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“You’re getting blood on my carpet,” George complains, but Sapnap doesn’t respond.
By now, this is standard procedure. Sapnap runs until there’s a bullet in his shoulder or a knife in his gut and by dusk he’s on George’s doorstep. There’s one reason for this. George is the man who can piece him back together and let him leave the next day pretending they never spoke. Rinse and repeat. It’s a fucked up little system they have, but it's enough.
(Besides, it’s not like Sapnap trusts anybody else with George’s level of medical proficiency to come within ten feet of him with a needle and thread.)
“‘m not,” Sapnap mutters, and George ignores him.
Crimson liquid runs down his face in rivulets from a jagged gash on his cheek, thin t-shirt clinging to the contours of his body. A fine sheen of sweat coats his skin. Sapnap can try to play it off as nothing all he likes, and George will gaze right through him.
“Come on,” he sighs, inspecting the sorry state of the man before him. Sapnap grumbles something under his breath. Probably cursing his name, knowing Sapnap, because there’s nothing he despises more than being turned into a charity case.
Maybe this is how things would’ve ended for George. Escaped in the nick of time, Dream always tells him, as George wraps thick bandages around his best friend’s bullet wounds. Right before he got in too deep, past the point of no return. You can only run from dead bodies and stolen identities for so long before they return to haunt you. Not like the skeletons in George’s closet don’t keep him up for endless nights, tossing and turning and staring at a ceiling he swears is painted with blood.
When he was eighteen and starting his first year at med school, George hadn’t expected much. A degree, a stable job at some local medical centre, maybe even a nice family to come home to every night. His idle daydreams quickly morph into blood covering his hands and desperately working to stitch up a gaping wound that’s bleeding far too fast.
Maybe those first three years of medical school were his greatest downfall. Too many people know his name now, too many to ever let him disappear off the radar without a word. Instead he lives in purgatory forever, eternally guilty by association.
He doesn’t charge Sapnap. It’s not like the man has much to begin with. Taking money from the guy seems needlessly cruel. Dream pays him enough to get by, even if it means living the shittest downtown apartment money can buy and living on microwaveable meals from the discount aisle.
They don't talk much about their pasts. George will never ask how Sapnap ended up like this, and in turn Sapnap will never tell. There’s no sense in trying to intrude where he isn’t welcome. A silent offer will always stand, of an ear to listen should Sapnap ever want it. He doesn’t. That’s fine.
Blood pools at Sapnap’s feet, seeping into the cream coloured carpet. That’ll be a bastard to clean, George notes idly. One arm loops around Sapnap’s waist, shoulder under his armpit, and George guides him to the bathroom. Bloodstained tiles are far easier to deal with, he decides.
A pained grunt escapes Sapnap as he collapses onto the toilet seat, but not before he’s caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror and examined the damage through narrowed eyes. If he's still conscious at this point, George knows he’ll be fine, and it’s a simple matter of stitching him back together again. They’ve been here a thousand times before.
George moves on autopilot. An extensive medical kit is tucked into the back corner of his bathroom cabinet, an assortment of bottles and jars and boxes hiding it from plain view. George retrieves the plastic box with practised ease, rounded edges pressing into the delicate skin of his palms.
“What happened?” George asks, tiredness flooding his voice. Holds his hand out expectantly to Sapnap, waiting until he can feel the cold metallic bite of a switchblade resting there. The blade cuts through the cheap polyester of Sapnap’s shirt, the bloodied fabric falling to the ground beside him. The man inhales sharply at the sudden coldness, the fine hairs on his arms standing up straight.
“Nothin’,” Sapnap mutters, chocolate-coloured gaze fixed firmly on the tiles. Blood runs into the grout, staining it a murky red-brown.
George waits.
“Just some stupid fuckin’ gang kids.”
“You don’t have to fight everyone you ever meet,” George says matter-of-factly, inspecting the extent of Sapnap’s injuries. The worst of it seems to be a deep laceration in his torso, thank God. Everything else is superficial, by the looks of it.
“I don’t,” the man grumbles, a blatant lie. Otherwise he wouldn't be here bleeding out on George’s bathroom floor every other week. Sometimes George considers having him schedule a regular appointment. “They woulda' killed me.”
Getting into an argument with Sapnap is futile, especially when he’s in such a foul mood. The man packs a solid punch, one that George has been on the receiving end of a good few times over the years. And so the Brit works in silence, wiping away dried blood with a soft cloth soaked in isopropyl alcohol. He’s used to the sting on antiseptics and the occasional hiss escaping whenever George runs over a deeper cut.
“Ow, fuck off,” Sapnap finally snaps, when George presses down a little too hard beside one of his wounds.
“I need to stitch this up,” George continues on, entirely ignoring Sapnap’s complaints. It’s far too deep to simply bandage up and forget about, as much as he's certain Sapnap would love him to.
George rocks back onto his haunches, digging through his medical kit once again. He’s prepared for a damn apocalypse, Sapnap had once commented. That’s probably true, George considers, when he glances down at the heavy box in front of him. It's practically brimming with thick bandages and foil packets of pills. Dream has powerful contacts, ones who can get George all the medical-grade supplies he could ever desire. Of course the man will take advantage of anything he can get his hands on.
It would appear he’s better prepared for an apocalypse where nobody gets seriously injured.
“I don’t have any lidocaine,” George mutters, more to himself than Sapnap. It’s not like he doesn’t know what that means - a whiskey-soaked rag between his teeth to bite down on when the pain gets too much, the burn of alcohol a pitiful distraction from the flaring agony in his side.
Sapnap groans, glaring daggers down at his friend. “You better be fuckin’ joking. How the fuck do you run out of lidocaine?” he snaps. George knows it’s the pain overwhelming his senses, turning him nasty - Sapnap can be quite the sweetheart when he wants to be. After all, nobody is forcing George to help him.
George doesn’t bother trying to respond. No response will be satisfactory, and quite honestly George can sympathise with him. There’s no joy in stitching somebody up while they writhe in agony beneath his hands, biting back their screams with a sodden cloth. Instead he pushes to his feet, brushing off his jeans, and offers Sapnap a weak smile.
“I’ll be back,” he promises, despite how pointless it is. Sapnap grunts unintelligibly in response.
George has never been a heavy drinker, despite the few bottles that line the back of a kitchen cabinet. Only a small collection of cheap spirits, but the lack of any mixers says a lot about their use.
He buys budget vodka, the type that tastes like a toxic cocktail of drain cleaner and nail polish remover. Dream likes it, shockingly. Only when it’s past midnight, after a job gone horrifically wrong, and the pair are sat under the flickering yellow light of his kitchen at an empty dining table. Dream spills his guts between swigs of poison while George nods sympathetically. His friend can drink it straight from the bottle without so much as a wince.
At least it saves on painkillers.
It’s also a natural antiseptic, if you’re desperate enough. George would know. He’s tried every last alternative to traditional medical supplies. The bottle clinks against others as he carefully manoeuvres it out of the cupboard, placing it on the floor beside him. Sapnap won’t want it - says he despises the taste of vodka, reminds him of a childhood he’s spent half his life running from.
A half empty bottle of whiskey stands in the right corner of his cabinet, obscured by the vodka moments ago. A thin layer of dust coats the glass. The honeyed liquid swishes as he pulls it out, the vodka replacing it. Sapnap’s personal preference. At least cheap whiskey doesn’t taste so foul.
He closes the cabinet with a soft click and gets to his feet.
Sapnap hasn’t moved, the blue light from his phone screen washing out his lightly tanned complexion. He stares blankly down at the device, not bothering to acknowledge George’s arrival. The pair don't speak until George snags a cloth from the box and uncaps the whiskey.
“You’re twenty this year,” George states, pouring whiskey on the fabric. It comes out too fast, soaking his hands and dripping all over the tiles.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you wanna get your shit together by then?” he presses, handing Sapnap the dripping cloth. The man chooses not to answer.
George doesn’t press any further, instead busying himself with preparations. A pair of latex gloves cover his hands, fine suturing needles and a small pair of scissors are laid out on a sheet of thin plastic. His fingers are quick and nimble and he handles his tools with a mesmerising ease.
“There’s more to life than this,” George comments after a short silence. Sapnap sits up straight as George approaches, stuffing the rag into his mouth and biting down hard. Metal pierces through skin, Sapnap howls through the fabric, and from there everything becomes a blur.
Throughout his fleeting time at medical school George’s professors had praised him for neat work. Dream pays him for the exact same thing. He loses himself in his work, hyperfocusing on the task at hand until it’s perfect. In those moments the external world simply does not exist and there is nothing but the flutter of his pulse and the uneven breathing of his patient beneath him.
Normally, Sapnap barely makes a sound when George stitches him up. Doesn’t even flinch. Makes George’s work a thousand times easier. There’s always a few colourful curses, of course, but that’s just part of the job.
This time is far different. Sapnap writhes beneath him, making it exceptionally difficult to tug together his raw, bloodstained flesh. George mutters to himself under his breath, reminding himself how to deal with this. It’s fine - he’s had jumpy patients before, and this is no different. Sapnap’s groans are stifled by the rag in his mouth, the alcohol burn offering little distraction from the white hot pain lancing through his torso.
Even though he cleaned the wound hardly twenty minutes ago, fresh blood makes the skin slippery. George’s work is messy, far from his usual standard of neat stitching, barely traceable unless you specifically search for the little metallic thread fusing skin back together. Sapnap is trembling. Tears run down the man’s face, dripping off his chin and onto George’s bloody hands.
Oh, the guilt. It’s not easy being the only medic in the city who didn’t buy their degree from some shady underground dealer in the backroom of a seedy downtown club. He doesn’t even have a degree. No, he has three years of medical training, approximately double what any other “field medic” he's seen around has. And yet he’s nowhere near even half qualified, thrown in over his head to save the lives of teenagers who can’t keep themselves out of trouble longer than a week and men who know nothing but a life of illegal warfare.
He may be helping Sapnap, sure. But the tear tracks that stain his face make it hard to believe that the work he does is any good. All it does is allow Sapnap to go another day. To get himself stabbed in a different place on a different day at a different time, and George is perfectly complicit in pretending he’s some saving grace for broken teens who want to play at being big boys.
George isn’t saving anyone.
Flashes of silver catch in the cool artificial lighting, buried neatly in tanned flesh. George rocks back onto his haunches, examines his work, and nods. His eyes are slightly red, wet with tears that were never his to cry.
“Let me bandage it,” he says quickly, before Sapnap has time to think of a snarky remark. It’s more protection than to stem any bleeding. Tomorrow morning, before the sun has even broken the horizon, Sapnap will be right back on the same streets that leave him a bloodied, broken mess at George’s feet. It’s like some kind of sick addiction.
“You’re so fuckin’ fussy,” Sapnap chides, but there’s no heat in his voice. Just exhaustion, plain and simple, with which George can sympathise. He doesn’t question the puffiness of George’s eyes. Doesn’t intrude where he knows he’s not welcome. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not chancing it,” George replies firmly. He’s already pulling a roll of gauzy bandages from the box, medical tape in his other hand. “You’ll pull them out, or sleep weird, or do something. I know what you’re like. Sapnap.”
Sapnap huffs irritably but he doesn’t argue any further. His back hits the cool tiled wall, and he retrieves his phone from beside him. He swipes his sleeve across his face roughly the moment George looks away. Thinks George won’t notice.
George is simply going through the motions. Shaking fingers wrap flimsy bandages around Sapnap’s torso, microporous tape holding the material in lace. It’s a distraction from his rapidly spiralling thoughts, to busy his hands with work he understands rather than leave himself alone with thoughts he doesn’t want to comprehend.
“Can I stay?” Sapnap asks, as George snips the last of the tape and smoothes it down against tanned skin. The sun is setting outside, orange and pink streaking the sky through the distorted bathroom window. Rarely does Sapnap ask the question - he waits for an invitation he can begrudgingly accept, muttering something about not needing charity handouts. George tends to tune that part out.
It takes George a moment to process the question, and even longer to take in the look in Sapnap’s eyes. It isn’t fear. Sapnap isn’t capable of fear, or so he likes to claim. Maybe something akin to anxiety. He’s seen that look before, reflected back at him in a grimy little mirror. George leans back, mismatched eyes meeting deep brown, and he nods silently. He isn’t quite sure he can form words without his entire life story spilling out, every anxiety and late night terror pouring from his lips and staining the already bloodied tiles. He’s trembling.
George packs his things away without a word, clearly finished. There is nothing more to say, and Sapnap does not push to make meaningless small talk.
Sapnap gets to his feet, a quiet hiss of pain escaping him as he jostles sore injuries. George doesn’t bother to acknowledge the man’s exit. He knows where to go - there’s a spare room at the end of the hallway to the left of George’s own bedroom. It’s one of those rooms that’s rarely ever empty, considering the volume of patients and friends that pass through George’s household on a near daily basis. Drawers are filled with random articles of clothing, varied in size, left by the room’s previous inhabitants and sometimes collected from charity shops by George. He likes to be prepared.
Two hours pass. George moves to the kitchen. Rummages through his freezer for the most appetising pre-packaged meal he owns. Maybe he’ll treat himself to heating it up in the oven, rather than blast it through the microwave for twenty minutes and try to ignore the vaguely plastic taste that ruins the whole idea of lasagna. He does have a guest, after all, and he uses the excuse of a stressful day to validate his feelings.
He doesn’t hear from Sapnap until he’s seated at the dining table, chin resting in one palm. His oven buzzes in the background, dim yellow light barely visible behind the blackened grease baked on to the glass door.
“Hey,” Sapnap’s voice cuts through his reverie, startling George. He jumps, turns, shoots the man an apologetic smile.
“Hey.”
Sapnap is wearing different clothes now - a soft. pale blue t-shirt, two sizes too big, and a pair of sweatpants George doesn’t remember buying. The blood is gone, the cut on his cheek nothing more than a scabby memory, and George can pretend that the outline of bandages beneath the thin fabric is something much more innocent.
“Are you hungry?” George asks, as though he hadn’t had the foresight to cook two meals.
“Yeah, yeah… You sure ya' don’t mind me staying?”
There’s concern in Sapnap’s eyes. His voice holds an unfamiliar weight, a genuineness that George sees far too little of. The pity Sapnap offers him makes George’s stomach twist, nauseatingly bitter and somehow filled with strange gratitude.
“It’s fine,” he answers, tongue thick in his mouth. “It’s carbonara. I hope that’s alright.”
“Yeah. Thanks, George.”
It will be. Sapnap isn’t picky - he’ll eat just about anything George places in front of him. Hell, it’ll probably be the best meal he eats all week. He takes a seat across from George, leans back in his chair so the front legs swing off the ground, and hums. Always hums the same little tune, one George never recognises.
“You’re twenty this year,” George repeats. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of that fact, like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” Sapnap replies. “What about it?”
George lets out a soft sigh through his nose, fingers intertwined on the table. “Don't you want out?”
Sapnap frowns. “Uh, whaddya mean? Out?”
“Out of this. Do something with your life.”
It’s what George craves. Release, complete release, from his life of bullet wounds and bloodshed and constantly glancing over his shoulder. A life that slipped through his fingers before he quite realised what was happening, and now it’s nothing more than a fever dream. Maybe he can live vicariously through Sapnap, instead. That would be enough.
“I dunno,” Sapnap replies, the slightest hint of confusion lacing his tone. “Never really thought about it.”
“You should,” George says. There’s an edge to his voice, one of exhaustion and desperation. “While you still have time. I can help you.”
“I dropped outta' high school. Not like I can go anywhere without a diploma,” he points out bitterly.
George shakes his head, pushing away from the table to check on the floor. His chair scrapes harshly against the scratched wooden floor. “I can help you get your equivalency. There are options, Sapnap, and I know people with money.”
Sapnap scoffs, wordlessly. There’s no response to that, clearly, and George pities him. The man thinks there’s nothing more for him, no hope of a normal future. Whatever that means.
“Aren’t you tired?”
This is the most George has ever pushed. He toes a fine line between courtesy and concern, always too apprehensive to risk crossing it. Sapnap doesn’t say anything more than he needs to, and yet George finds himself craving more. To know the man, properly, to understand him.
“Yeah.”
The words are heavy and bitter, like a lead weight on Sapnap’s shoulders. Silently, George understands, but he cannot voice his thoughts. There are no words to describe that kind of burden.
“I can help you,” George repeats, voice hushed. It’s almost reverent, like the words he speaks are sacred and holy. He pleads for his freedom through Sapnap, a redemption that will never be his own. “I know people who can get you out. Please, Sapnap.”
Sapnap is silent. The hum of his oven fills the silence with white noise.
A heavy sigh. “I’ll think about it,” he relents.
They eat in silence. George cannot push Sapnap any further, not without striking a chord within himself that will regurgitate too many painful memories. Sapnap doesn’t have anything to say. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. A little tense, maybe, but hardly unbearable. Sapnap is standing before George has finished rinsing the little plastic containers their food came in.
“I'll think about it,” he repeats. There’s sadness in his eyes.
“Thank you,” George smiles, genuine.
Sapnap leaves without another word, and George hears the faint click of a door closing. That’s the last he hears of Sapnap for the rest of the evening.
He doesn’t sleep well that night. George’s mind races, but not with the same anxiety that normally occupies his sleepless nights. No, this is a new worry - how to save Sapnap from getting himself in too deep. There are a thousand different scenarios he can play out on his mind, different faces and voices occupying the early hours of the morning.
Why he’s so invested in the man is an entirely different scenario he can unpack at another time. Or never, if he’s being really honest with himself. He’s simply doing what's right, George tells himself, looking out for another person in a vulnerable position. That is as deep as it runs.
George is lying, and when he finally drifts into a dreamless sleep, his last thought is of himself, at the same age as Sapnap, with blood across his face and a knife in his hands. Waiting for a salvation that never came.