Downhill || 𝘥𝘯𝘧

XXXIX

-

"That was such a waste of time," Dream huffed into the chilly afternoon air, arms swinging carelessly at his sides as he walked beside George across the snowy pavement. They were heading back towards the Tube after a long, aggravating doctor-visit. Long because the place had been all backed up with sick patients, and aggravating because it was, well... the doctor's office.

"At least now we know," George countered, though his argument was weak. He was just as annoyed as Dream that the visit had taken up half of their day. "I'd have hated myself if you ended up having a broken finger and I didn't bring you to the doctor."

Dream scoffed. "All they did was tell us what we already knew. I knew I fractured a knuckle. I knew there was nothing they could do about it."

"Well, you didn't know..." George rolled his eyes to look at Dream.

"I did," Dream insisted.

"Hey, at least you got some free bandages out of it," George shrugged, motioning to the white bandages covering his hands. There was nothing above his knuckles, however, giving him the ability to wiggle his fingers and such; to the best of his ability, at least.

"I think you did a better job," Dream stated, and George scoffed dubiously at him.

"No you don't," he laughed, and Dream chuckled.

"Sure I do. Just look at this," he said, holding his left arm up and wiggling his fingers. George noticed they were red and bruised purple and brown on some places. "They didn't even secure my fingers."

"They probably did that for a reason," George pointed out.

"Nope. I think they purposefully bandaged them crappily so that I hurt my fingers again and then I have to come back, therefor giving them more money. That's how the economy works these days," Dream grumbled. George couldn't help but think he sounded like an old angry man, using words like 'these days' and 'economy.' But he listened nonetheless, a bemused smile resting upon his dreary gaze.

Dream continued talking, rambling aimlessly about stuff George couldn't really understand, something about stocks or economy or space aliens for all he knew. George sort of zoned out for most of it. He was thankful for Dream's voice taking up the silence in the back of his head; it was something like a white noise to his fuzzy brain. George was trying not to show it, but he was exhausted. He hadn't slept a wink last night; his body was running solely on that cup of coffee he'd made himself in the morning.

He was almost sure Dream would have picked up on his restlessness by now; maybe by the slight slur in his voice, or the way he was zoning out every other conversation, or by the giant bags under his eyes. But Dream hadn't said anything about it so far. Maybe he'd noticed, but just decided not to say anything.

It was hard to tell with Dream. Sometimes he noticed the smallest things about you, and other times he was dense as a rock.

George was currently fighting the urge to just stop, curl up on the concrete, and fall asleep. He was actually amazed he'd made it this far without doing so. Eyes trained dead ahead, ignoring his surroundings, he was trying his best to keep from dropping with exhaustion.

A few times, he'd felt the urge to ask if Dream had slept poorly, too.

He felt himself wondering if Dream really felt regret after doing what he did. He'd sounded pretty regretful in the morning, that was for sure. George, on the other hand, was torn in two. One half of him felt bad for the man, who'd been mercilessly beat into a pulp to the point where George was pretty sure he had a broken nose, dislocated jaw, and lips torn so viciously apart to the point where he wasn't even sure they were salvageable.