What I Meant By Forever

Train Station

The next few weeks, Dream started getting worse again. He started muttering to himself, getting out of bed and going for the knives, standing at the open window and singing old songs from the 60s, crying when he thought George couldn't hear. He stopped going to school eventually, too, and by November he rarely talked to anyone. George would bring food up to his room and they would eat in silence, and the two of them rarely slept anymore. George always woke up when Dream got out of bed. Always.

The worse Dream got, the harder it was for George to stay out of love with him. He couldn't help wanting to fix the clearly broken boy, even though he knew it was hopeless. Instead, he would watch Dream sleep, protecting him from himself, running a finger over his lips or playing with his hair. He had to convince Dream to get out of bed in the morning and to get in the shower. He even had to help him wash his hair and get ready some mornings, but every once in a while there was a glimmer of hope. There was the time they danced around the kitchen playing The Strokes on George's dad's record player, or the time they sat on the front step drinking his mum's Prosecco. Moments like this gave George hope that maybe Dream was wrong- maybe one day in the future they would both have forgotten all about the ghosts driving him insane, fall in love and live together somewhere beautiful. Maybe they would be ok, if only they gave it time.

Then one day, Dream wasn't there when George woke up. He never felt him get out of bed, or heard him shuffling around the kitchen, or opening the front door. George never heard him, something that hadn't ever happened before. He began to panic, searching first the house and then the cafe and the arcade. He wasn't at either of those places and George was about to give up and file a report when suddenly, he realised.
"Oh, fuck."

He ran harder than he had ever run for any gym class, his head racing as he stumbled down the hill to the tracks.
"Dream!" He screamed over and over again. Finally, he found him, leaning against a white rose bush, sitting in a puddle of his own blood.
"Oh, God, Dream, what have you done?" He whispered, brushing a hair out of Dream's face. The dying boy stirred, opening his eyes.
"They promised you wouldn't find me in time," he spluttered, "promised, they promised."
George held onto Dreams arms, fussing with his hair and trying to calm him down, to keep him alive.
"Save your breath, I can call the hospital, I can keep you here, I can-" George began to rush to pull out his phone but Dream ran a blood covered hand over his lips.
"You need to do what they want. Hold me here, George, and let me die in your arms like I'm supposed to," Dream begged. George stared at him, eventually giving in.
"I won't hold you. I promised you that you wouldn't die in my arms, remember?" He reminded him.
"Then let me die with you in mine," Dream suggested.
The brunette curled up in the blondes arms, blood soaking through his clothes, covering his arms and his legs. All he wanted to do was leave, call the ambulance and take a hot shower to get rid of the blood, but he stayed there to live out Dream's last request, crying as quietly as he could.
"George," Dream whispered, pulling him closer.
He never spoke again.