Don't Give Up On Me - Dreamnotfound

19

"George!" Dream called out from the adjacent room. George stuck his head around the corner and met Dream's gaze.

"What's up?" George tried to hide his yawn behind his hand. Dream clearly noticed, but didn't comment.

"Do you mind helping me a little? I was bored and went through my clothes. I want to toss out some of the clothes I don't like. Is there some sort of charity nearby or something?"

George raised an eyebrow. "Dream, donating clothes to charity? What a time we live in."

Dream shot George a glare, who merely raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Hand them over, I'll get them to the charity when I get time."

Translation: When I remember, or in other words, never.

Dream struggled, reaching over and tossing over a good amount of clothing. George frowned.

"That's a lot. Are you sure you have enough until we can get you back to your house?" George asked quizzically.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Dream waved George off, but George couldn't help noticing that Dream wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Okay..." George responded slowly, hugging the clothes to his chest and inhaling Dream's sweet scent.

"You are not sniffing my dirty clothes, are you?"

-

George knocked on Dream's door. He'd noticed that the blonde boy had been spending a lot of time curled up in the bedroom, and George hoped that he wasn't withdrawing back into himself, not when George had just gotten Dream back.

He could hear the wheels of Dream's wheelchair turning and the door opened, revealing an obviously sleepy Dream, who coughed.

Maybe I'm just overthinking. He's probably just tired.

"Are you down for lasagna for dinner?" George asked.

Something flashed through Dream's eyes. The same guilty and pained expression that he'd seen so many times lately. An inexplicable, fleeting feeling of dread and anticipation coursed through his veins briefly.

"Sure." Dream's face was blank, merely tired. His cheeks seemed pink, his breathing rather shallow, and George frowned.

Lasagna doesn't make people hot and bothered, does it?

He leaned forwards and laid the back of his hand on Dream's forehead. Burning, flaming hot.

"Oh my goodness, do you have another fever?" George exclaimed.

Dream responded with another hacking cough. He leaned over slightly, clutching his chest. "Ow." He finally breathed.

George would've laughed at his lack of verbal reaction if the situation wasn't so dire. He put a hand on Dream's back and helped him onto bed, tucking the sheets underneath Dream's chin. Dream coughed again, and George backed away, not wanting to catch whatever was ailing Dream.

"Ummm... I'm no doctor." George spoke. "What do I do?"

Dream snorted. George felt a slight weight lift off his shoulders, glad that Dream still had his sense of humor intact.

"I dunno, soup, orange juice, what was it? Or is that just for fevers or something?"

George threw his hands up in the air, frustrated. "I can't even diagnose you, I don't know what you have!"

"Just get me some food, I'm hungry anyway." Dream responded, clearly still trying to comfort George in his terrible state. George calmed down slightly, feeling a little guilty for freaking out.

"Got it, I'ma go do that." George responded. Dream relaxed, closing his eyes and somehow, he fell asleep. George raised his eyebrows, but spun on his heel, proceeding out of the bedroom.

On the way out, George stumbled on something, and he looked down at his feet. It was a sheet of paper that had been crudely scribbled on in a thick red sharpie. There had been a series of numbers written on the paper, then crossed out, counting down from 5. The last number was 2, which wasn't crossed out.

George stared at the paper for a moment, confused.

Why is Dream counting down from 5? And why in this primitive way? What happened to technology?

He stared at it a minute longer, then crumpled it in his fist. He dearly hoped it didn't mean what he thought it meant. But if it did...

-

George pushed the door open. He'd given his best shot at making soup, and it was currently steaming hot in a bowl between his hands. Dream was still asleep, so George laid the bowl on the nightstand. He hesitated before planting a kiss on Dream's cheek.

"Wake up, I've made you some soup." George pinched Dream's cheek, helping him sit up and handing the blonde boy a spoon. He sat back and watched quietly as Dream slowly consumed the soup, his face falling when he remembered the paper he stumbled upon earlier.

George tried his best not to think about it, but his mind was drawn to that moment and the possibilities it entailed. He watched, distracted, as Dream finished the soup.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Dream spoke quietly.

"What? Nothing." George denied quickly, standing up and hastily taking the bowl from Dream, avoiding his gaze. Dream lowered his head, seemingly in shame. George froze, then proceeded back to the kitchen, dumping the bowl into the sink for later.

George sunk into a kitchen chair, groaning softly into his hands. Dream was honestly an enigma, impossible to decode and understand. That look. Did it mean what he dreaded? Or was George just overthinking?

He stood, shaking his head.

You can't just bash your head in, overthinking. Either do something about it, or drop it.

And George chose to drop it.

A/N: Ik this is kinda a short update, but I didn't plan to update today at all so hehehehehehe take what you get I guess :)