Just One Night // DNF

32 - I wish I wish I wish

A/N - 2600+ babes; enjoy this short chapter my loves. Get some water and a snack and enjoy <3

Because George found himself missing his best friend.

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George was awoken by a nightmare, or what he believed was a one.

It was closing in on 3 am. His skin was slick with sweat, his hair damp to the scalp with it. His heart was thudding like a bird in a cage between his lungs. Sheets were thrown off the bed, scattered on the floor and at the foot of the bed.

Deep brown eyes strained in the darkness that was his bedroom. He inhaled deeply, his breath shallow and erratic as he fumbled for his lamp switch on his bedside table. Fingers snagged on the familiar feeling of plastic and he pressed it. Yellow cream-colored light shot out of the lamp shade, blinding George for a few seconds.

George leaned back, his head thudding gently on the wall behind him. His knees curled up to his panicked chest. His arms, terribly thin and cautious, slinked around his shins to pull himself close. He tugged, leaned forward, and collapsed into himself for just the faintest feeling of security. Knees pressed against rips pressed against sheets pressed against a tortured soul.

He couldn't remember why he had woken up in a panic. He couldn't remember the nightmare that had the sheets strewn about on the floor. He couldn't remember anything past when Dream dropped him off at home and he fell on his bed, falling asleep nearly immediately.

George sighed, his eyes squeezed shut as he willed the episode to pass. It's been so long since he'd had one of said episodes. The last time had to be nearly two months ago when he woke up after that party. Since then, he hasn't experienced this sort of panic. George was naive to just think it decided to take a permanent vacation.

His nails dug into his legs, crescent moon indents cut into the soft skin. He tried to focus on his breathing. He counted his fingers with soft presses against his skin, just to make sure all 10 were there. He wiggled his toes when counting them too, pressing them into the mattress gently. He counted how many breaths he took in a minute. He counted how many ears he had. How many eyes. Arms. Hands. Legs. Feet. Distraction and order were key in calming himself down.

He blinked his eyes open. Stared at the wall across the bed. Counted the corners of the TV. Then the sides. Counted his breaths again. And again. Then his fingers again for good measure.

The fist that squeezed his lungs loosened its death grip, easing oxygen into his body. In, and out. In, and out. He reveled in the feeling of air in his lungs. In his blood. In his brain. He sighed again, tipped his head back until it hit the wall behind him.

George wished that the break he was graciously given was longer. A lifetime longer. But alas, the panic attacks missed him and misery really does love company.

George figured that the cause for the episode was because of 13. He refused to call him by his name because a gross, filthy thing like that doesn't deserve to be called by their name. Even if it's in the confinement of one's own head.

But if George could bet money, he'd bet it on the fact that his interaction with 13 triggered some dark, deep well inside his already self-sabotaging head. Those thoughts were starting to dig their way out of the hole George thought he buried them in. But the dead never stay dead unless you catch them on fire. And George hadn't lit the match.

It was frustrating, truly. Just yesterday he was thinking about how great he felt. How happy he's felt in a long, long time. But of course, the universe had to shit on his parade and then shove him into said pile of shit. Because George was not allowed to be genuinely happy, it seemed.