Don't Give Up On Me - Dreamnotfound

14

George woke up, rubbing his neck. He had ended up sleeping on the couch because if he was honest, he really didn't want to sleep with Dream again. He sat up, yawning slightly, running a hand through his hair.

"Dream." George spoke softly. Dream didn't move.

"Dream." George spoke a little louder, and Dream stirred in response.

"We have to go to London, we've got to get up and change and everything. Come on." Dream was silent, and George walked over slowly, helping the blonde boy into his wheelchair as usual. The tension was palpable in the moments when George's fingers grazed Dream's skin, which now felt dry and rough, compared to Dream's soft, pink lips when he kissed them yesterday...

George shook his head firmly, stirring from his thoughts and standing up as Dream opened the door from the bathroom. George straightened, letting Dream pass by as he walked into the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Ghostly pale, with dark circles under his eyes. His hair was in a rumpled mess, and his eyes and cheeks seemed sunken, unhealthy.

George leaned down and splashed cold water in his face, almost hoping that the cold liquids streaming down his face would help wash away the memories from yesterday. The feeling of Dream's lips on his, Dream's cold skin, the defeated and broken look on Dream's face. It hurt, remembering those things. It tore George's heart, splitting it right down the middle, shredding, clawing at the shards of his broken soul. George let out a choked sob he didn't even know he was holding back, but held his breath, listening for signs that Dream had heard.

George didn't know why, but he felt like he didn't want Dream to see him weak. Almost as though he were the role model, the strong one, the knight in shining armor here.

But George wasn't that sort of person. He wasn't the sort of person who was brilliant enough to come up with a plan to help heal Dream's broken soul. He wasn't the kind of man who knew exactly what he could say that would make Dream feel better. And his inability to help, his helplessness in Dream's situation, it ate away at him slowly, from the inside, crumbling and sometimes, the cracks would show on his seemingly perfect and carefree facade.

He tried to push it away, bottle it away for one more day, just so he could get through these twenty-four hours. But George told himself that every day, assured himself every day that this would be the last day he had to bury his grief and pain, that it would magically solve itself the next day. George knew he was wrong. George knew his belief that this situation would be magically cured was wrong.

But nonetheless, George took a deep, shuddering breath and blinked the tears away, brushing his teeth, washing his face, combing through his hair, moisturizing, just going through the motions. He felt like a block of ice, unfeeling, cold, cut off. George knew if he would let himself feel again, melt the ice that surrounded and protected his heart, the bullets would pierce him through. So he kept up that cold facade throughout the day, only speaking when necessary as they packed up, grabbed breakfast, hopped in a taxi, and sped off to the airport. Silence on the plane ride to London. Silence, waiting in the line to get off the airplane. Silence, sitting in another taxi on their way to George's house. Once, the driver tried to make silence, but George's obvious disinterest shut him off quickly.

Sometimes, Dream would squeeze George's hand, which immediately made his heart flood with regret and feelings of embarrassment. Not because of what you'd think; he felt embarrassed because it should've been George comforting Dream, not the other way around. That thought almost provoked him to talk to Dream multiple times, but George kept silent.

Better for him and me.

When George arrived at his house, he left Dream downstairs as he went upstairs to retrieve some things, toss away some of his old and dirty clothes, and gathered a few new articles of clothing. When he went back downstairs, Dream looked up from his phone, opening his mouth, obviously wanting to insinuate conversation, but George fled away quickly. But when it came time for lunch, George couldn't avoid Dream anymore.

"Why are you ignoring me?" Dream pleaded.

George bit his lip, rolling it between his teeth as he tried desperately to come up with a semi-realistic answer. Nothing came to mind.

"I- I-" George froze. "I've just been, uh, thinking."

Great excuse, George.

Dream gave George a 'seriously' look. "Thinking? You haven't been speaking since," Dream gulped uncomfortably, "that incident."

George snorted. "What would you like me to say after you blatantly admit to wanting to kill yourself and after you kiss me then push me away? What do you want from me, huh? Cuddle you and say, 'oh I understand honey'? Because I don't understand that decision! I thought we had something here," George fumed, gesturing between himself and Dream, "but no, I'm not good enough for you, this relationship is not good enough for you, and you want to kill yourself. Thank you very much, I-"

George broke off, then promptly burst into tears, purposefully avoiding Dream's gaze.

"Let's just not talk about it, okay?" George finally spoke, wiping his tears away sorrowfully.

Dream was silent for a moment, then said something quietly. George froze, unbelieving what he just heard.

"What did you say?" George asked in a hushed whisper.

Dream shook his head like a chastised child, seemingly collapsing on himself and staring at the table.

George put his hands on Dream's shoulders and gripped it tightly. "What did you say?" He insisted.

Seconds, minutes went by, with the silence only punctured by the sound of the ticking clock. George stared at Dream's face in horror and shock.

"George, I-" Dream's voice broke, "I've applied for euthanasia, and I have an appointment."