Downhill || 𝘥𝘯𝘧

XXXVIII

George slammed his fist down on the comfortable cushions beneath him with a huff of annoyance. Hours into the night, he hadn't slept a wink. He just couldn't seem to be able to shut his brain off. The silence was deafening in his ears and his tongue was dry like cotton.

He kicked the blanket off of his legs and sat up, gazing around the room drowsily. He stared at the window, hardly able to believe his eyes. Outside, he could detect faint traces of light in the sky, reflecting softly off of the light clouds. The air was still and calm. His jaw dropped in disbelief, and he turned his head to look at the clock on the wall.

Five fifteen.

He'd been up all night.

George slapped a palm to his forehead with a groan of realization. "What the hell is wrong with me," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with disappointment.

An image of Dream flashed in his mind.

He shook his head, as if clearing the thought.

With a heavy sigh, George swung his feet out of bed and slowly propped himself up, waiting for the blood to return to his brain before taking a step towards the door. He figured there was no use in trying to sleep now. He might as well get up.

George made his way downstairs, quiet to not wake the only other person in the house, probably sleeping soundly in his room upstairs. He hoped Dream had better luck finding sleep than he did. Now I'm going to be tired all day, he thought with a scowl.

The house was cold, walls dancing with the soft strokes of light that filtered in through the windows. George had never heard the house this quiet. He entered the kitchen, smooth tile cold beneath his bare feet. He traced his fingers absently along the crisp marble countertops where he and Dream had stood only hours before, conversing darkly after their return home. He recalled the injuries on Dream's hands; and a moment later also recalled that he'd forgotten to give him any pain meds. He grimaced and hoped Dream had been able to sleep through the pain.

Coffee or tea? He thought to himself as he stood in the center of the kitchen, tapping his foot indecisively on the ground. After a moment of very intense thought, he decided on coffee.

George was floating on a cloud of sleepless daze as he made his way over to the coffee machine and flipped it on. Nothing to wake me up better than some sweet, sweet caffeine, he thought as he reached into the cabinet above the machine and pulled out a bag of coffee-grounds, as well as a white paper filter. He nestled the filter into the opening the top before pouring in about a quarter cup of the bitter-smelling powder. George then proceeded to find a measuring cup in a different cabinet, fill it with water from the fridge, and then empty that into the top, too. Once he flipped the lid closed, the machine got to work.

He stepped back with a satisfied expression as dark liquid began to drip from the machine and into the pot. The familiar scent of coffee was already wafting from the gently-humming machine and into George's nose. While he waited, George grabbed a cup and filled it with water to appease the ache that was beginning to throb in his head. Maybe last night's alcohol was finally catching up with him. He didn't particularly feel hungover; but he also didn't feel particularly great.

George downed the glass before going back for more and managing to swallow another few mouthfuls. He felt a little better afterwards. The dryness had been washed from his mouth, at least. He leaned against the counter, palms pressed heavily against the stone and heels digging into the unforgiving floor. He glanced once more at the coffee machine. Not even halfway done. How long does coffee usually take? It seems like it's taking longer than usual, he thought with a light sigh.