Downhill || 𝘥𝘯𝘧

XLII

They arrived at the hospital in no time. Once the train had stopped and the doors slid open, Dream and George exited the Tube station and pushed through the brittle air toward the wing where George's mom was being held. As they walked, George shivered, teeth chattering and hands tucked into his pockets.

"It's cold as hell out here," he complained.

"We could've called in Uber," Dream reiterated what he'd suggested before. "Then we wouldn't have to walk as far."

"Yeah, but the Tube is quicker," George grumbled like he wasn't very happy about that fact.

"Yeah, and we take it every day," Dream complained along with him. George fixed him with a side-eyed stare.

"You didn't have to come, you know. I'm perfectly capable of taking a trip to my mom by myself," George stated flatly.

"I know," Dream agreed simply. A moment passed, waiting for him to add on to that, before George turned to face him as they walked.

"You know? That's it?" He asked flatly. Dream nodded.

"Yeah. Sure, I know you're capable. But that doesn't mean I don't want to come with you."

George scoffed, walking face-forward once more. "Why would you want to come to the hospital with me to visit my mom every single day? That seems a bit... weird."

"Weird?" Dream repeated. "Right. You want me to stop?"

"Well... no," George admitted. "I enjoy the company, but—"

"But nothing," Dream cut him off. "It's fine. I like coming with you. It gives me something to do, at least," he said with a shrug. And I get to hang out with you, so that's a plus, he almost said, but refrained. That would be too cringe, especially for George. He would probably laugh at him.

"Okay," George concluded with a nod of his head.

They entered the hospital, both breathing sighs of relief as warm air washed over their chilled skin. Dream wrinkled his nose at the familiar aroma of the place; the tang of rubbing alcohol and flowers brought by relatives, mixed with the unmistakable scent of sickness and death. There really wasn't a word to describe that smell; he could just sense it in the air.

They approached the front-desk clerk lady, and she instructed them to nametag themselves before they were allowed to go any further. She recognized them by their faces at this point, especially after visiting every day for almost a month. Dream slapped a nametag onto the fabric on his chest before following George deeper into the hospital. He knew the way better than Dream did.

They made a few turns, went up some stairs, and walked down a long hallway before they reached the room. George sighed and clicked open the door, gazing inside with a dull expression.

But once his eyes rested on the bed inside, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped open with immediate shock. An exhale of surprise escaped his lips as a pale hand slapped over his mouth.

"What is it?" Dream asked curiously, peeking around him to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. Behind the heavy wooden door, a doctor and two nurses were hovering over George's mother's bed, talking to her and taking notes on their little clipboards, removing the drip bags from her arms and taking her pulse and blood pressure. There was a woman sitting at the head of the bed frame, feeding her soup with a big spoon.

George's mom's eyes were open and shining with life. Her short, dark hair was loose and flowing over her shoulders, elegant even after being asleep for however long she'd been. She was moving her arms, her jaw, her face. And her chest was moving. And she was blinking, looking at George, a gasp of realization emitting from her parted, incredibly-chapped-looking lips.