Chapter Text
"Forget-me-nots represent true love and giving someone this flower means you truly love and respect this person. It is a testament to your relationships and promises the other person that you will never forget them in your thoughts."
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Cold. It was cold and a clock was ticking madly from somewhere in the room. If he even was in a room. It sure didn't feel like one, that's for sure.
No, he was definitely outside.
George Davidson opened his eyes slowly and repeatedly, like small boxes of black constantly pushing against his eyeballs. He was met with a shock of a bright light, cutting against his corneas as he attempted to use his arm to block the sudden flash of luminosity from the sun.
He put his palms against the pavement, trying to push himself up. He had no idea where he was or whatever happened the night before. All he knew was that his eyes had burnt from something that wasn't the sun. He rubbed at his eyelids, which were rough and slightly peeling. Most likely scarred from continuously wiping tears. What he was possibly crying for? He had no idea.
Groaning, he walked over to the nearest sound, which was the the hustle and bustle of multiple people. A crowd was gathered around the front window of a television store. The boxed sets were old and clunky, clearly older technology. George politely pushed his way to the front, trying to peek a view of what this bunch of people was so interested in.
The television showed blurry footage of what seemed like a candlelight vigil in front of a government monument. A woman suddenly popped up on screen, standing at a lectern talking to a crowd of hundreds of people gathered in front of her. The woman was crying, holding a tissue against her eye as she moved closer to the mic in front of her.
"He had been in his troubles for a while now, but as far as we knew it never affected his health. Despite the various rumors, my husband's life was taken by problems due to his heart." The woman's voice boomed on the microphone at the crying crowd that took in every word she was saying.
George furrowed his brow, someone important to government clearly had lost his life but he turned to someone next to him for more information anyway, "Who is she speaking of?" He asked whoever would answer.
A young woman moved closer to answer him, "Governor Schlatt. Haven't you heard? He died of a heart attack just earlier today." She seemed almost offended at him not being in the loop of events.
George didn't respond, instead he absentmindedly stared at the television again, which now showed a young boy, apparently Schlatt's assistant, giving a speech while trying to choke back tears.
The news was starting to get repetitive, which didn't help his confused thoughts on where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, so he walked away. He didn't know the direction in which he planned on heading, but he kept going anyway.
He was in a neighborhood now, mindlessly walking past the children in the front yards shooting water guns and play-fighting.
He closed his eyes, racking his brains for at least one memory of anything before that day, but it wasn't working. He somehow knew he never drank, so it wasn't anything due to alcohol. He kept his eyes closed, hoping for a thought to swim into his brain. This street was familiar, it was somewhere he's definitely been bef-
"Watch out!"
George opened his eyes quickly and made to duck or move or whatever his reflexes would have chosen to do when hearing that warning, but it was too late.
A young man on his bike headed towards him, crashing into his already fragile body. The two men were on the ground, both rubbing at the areas that had been pained by the sudden impact. The man's bike was upside down on the sidewalk, one of its wheels still spinning mockingly.
George got up quicker, rubbing at his jeans, "I am so sorry." He apologized, holding out a hand to help the young man up, "I wasn't paying attention."
He took George's hand, got up, and made to get his bike the right way up again. "No, it's my fault. I shouldn't have been going that fast, and I easily could have turned another way." He reassured.
He glanced at George, spotting a patch of blood that had started growing on his arm. George didn't even notice he was bleeding until he followed the man's eyes to his elbow.
The man suddenly looked more sorry than he was before, "Oh my, I- Do you need a band-aid? That should get cleaned up, it looks pretty bad."
George's head was too filled with constant pecking for answers, so he didn't really notice himself nodding at the offer.
"Alright," The young man put his hands on the handlebar of his bike, walking it across the sidewalk with George following. He turned around to face George, "I live right around there. I have first aid."
It wasn't until George truly took a look at his face that he felt another sense of familiarity. "Do I know you?" He blindly asked, not really remembering wanting to ask.
The man stopped and turned once again toward him and studied George's face. He opened his mouth a bit as if he was about to answer, but closed it again. "Not that I know. Maybe we went to school together?"
George shook his head, about to talk when suddenly he was redirected to walking toward a house. The tall, blonde man parked his bike on the front porch before playing with his keys until he found the right one to open the door. It took a couple jabs before the door could open. George chuckled, he somehow remembered going through that problem before.
He was led inside as the blond boy blindly threw his keys on a key holder next to the door. "I'm sorry again. That looks like it hurts." He apologized once more, staring at the bloody mess George was trying to suppress with the sleeve of his shirt.
George shook his head, "It was my fault as much as yours." He reassured.
"As far as I know, you weren't the one riding a bike full speed toward a person," the boy half joked, "I'm Clay, by the way. If you want to sue me or anything, there's my name."
A grin formed on George's face, "I'll be sure to let my lawyer know, then."
Clay laughed, "That was supposed to be the part where you introduce yourself too, not where you threaten to snitch me out to your lawyer." He made his way to the bathroom and opened medicine cabinets until he found a plastic case of band-aids and gauze.
"I think I'm George Davidson." George found himself answering.
Clay was halfway through pouring liquid onto a cotton ball before facing George again, "You think?"
"Call me crazy or very, very direct but," George sighed, "I don't really remember what happened before today."
Cotton ball in hand, Clay chuckled, "You must have had one hell of a night, then."
"No, I don't drink or party. I don't even have friends." George sputtered. He didn't know he was friendless until he said it out loud. It kind of just came out of his mouth blankly.
Clay raised his eyebrows, "Oh, well," he gestured for George to show him his elbow so he could clean the blood off, "I'm sure things will come to you at some point."
George winced slightly at the sudden touch to his elbow, but put on a brave face before turning toward Clay again, "Like Governor Schlatt."
Clay was unrolling a gauze bandage, "Hm? What about Schlatt? He put some crazy new rules on the city again? I really hate that bugger."
George waited a moment, "He's dead."
The unrolling of the bandage ceased for a moment as Clay met his eyes, "What?"
"Today," George was talking faster than usual, "a heart attack, I think."
Clay continued working with the bandages, and George held his arm out like a patient would, letting Clay wrap the bandage around his (sort of better) elbow. "To be as you say, 'very, very direct', Clay said with air quotes, "I'm not really that sad about it." He shrugged.
"Why not? Everyone else in the city seems to be." George questioned.
Clay put all the first aid stuff back in the plastic box and into the medicine cabinet, "They're pretty much brainwashed." He input, "And that Tubbo. That's his little assistant he got to do all his work for him. He was probably going to end up screwing the poor kid over in the end."
"That's quite the opinion."
"It's quite a fact." Clay responded confidently. "Me and my friend Sapn- Nick both don't like him. Oh, speaking of that, I wonder if he's heard the news. I should call him and find out." He reminded, more to himself than to George.
George nodded, "I can head back home now. Although I don't really know where home is."
Clay looked at him skeptically, "You don't even remember where you live?"
Now that that had been said that out loud, George realized it was quite a humiliating situation to be in. "N-no." He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, the bandages on his elbow moving slightly.
Clay had waited a few seconds before once again looking at the poor, injured boy he had slammed his bike into. "Well, maybe your memory will jog back later or tomorrow. You can stay at mine for a bit until then, I have an extra room."
George's eyes widened before he moved his hands, "Oh, I've surely overstayed my welcome."
"Nonsense." Clay scoffed, "Plus, I owe you for the bike incident."
"You re-payed me with this." George gestured at the bandages on his elbows, but Clay shook his head.
"I also feel bad that you're in such a weird state," Clay explained, "if I blacked out with no memory, I'd want someone to do it for me."
"What if they're a murderer?" George input.
"Are you one?" Clay asked, half jokingly.
"No, of course not!" George defended himself, but Clay seemed persistent on pushing the subject.
"You said it yourself. You don't remember anything. You could be one, get your memory back, and decide to get me back for hitting you with my bike." Clay joked, laughing at the face George had made.
George had confidently decided to joke as well, "I might now, if you keep saying I will."
Clay seemed surprised at the sudden counter to his joke, "Alright you win, but only because I plan on staying alive."
They were silent for a moment, not really knowing why such a thing had sparked a conversation.
Clay spoke up again, "Do you need a shirt?" He gestured at George's sleeve, stained with a little blood.
"I'm going to end up owing you too much."
Clay rolled his eyes, "Here we go again with the politeness. I planned on donating some of my clothes anyway, it's nothing."
George agreed, and let Clay lend him an old 1968 World Series baseball shirt, which fit a little big on him.
George took a look around the bedroom. It had flowery wallpaper and felt so warm and welcome in a way. The window had white curtains that were open slightly, and he was somehow drawn to it. While Clay was looking for spare blankets in his closet, George walked mindlessly to the window.
Suddenly, there was a pounding behind his eyebrow. His head was filled with a painful montage of clips from his life. If they were even real.
"Do you see that?" The man on the other side of the phone asked, before audibly capping his pen again.
George ran his hands over the wall, which spelled "Hi"
"Y-yes." George was hyperventilating and clutching his chest. This surely was not possible.
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"
They both asked at the same time, but the man answered first, "My name's-"
"George? George!"
He was being shaken by Clay. He had been on the floor, his hands on his temples trying to suppress the pain that came with the sudden thoughts in his head. He hadn't realized he had fallen from the force of the headache.
"Are you okay?" Clay asked, clearly concerned. He had dropped the blanket he had been holding and helped George up. "What was that?"
George didn't want to worry Clay any longer, as the man had been kind enough to let him stay at his home, "A migraine. I get really severe ones." He lied.
"No kidding." Clay let out a breath, "Are you alright, though?"
"Yes." George assured him, "I am."
"Good." Clay spotted a telephone over on a desk, "Oh, I have to call Nick to ask him if he knows Schlatt died."
He ran over and dialed a number.
It felt like a long time, all the silent waiting for an answer from the other end.
Clay clutched the phone for a while, until he gave up, "Hm." He said, "No answer. He must be busy."
"It's a bummer when someone doesn't answer the phone." George joked honestly.
"Tell me about it." Clay agreed, and they both shared a laugh.