into uneven concrete with such a weight on top of him, cracking the delicate china of a fragile body.

There are spots of darkness creeping into his vision, blocking out the moonlight and the movement in front of him, not that he is able to pay much attention, anyway. Painstakingly curling his fingers until he’s sure he hears them crackle within, and sickness swells in his stomach. The dizziness of being awfully drunk and being beaten into the ground isn’t a very pleasant combination. There is exhausting pain and nothing but – his body fails to process anything else. Just fire, everlasting fire, his open wounds feeding into the flames and the embers combing out his insides.

Everything he has eaten today comes up. George chokes on the acid pooling on his tongue and gags around his own remorse. Every frail muscle spasming with the strain of physical effort, it is electric. Barely breathing around the lightning bolts that chap his lips and sear his throat; that doesn’t stop him  from emptying his insides beside him. Head still firmly trapped beneath the rubber edges of someone’s boot. Pathetic or not, all sense of pride and image have disappeared. The words themselves are erased from his rotting brain while he is akin to a corpse of a man. Trembling, whimpering with a wavered voice if he can manage without gagging at the heap of squalor he has become, or another violent spasm that only gets him pressed further into the ground. The pressure on his skull lets tears fall free and mix into sickly orange.

Do they not understand how he will break? How close he is to simply shattering, like thin glass or porcelain?

It all just feels… wet. Too out of it to tell if he is lying in his own sweat, tears, blood or sickness. All he knows is that there is plenty more sweat, blood, tears and sickness to come to join the amalgamation. The thought of it makes him sicker than already. He cannot push himself away, because his fingers scream out when he dares to move them. Broken bones lodged into his flesh.

He wonders if they’d offer mercy to a corpse. So he closes his eyes.

[princessnotfound]

✋ Hands 🦴 Bones or 🩸 Blood 🧎 Kneeling 😱 Shaking

✋ Hands 🦴 Bones 🩸 Blood 🧎 Kneeling 😱 Shaking

C/W // Whump ahead ! ! ! (bone breaking)

(5/7)

Puddling at his feet. If he looks a little closer, George is sure he can almost see his reflection in the empty red pool that is made from his very being. His violent trembling makes the image considerably blurry, but he isn’t given much time to dwell, anyway. Dull metal prying the flesh of his shoulder apart has him throwing his head back. It knocks harshly against the hollow chest of the person restraining him; there is no beating, breathing heart within them, George is sure about that much. Empathy swims aimlessly around beneath their ribcage, if it even exists at all, with no heart to harness it. His own heart bleeds more heavily than his open wounds. It races and suddenly the protection of his bones seems so futile, when these strangers want so badly to see him break. 

Slowly, though, the pain is ebbing away. Everything merges into the flames as his body seemingly adjusts to such a hellish temperature. Distantly, he acknowledges that it isn’t a good sign. But it’s difficult to believe the logic when the aching finally eases. Lidded eyes filled with unshed tears distort his vision.

George feels his knees bruising against concrete. Lavender pulled over marrow will be smudged red and violet, later, just like the bruising on one side of his face. The hands on him pull apart. It is sickening; their palm, connected by strings of blood and saliva, is peeled away from the mess of his mouth. Finally, he can spit the molten metal pooling beneath his tongue. A solution of red and transparent stickiness is smeared over his chin, and the darkening bruises laid over his cheek. Though he cannot see himself, he knows he is in a state.

A few minutes ago, he would have squirmed his way free the moment he acknowledged the grip around his torso loosening, but spilling the contents of his veins drains him of the energy he’d need to run. Exhaustion and fading soreness has tighter chains binding his wrists and ankles. It feels as though he is being guided into his execution. Guided unkindly onto his knees. Taking a swift kick to the back and doubling over, letting bigger hands lower his head onto a guillotine. Violet flesh is pressed to the concrete floor. It is chilling, cold enough to soothe the bruising, but a boot pressed firm against his skull makes sure he still feels the endless discomfort.

His eyelids flutter. Mouth numbed by the foul taste of his own bitter blood, nose pressed uncomfortably against the ground. All he can really do is listen. Stay still and hope that his compliance will grant him mercy, even when his hand is taken into someone else’s. He is glad he cannot see what they are trying to do.

However, the voices are not quiet nor subtle. They don’t keep their intentions a surprise. George mulls over the phrasing muffled in his head - he’s sure he heard a sentence end off with, ‘right or left handed?’, and absently curls his hands into fists. His attackers don’t allow for it though. Each of his fingers of his left hand. Someone takes them one by one. Hand closed around his index finger with intentional firmness and it is pulled back until it snaps. With his mouth no longer covered, George can scream. The volume scratches his throat raw until his head is pressed harshly beneath someone’s boot, rigidly against the ground and his head throbs so badly that he worries his skull may crack beneath their weight. Instead, he chokes on the need to cry out every time a finger is bent backwards and broken in twine. Gasping around a feeble, “please.”

It’s hard to breathe. George’s thumb is twisted at an awkward angle and a crack follows the motion. Pain builds up nausea and he is heaving on the ground, drinking in the sickening air of smoke and iron and death, trembling when a now-useless hand is dropped to lay on the floor. They don’t grant him clemency there. Footsteps make their way around him until a figure is crouched in front of his face, taking his hand into theirs with a gentleness so tender it frightens him to his very core. He can do nothing but watch while they snap his fingers back one by one and hush him. His screams are silent because his voice cannot take the strain. Watching his adoration of writing literature, playing chess and pulling needles through thread are taken away by the simple crack of a bone. 

His body trembles with the effort to stay conscious and refrain from spewing his guts. But it becomes harder the longer he stares at how twisted and morphed his hands have become.

[princessnotfound]

🩸✂️🥶

🩸 Blood ✂️ Haircut 🥶 Shivering

C/W // Whump ahead ! ! ! (mild blood mention)

(4/7)

George feels disgusting in this moment. There is filth building beneath the hands that hold him in place and his tears leave spit in their wake. Sluggish to track down his face and roll along the underside of his chin. Following the curve of his neck and trailing over the burns at his throat. He may not have cigarettes crumpled up against his flesh anymore, but the burning persists. Hellfire gnaws at a living vessel and slowly, callously, turns him to ash. He can barely comprehend his surrounding environment save for the smell of rotting, burning dermis and the metallic taste in his mouth. Blood flows in a steady stream from his nose and gathers at his top lip. Merging with smudged lipstick and filling the gaps between his teeth, tinting them red and brown. If there wasn’t a hand over his mouth, he would’ve been sick. Their laughter makes him sicker.

Dulling pain still fuels the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Enough to force him to keep his eyes wide and limbs stiff, trying to twist his body in whatever way available to help him slip away. He isn’t moving. But he isn’t allowing himself to believe that, either. Somehow, feeling as though he is making progress working towards his escape grants him the slightest bit of hopeful confidence, even if he is swallowing his own blood and his bones cry out beneath the pressure of such a firm grip.

Something glints to the side of him. Refusing to keep still, George throws a hesitant glance in the direction of reflected moonlight, pupils shrinking to pinpricks and rattling within strained scleras. They are glossed over with unshed liquid. Rising storms in the unsettled ocean of his irises. His mind races faster than the waves crash, because it could be anything. 

A bracelet. A camera. A weapon. He doesn’t know.

He keens anyway. It’s pathetic and, worst of all, bloody. It smears behind the stranger’s hand and wets his own lips. It probably seeps between their fingers, because for once he acknowledges a sound of mild disgust rather than the sound of brutal mockery. He can feel droplets of crimson – blood? Tears? Spit? He can’t tell anymore – rolling down his skin, following the path along his collarbone, gathering on the low collar of his shirt. Shutting his eyes with another wet cry into his muzzle. Something cold and metallic is jutted against his throat. Just underneath his chin. The space beneath the tongue that isn’t protected by fragile bones and would split with fascinating ease. It is too complex for him to understand. How a single quick motion, right here and now, could leave him motionless. One flick, and his very soul would depart to make room for maggots and rodents. Distantly, George wonders if he would feel them eating him alive. If he’d remember dozens of little teeth tearing him apart before departing.

He is certain that he is going to die here. Like this. Helpless, restrained and filthy.

Desperation even urges him to apologise, if it was possible. His eyes roll to one side, hoping to catch the gaze of one of his attackers, but he is met with an excruciating pain in his head. Alien fingers tangled through ravenette wisps just to threaten to rip his hair straight from his scalp. Talons dragged around his skull over his Adam's apple. Shimmering steel is brought closer and he can do nothing but take it and hope they don’t slit his throat and leave him to bleed at the end of a dirty alleyway. 

When the taut grip on his hair vanishes, he nearly has the audacity to feel relieved. To believe that they are sparing him. But dark curls fall before his eyes and land in a neat little clump on the ground and George chokes on his own blood trying to scream. Thrashing the more they cut. What they wield are not knives, but scissors. Scissors slicing through ugly chunks of his hair off and letting it fall to settle on his shoulders, or gather on the floor by his feet. Every snip feels louder than it truly is. Ridding him of such an important aspect of his beauty, of his existence, and making him watch it decay. He weeps loud enough to be heard through rivers of blood and saliva and the barrier of a stranger’s hand, and they take it as an invitation.

Not only do they cut at his hair, but they snip through the hem of his crop top, too. Metal glides along his naval with frightening ease as it cuts through cotton. It falls to the ground in shreds. Humiliation flares beneath his skin, shirtless, even if his body shivers violently now exposed to the cold. When George feels the sharp end of scissor blades pushed firmly against his flesh, he squeezes his eyes shut and braces for the worst.

The fire continues its spread, and it is agonising. Scissors are not quite sharp enough to cut through flesh effortlessly. They are not nearly as razor-edged as the pointed edge of a blade, nor are they jagged enough in comparison to the fangs of a shark. They are blunt. So awfully so that George feels them tearing through his skin so slowly, disrupting and contorting split dermis, and he is sure that his body will never truly mend itself. Like a scalpel to a corpse. Dissecting every part of him, all of his attackers chatter amongst each other while they participate, like he is some sort of game. Like he is an event. A toy, an experiment subject to all of their most violent test runs, to feed into the sadism that is shown so clearly on each of their rotten faces. Blood is warm and sticky. It waterfalls from a gash in his arm to webbing between his fingers. George feels it all over himself, and he wails into a cupped hand every time new vermillion is spilt.

[princessnotfound]

👄🚬🤤

👄 Lips 🚬 Smoking 🤤 Drooling

C/W // Whump ahead ! ! ! (burning)

(3/7)

Before he can make another sound, there is a hand swinging around in front of his face again. Instinctively, he ducks away. It finds purchase over his lips, clamping his mouth shut before he can ply his teeth open and drive ivory into brittle flesh. Yanking himself backwards just to collide with the bodies of more people he doesn’t know -- he’s fairly certain he hasn’t wronged anyone, at least he hasn’t done anything cruel that he’s aware of. This can’t be revenge. It’s sadism. Jealousy. One of the hands gripping his arm wrenches him to the side as a warning; a yell is muffled and wet against the firmness of a stranger’s palm. Leaving enough room for him to breathe, but he suffocates anyway, by the scent of bitter smoke and alcohol.

For how tough he usually acts, he certainly does not show it physically. George is quick and sharp when it comes to words. His intelligence and stubbornness may surpass most others. It’s easy to break someone apart with words sharper than a blade, but when he is met with physical danger, there isn’t much he can offer. His one weapon is held shut, anyway, like a muzzled animal.

An arm folds over his torso, pinning his arms to his side. Trying to writhe does barely anything. Meaningless sounds are screamed into the hand of another. They catch his pleas and force them back into his mouth to choke on. Keeping him firmly pinned against someone else’s body, now, he can tell he is being restrained by one person. Thick fingers grip at his face harsh enough to leave crimson markings and the arm over his chest digs into his ribs. It is a strain to breathe, when his lungs feel as though they are being compressed. Muscle is firm against his own body and he knows that he might as well give up right now.

Desperation keeps him fighting. The need to gasp air that doesn’t smell of ash and embers. The pain spreading across his face, only worsened when his head is twisted by the jaw to be pinned firmly against someone’s chest. The ache in his body from being held so tightly to prevent his escape.

Out of the corner of his eye, he counts four of them. They circle him and the person trapping him. A pack of wolves with dripping, gaping maws and yellowing fangs, sharp enough to pierce right through him, effortlessly. Helplessness is an awful feeling. It stirs like acid in the pit of his stomach, rising with a burning hatred that scolds him for arguing against finding Fundy indoors. He would not be here if he had just decided not to be stubborn, if he had turned around and headed to the bathroom, where the person dearest to him still waits on tiled flooring, probably hunched over a toilet. George figures that he’d rather be spewing his meals of the day than be caught here. Regret kills his desire to flee. It’s impossible.

There is movement, and before he can see who is approaching, George’s head is tugged upwards. It’s a strain when he is already so firmly locked in place. Lamenting behind the hand that pulls like it intends to rip his head clean off of his neck. His sleeve slips from his shoulder and his head is forced to one side, exposing the untainted skin of his bare throat.

It burns there. A fire blossoms at the junction where his neck meets his shoulder, searing a mark into perfected china and ruining it of all its value. As soon as he feels it, he is jerking away-- at least, trying to. Squirming to no avail and squeezing his eyes shut, kicking aimlessly at those around him but his feet collide with nothing but empty space. There is no getting away. Smoke rises from where he is burned. His pain and sorrow is still stifled, locked behind a clammy hand. His remorse creeps into the creases. Ash spills over his shoulder while a cigarette is twisted against his skin, charring part of his neck dead and grey.

When they do it again, his eyes sting and saltwater gathers at the corners. It’s relentless. His neck is hot as burning charcoal, and it feels as though there is fire dancing on his flesh. Kicking at his captors earns himself an addition of humiliation. He aches when they spit on the ground he walks on. He flinches when they spit in his face and saliva mixes with tears. Even the laughter is not quite so cruel as that.