Fall Apart (Dream Team)

Chapter 34: Everything is Not Fine

CWs: there's a very brief mention of religion, since it's a hospital.   most of this comes in the form of rant by bo burnham

Dream opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the dim light of his room.  His head rested on George's ribcage, his arms wrapped around George's.  He felt safe there— their legs were pressed together, Dream as close as he could get George. 

Rubbing slightly at his eyes as his brain began to process information, Dream realized tree truths at the exact same time: he and George were, without a doubt, cuddling, his beloved blanket was almost falling off the bed, and George was laying on his back.  He could certainly deal with the physical affection— he'd wanted to hug George for such a long period of time, he could take whatever embarrassment came of it.  He'd certainly get made fun of for it, but like he'd get made fun of for loosing his mind over his blanket.  Now matter how much he and George joked about it, he knew it was off to want to be attached to George.  He also knew it was a direct result of being deeply in love with the man. 

Gripping onto George's shoulder with one hand and burying his face further into his chest, Dream used his remaining hand to grab his blanket, putting it over his head and resting it against his cheek.  He left the blanket in his arms, returning his other arm around George. 

He'd never been more content to say in a moment in his life.  He closed his eyes as he drifted in and out of consciousness, holding all that he loved in his arms. 

~

George's ragged breathing woke him. 

He tried to rub circles into George's shoulder, hoping it would be a comfort.  The room was warm, their combined body heat providing extra warmth, extra safety.  He stayed, content to lay on George, to stay in the moment.   The room went dark as he held his person close.

George.  George was laying on his back.  His eyes flew open with that realization— it was the one thing he was supposed to keep from happening. 

He turned his head to look to George.  His breathing was shallow and rapid, tears streaming down his face as he stared at the wall, unseeing.  A pang went through Dream's chest; he didn't know how it happened.  He didn't know how he had let George get so bad, but he knew he had to do something.

"George, George, are you okay?" He asked, pushing himself off George slightly.  "George, look at me," he said, moving to the side and cupping George's chin in his hands, making eye contact with the man as he ran a hand across his jaw.

Something flashed over George's eyes, something akin to recognition passing through his face in the dim light of Dream's room.

"Help me, help me," his whispered, his voice thick and strained as his tears pooled against Dream's hand.

His heart shattered.

It hadn't gotten better. He knew it wouldn't; he knew things would get bad, he knew George needed more than a dismissive doctor and antibiotics. He could have, he should have done more.

George was suffering, and he could have prevented it.

"George, George what's wrong?" He asked, running a hand through his hair. 

George made a coughing sound and rolled to his side; acting on impulse, Dream leaning over and grabbed the trash can from the floor, holding it to George's face as he puked.  Dream looked away, waiting for an indication from George that he was done— he hated dealing with people that were sick, and often refused to watch his siblings when they were sick.  Something about George on the other hand was different.  Even when he was practically sick in his arms, he didn't let go, he didn't push George away like he would anyone else.