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George is alone.
He’s alone, and he’s cold.
He blinks, opening his eyes slowly. The world around him spins, hazy and distorted, light shining down from above. Where is he? This isn’t home — this isn’t… where is he? He looks up, towards the sky, taking in the way it ripples and sloshes. And then he looks down, to the deep, dark void, ominous and scary. It’s quiet, it’s far too quiet here. He blinks, opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, water begins to fill his lungs, bubbles floating up to the surface as he does so.
His lungs are burning, limbs moving sluggishly against the water, which is thick like tar, encasing him, dragging him deeper and deeper down to the blackness where there is nothing but coldness and loneliness and dark. Against his will, George inhales, gulping down more water as it invades his throat and suffocates him. It’s cold, and he’s going to die here, and the surface is getting further and further away with every move that he makes to climb up.
He hopes, desperately, for someone to come help. For someone to see him and reach through and grab him. But even as he struggles, even as he drags his limbs through water that feels thicker than it should be, no one comes. He’s helpless and sinking, plummeting down into the darkness and watching the light waver, growing more distant with every passing moment.
George is alone.
He’s alone, and he’s drowning.
“George.”
He blinks. The room is dark. Slivers of white moonlight slip through the cracks in the windows, casting onto the carpet. A fan buzzes overhead. There’s a warm hand on his shoulder, one that’s shaking him slowly, as if to snap him out of a trance.
The voice repeats itself. It’s familiar, and soft, and sounds like home. “George.”
He snaps his gaze to the side. Green eyes peer worriedly down at him, soft and clearly tired, and it’s like a switch has been flipped in his brain, recognition jolting through his body like electricity. This is Dream. This is home. Their apartment. Their bed.
“Hey,” Dream soothes, words like honey in his ears. It only takes him a split second to scramble into an upright position, throw himself forward and into a familiar firm chest. Dream’s grunt of surprise is lost in the whirring of their fan as the impact jostles him, but his arms wrap around George immediately and then he’s rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Hey — Hey, is everything okay?”
“You’re home,” he mumbles instead. Dream hums in affirmation, nodding his head slightly as he tugs George just barely closer to him. He’s warm and big and safe, just the sound of his voice and the feel of his body enough to slightly calm the raging emotions churning inside his stomach.
“Sorry it took me so long,” Dream apologizes softly, voice a low murmur. He adjusts them slightly, making them both more comfortable. Soft blankets brush against George’s thighs. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. George thinks.
“Nothing,” he whispers. His chest squeezes, sadness and frustration and loneliness colliding — for reasons unbeknownst to him — into a big ball of negativity that sits heavy and cold in his core.
Judging by how he goes silent, Dream doesn’t believe him in the slightest. But he doesn’t press, and occupies himself by rubbing wide, gentle circles into George’s back with his palm. George is grateful for that, and presses further into Dream, guilty for feeling like this in a time where he definitely shouldn’t. He’s happy, he really is. There’s nothing to be sad about in his life, so why is he feeling like this? Why does he feel like he’s drowning, when in reality he’s flying high and high and higher into the sky?
His throat tightens. George swallows, the lump in his throat remaining firm, and tries his best to push all those thoughts out of his mind. It works, to an extent, so he spends his time listening to the rhythmic thump thump thump of Dream’s heart beating against his chest, taking in every one of his steady inhales and exhales, tugging the corner of Dream’s green shirt between his fingers.
Eventually he finds himself tiring, eyelids weighing progressively heavier as time drags on. Dream seems to notice too, so he shifts, moves their positions so that they’re both laying down. George’s head comes to rest under Dream’s chin, nuzzling into his neck, and he really is just sprawled all over him at this point, resting on his chest with his head tucked under Dream’s chin and legs settled on either side of his body. A part of him feels bad, but Dream doesn’t seem to mind, one hand coming to rest lightly above George’s hip and the other returning to its place on his back.
“Is this okay?” Dream murmurs, and with their positioning George can feel every vibration of his chest, as his voice rumbles through. It’s quiet and raspy; he’s just as tired as George is, it seems.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, feeling comforted. “I’m sorry.”
Dream hums disapprovingly. “You don’t need to apologize,” he chides gently, the hand on George’s back coming to smooth through his hair instead. “It’s okay.”
“I feel like it’s not,” he confesses, blinking back the hot tears that threaten to surface. It’s dumb, it really is; he’s dumb, both for feeling this way and ruining Dream’s mood with his negativity. “I shouldn’t feel like this.”
“Don’t say that.” Dream’s fingers scratch gently at his scalp, soothing. “You’re allowed to have these days, George.”
When George says nothing, Dream continues his gentle ministrations, chest rising slowly and steadily underneath him. He sniffs a little, blinks back more tears and presses his face into Dream’s neck.
Dream continues. “This is what I signed up for when I told you I loved you, that first time. Remember?”
He does. It feels like years since that had happened. The first time Dream said ‘I love you’ was entirely unconventional, a whispered declaration made in the dark of midnight, sitting in his car giggling together and trading sweet, gentle kisses like a pair of high schoolers. The memory is fond, one that George holds close to his heart.
He cracks a watery smile. “I do.”
“Good.” Dream’s soft smile is audible. “If anything, it’s just a good excuse to hold you and not let go.”
George laughs quietly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to his head. The feeling warms him. George smiles slightly.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”
It doesn’t really make him feel any better. The sadness is still there, bubbling slow like lava in his gut, so cold it’s burning. But it’s nice to know that Dream is here and he’s not planning to leave because of this. It’s helpful, the security of Dream’s arms pressing against his body and rubbing into his back are a comfort, and soon George finds himself slipping into sleep.
Dream’s presence is not a solution, he thinks, but it’s certainly comforting. Warm. Safe.
It’s okay.
It’s a start.