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George isn’t woken up by his own dreams this time, or even his restless sleeping habits. Tonight, he’s stirred from his sleep by a sudden, very pressing need for air.
It takes a minute to remember exactly where the hell he is, and who the hell he’s pressed up against. Unfortunately, that’s a minute he doesn’t have. By the time his half-asleep brain has recognized the muscle-bound arm locked around him as Joe’s, his ribs are already creaking dangerously under the pressure.
Crushed to death by Joe Toye’s biceps. There are worse ways to go out, but George really didn’t want it to end like this.
“Joe… hey, Joe.” If his lungs weren’t being compressed, he’d be able to get the words out a lot louder. As it is, they’re a hoarse echo in the silence, more a wheeze than a whisper. George tries squirming, digging his arm into Joe’s stomach. His pare feet knock against Joe’s thighs, as if this could somehow jar him into wakefulness. “Buddy, wake up, you’re —”
Behind him, Joe grunts. His grip suddenly becomes crushing.
“Jesus—” Now that’s a goddamn murder attempt. Suddenly struck with the panicked certainty that if Joe doesn’t let go now, he won’t be getting out of bed in the morning, George begins to thrash. “Dammit, Joe, let go! Joe! Wake up!”
Maybe it’s love for George that pulls Joe from his sleep… or the elbow which finds his abdomen, impacting like a rocket launcher. Joe jolts upright with a yell, and George is sent sprawling, nearly over the edge of the bed.
He’s still cursing and trying to regain his balance when the sound of harsh breathing hits his ears. At first, George doesn’t connect it with anything but the fierce soreness in his own ribcage… but when he looks up, a complaint already on his lips, he’s startled to see Joe doubled over. His hands are fisted in the blankets as though determined to tear them to shreds, and his broad shoulders heave, ragged gasps through lungs not able to sustain them. Joe’s shaking, George realizes with a jolt. He’s trembling like a kid in the dark… and after a moment, the hoarse noises cutting into his gasps could almost sound like sobs.
“Jesus,” he mutters, and crawls without hesitation across the bed. “Joe — hey. What’s going on?”
Joe makes an aborted effort to speak. It ends in a hoarse noise and another violent shudder. Okay, then, that’s off the table. George shuffles a bit closer, chancing a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. When Joe doesn’t pull away, his grip grows surer, a more tangible weight. Joe doesn’t lean into it, but he doesn’t pull away, so George takes it as a victory.
“Alright,” he mutters, stroking gentle circles into the broad plain of Joe’s shoulders. His voice is soft, gentle in a way that only Joe ever gets to hear. It doesn’t tremble, no matter how uncertain George might be feeling. The thing is… whenever George is upset, Joe always knows just how to soothe him. He’ll pull him close, pressing George’s ear against his chest as his gravelly voice rumbles through. Sometimes he’ll sing, one of the old Irish songs he loves so much, and that will be enough to lure George from his own distress into the soft comfort of sleep. When the tables are turned — when Joe’s the one falling to pieces, and George is watching him shatter — well, Christ, he’s not sure what to do. He just isn’t sure.
“Alright,” he says again, running his hand down Joe’s spine. At the touch, Joe shudders… and if George is good at any damn thing, it’s running his mouth, so he falls back on what he knows. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re doin’ just fine, Joe. We’re at home, okay? Safe here. We ain’t over there anymore.”
Neither of them have to wonder where ‘over there’ is.
Joe’s nightmares tend to be predictable. George’s scatter, running all over the place, tossing in things that couldn’t possibly have happened in real life; there are alligators in Bastogne, maybe, or a hatchet-wielding mime chasing him through Hitler’s Eagles Nest. Even in his dreams, George somehow turns the worst memories into a joke. (The darkest memories, the ones he can’t think of without convulsing from the inside-out, hide away at the very back of his mind, forcibly suppressed during the daytime. It’s the only way he keeps himself smiling, keeps himself sane. They don’t rear their heads often, but when they do, George is out of it for days.) Joe doesn’t throw in anything. He remembers things the way they happened, and maybe that’s worse.
After a moment, George draws closer, wrapping both arms around Joe’s shoulders now. If he didn’t insist, Joe might try to pull away… but at this insistent comfort, he breaks instead. Joe’s tear-stained face presses into George’s chest, arms locking around his waist and squeezing desperately. Suddenly, their situations are reversed. It’s a little surreal… but all the times Joe’s held George gives him the strength to do is now, and the determination to do it right.
“I’m here, Joe. I’m here.” He presses the words into the crown of his head. “Not going anywhere.”
Joe shudders, forcing a ragged exhale out against George’s chest. “You gotta stay, Georgie.”
“Where would I go, huh? I’m right here.” George cups the back of his head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Gotta try harder then that to get rid of me.”
“You —”
Joe can’t finish. He cuts off with another whimper, pressing further into George’s chest like he’s ashamed. If there’s one thing Joe can’t bear, it’s letting others see him cry; if he does, then he trusts you more than anything, but even George has only seen it a few times. This is… something else.
“You don’t gotta say it,” he soothes. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just a dream, ‘s all.”
“You died.”
George’s throat suddenly closes up; his stomach plunges to his toes. There it is, then. With a rough exhale, he holds Joe a little closer, patting his back like a congested baby as Joe slowly gathers himself. When he’s finally able to pull away, enough to look George in the eye, it’s like a stab to George’s gut. His eyes are black, tear tracks glistening on his cheeks; he’s never looked so vulnerable before. Never looked so… so goddamn scared, not even lying there in the snow, blown half to hell.
“It wasn’t me who got hit… it was you, and it… just blew you away, George. You — you were looking up at me, but there wasn’t much of you left, and… I was holding you so tight, trying to put you back together, but you just, you, you —” Joe’s ramble breaks off in a sob.
George’s own breath catches in his throat. On reflex, he pulls Joe even tighter, pressing his lips to the side of Joe’s head and staying there. A hand wipes the wetness from Joe’s cheek, while the other keeps massaging into his back, like that alone can ground him in the moment. “Only a dream,” George says again, and feels Joe nod shakily.
It’s a long couple of moments before Joe’s able to speak again. By then, his sobbing has mostly died off. He’s gone limp and heavy in the embrace, pretty much using George as a pillow… but George isn’t about to complain.
“Don’t leave me,” Joe murmurs. George sighs, low and long, into the night.
“You don’t even have to say that, Joe,” he replies. “No way I ever would.”