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“I’m really sorry,” George whispers into the darkness of Dream’s spare bedroom — his bedroom, though it’s yet to start really feeling like that.
“Don’t be ridiculous, George,” Dream matches his volume, palms disrupting the formation of goosebumps on George’s biceps as he carefully rubs the skin, occasionally ruffling the sleeves of his oversized t-shirt. His right hand stills over George’s arm, the other coming to tousle his hair as he adds a gentle, “It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah, but—”
Dream cuts him off with an observation.
“You’re looking a little better,” he says, eyes on George’s.
He sees flashes of the George he stumbled upon just minutes prior — hunched over the kitchen sink, empty glass shaking violently against the countertops. Dream had come down for the same thing, a late-night refresher, long limbs on autopilot, but was surprised to find George already there, hours after he’d claimed to have gone to bed.
Something about the sight of him, doused completely in cold sweat, glossy eyes looking right through Dream, feels worryingly permanent. Fortunately, between rescuing his cup from George’s quivering grip and hauling his petite frame up the stairs, Dream notices his eyes getting a little clearer. Still, he knows his concern is visible, skin tense on his forehead.
George’s sarcastic little, “thanks,” brings Dream back to the bedroom, pushed up against the edge of the bed George is safely tucked into now.
“How do you feel?”
George contemplates the question much longer than Dream thinks necessary, and the short, mumbled answer he settles upon is “Tired,” which Dream wistfully determines as leave me alone.
He nods, studying George’s complexion one last time before rising to his feet.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, but halfway to the door he’s latching on again. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go pick up some Tylenol? There are plenty of 24 hour—”
“Yes, Dream, I’m sure,” George laughs in a tiny breath, reassuring clarity in his voice. “Please don’t. You’ll only make me feel guilty.”
Dream frowns at that, but knows George means it, so he obliges. It’s probably just from all the stress, he’d said earlier, before correcting to excitement. George, apparently, isn’t one for pills unless it’s absolutely necessary, and while Dream would deem dissociating in a feverish haze means for necessity, George hadn’t agreed. Dream’s stubbornness has a tight grip on his throat, but he reminds himself that George is a grown man and doesn’t need to be coddled.
Distantly, Dream wonders when he became the type to want to coddle someone at all. He tries to imagine Sapnap in George’s position, but all the psychoanalysis does is make his head spin.
“You don’t have to,” he assures anyway, walking backwards. “but okay. Sleep tight, Georgie. Let me know if you need anything.”
George nods, already dozing off against the headboard, and Dream can’t tell if he’s lying, or if he even understood the offer at all.
Dream feels like he’s only been asleep for minutes when he wakes to his phone rattling on his nightstand. He reaches over without thought, the familiar blur of Sapnap’s contact picture all he needs to select green, pressing the phone to his ear with a groggy exhale.
“Sap,” he acknowledges, voice leaden with rest.
“Hi,” Sapnap rushes. It’s really not strange for the two to call each other for pointless things — big house, and stairs, and all — but the tone of Sapnap’s greeting makes Dream sit up attentively, wiping exhaustion from his eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” It seems like he’s multitasking. “I need your help…”
Sapnap trails off with a yelp, the sound of his voice growing distant. Dream just sighs, forcing patience to drown the anxiety gnawing at his chest. He doesn’t last long, though, once he hears the muffled but exasperated, “It’s alright, Gogy,” filter through the phone.
By the time he recognizes the panicked “George?” that flies past his own lips, he’s already rushing down the freezing cold hallway, chasing the light that pours across the floor from George’s room. He slides through the threshold, phone call long forgotten, and finds his roommates in the ensuite bathroom.
Sapnap is shielding most of George from Dream, both boys on their knees, but when George leans forward past his frame, Dream can see that the hair that flops over his forehead is damp with sweat, his brows are furrowed, and his cheeks are bright red. He also gets a clear view of George’s dinner, the sound of his choking echoing harshly from the toilet bowl. Facing away from Dream, Sapnap is rubbing George’s arching back and visibly wincing.
“Oh, George,” Dream’s limbs are aching to squeeze into their space, but he doesn’t want to make things worse. Sapnap whips his head around to face him, eyes wide.
“Dream!”
“What happened?”
Sapnap scowls. “What does it look li—”
George’s coughing ushers him into silence and Sapnap’s attention is captured again. He rubs a little faster, and Dream notices how far from effortless his sweet-nothings are. He’s out of his element.
“His hair,” Dream tries, waving a useless hand at George. It’s gotten long, and is currently hanging over his eyes as he spits.
Sapnap practically growls. “Don’t direct me. Get in here.”
Though Dream would have preferred the invitation from George, he can tell Sapnap needs the help. He slides carefully past him, settling on George’s other side and pushing his hair out of his face. He ignores the way his hand instantly dampens, beads of sweat rolling from George’s temples. His other hand comes to rest at the base of George’s neck, feeling him shiver against his palm.
“Guys,” George gasps, for the first time since Dream’s arrival. “T-Too much.”
He’s referring to their touch. Dream moves to pull Sapnap’s hand from George’s back instantly, and they share a look of quiet understanding behind him. George reaches up over his own head, managing a loose grip on Dream’s wrist.
“You,” he mutters between breaths, talking to the hand still tangled in his hair more than Dream himself. “Stay.”
“Okay.”
“Geez, Georgie,” Sapnap cooes, crossing his legs. “You look awful.”
George just hums, pressing his face to the porcelain. Dream scratches lightly at his scalp.
“Do you think you’re sick?”
“Yeah,” Dream answers for him, and George inches his head the slightest amount to glare. “He had a fever last night. Seems like he still does.”
Sapnap frowns. “And nobody told me?”
“You were asleep,” Dream supplies at the same time George mumbles, “I was fine.”
“Clearly.”
George shivers, making himself impossibly small as he curls into his legs.
“Cold?”
“Mmhm,”
“Sapnap...?” Dream delegates, offering him an out from the confines of tile and sweat and vomit, which he gladly accepts.
“Grab one of mine!” He adds as an afterthought, voice careful in a way that George will recognize as teasing but Sapnap will take seriously.
Once he’s gone, Dream tugs at George’s hair just enough to lull his head from the toilet seat. “Hey, c’mon, this is gross.”
George shrugs, eyes only fluttering open when Dream takes a small washcloth to his chin. “I can— I can do that,” he makes to grab for it, but misses entirely.
“I know,” Dream lies. “But let me.”
They’re quiet, save for the occasional feverish whine. Dream folds the damp towel over and starts to wipe at the rest of George’s face, beginning at his forehead and following the curves of his cheekbones and jawline, sliding down his neck and gently cooling his collarbones where they peak from the wrinkled hem of his shirt. George’s eyes quickly fall closed again, but Dream can tell he’s awake by the way he’s breathing.
As George relaxes, his flush starts to fade, green-tinted pallor haunting his skin in its wake. Dream fretfully notes the fading color of his parted lips and sends Sapnap a quick text about water or gatorade or something.
“Why didn’t you tell me you felt worse?”
George makes a faint noise from the back of his throat. “Didn’t exactly… have time.”
Dream nods and tries not to dwell on the imagery of George shooting up in bed, feeling awful and alone. He thanks God for Sapnap. And the close proximity of the bathroom.
“Did you at least sleep?”
“I think so,” Dream watches George make a few failed attempts at opening his eyes. “I kept having weird dreams, and I was hot, and cold.”
Dream feels broken. He’d never been someone to feel sympathy to such an extreme extent that it becomes physical, like his mom, but the way George is talking, audibly labored and practically slurred, is making his own stomach ache.
“I’m sorry you feel so bad,” he says earnestly, attempting to fix George’s hair into something resembling normalcy, but it’s hard to work with since it’s still a little damp. He doesn’t stop trying though, not when George is leaning into the touch like his fingertips are crafted from pieces of Heaven.
He’s about to suggest moving from the bathroom floor when Sapnap returns, a large green hoodie in one hand, the other juggling two bottles.
“I brought gifts!” He announces, looking much more cheerful. He tosses the water to Dream to uncap and sets a bottle of red gatorade on the counter. He makes to hand George the hoodie, but grimaces at the state of his shirt. “How about—” George peaks an eye open. “we burn your disgusting t-shirt, and try this instead?”
George frowns. “That’s not—”
“It’s mine. It’s okay.”
George gives Dream a funny look. Then, without warning, he strips himself of the sweat-soaked tee. Dream quickly looks down at the bottle in his hands and re-caps it, just to twist the cap off again. And again, until he sees the bright fabric slide over George’s torso in his peripheral. When he looks up to offer George the water, his own fingers are trembling, and Sapnap is laughing. Maniacally. Obnoxiously.
“We need Tylenol,” he blurts. Anything to silence him. His face is warm when George blinks at him, and he almost hopes he’s catching whatever illness he has and not blushing.
Before Sapnap can open his mouth, he adds, “I’ll pick some up really quick. 15 minutes, tops.”
“Gonna speedrun Walgreens?” Sapnap chuckles.
Dream ignores him, instead focusing on George’s instant protests.
“George,” he sighs, caressing his burning forehead. “Your fever is making you miserable.”
To prove his point, he reaches over to flush the toilet.
“I feel better already,” George smiles, and even he knows it’s unconvincing because he surrenders all on his own. “Okay, fine.”
“Success,” Dream softly celebrates, then clears the fondness from his throat. “I’ll be back. Sapnap, watch the child. George, don’t get puke on my hoodie.”
“10 minutes, speedrunner,” He teases lightly. Dream tries not to cling too hard to the idea of George wanting him to hurry, but it’s impossible when he whispers, just for him, “Sapnap’s hands are not as… gentle.”
Dream has to pull away, has to jump to his feet. He smiles, hopefully reassuringly, at him before stepping over his legs to tend to the youngest of the trio.
“Are you okay to help him downstairs or should I—”
“Of course. George is like, what, 4’11?”
“You’re practically the same height,” Dream defends, but he’s laughing.
George mumbles something about average, but neither are listening as Sapnap physically shoves Dream out into the hallway, muttering a quiet, but annoyed, “I’m good. He’s good. Chill.”
Dream says nothing about Sapnap’s earlier call or the panicked look in his eyes. He just nods and forces himself away from his friends. He still doesn’t know what time it is as he slips on whatever shoes are closest to the door, and as his car roars to life beneath his grip on the keys, he lets Sapnap’s voice replay in his head.
“Twelve minutes—” Dream calls out as he opens the front door, plastic bags in his hands and hanging off his forearms. He slides through the entryway, cautious of his cat, and pulls the knob closed between his elbows. “—forty six seconds. More than 10, but I said 15, so—”
“Dream, shut up,” Sapnap hisses from a distance.
He does, settling the bags on marble countertops and rubbing at his red-marked skin, approaching the living room with caution.
Sapnap is sitting on the couch with the straightest posture Dream’s ever seen from him, arms awkwardly draped over the top of it. George’s head is settled on his lap — hence Sapnap’s stiffness — with his arms up by his face, green sleeves spilling over loose fists. He’s curled up again, asleep, and Dream almost chastises Sapnap for the lack of a blanket before he notices the fleece discarded on the ground, Patches snug in the center of the pile it made.
“You did not count the seconds, dude.”
“I didn’t,” Dream admits in a whisper. “Dramatic effect. How is he?”
“Asleep,” Sapnap shrugs like it’s no big deal, but he looks a little nervous when he peers over his shoulder. “He’s hot. Like, making-me-sweat-through-my-pant-legs hot.”
Dream bites back a joke, crossing the room to crouch before them.
He reaches for George, but hesitates. “Should I…?”
It hasn’t been that long. Maybe they should let George sleep, if he’s finally doing so peacefully. Sapnap shrugs again.
As if in response, George lets out a little huff of warm air through his mouth, shifting ever-so-slightly on Sapnap’s thighs. To the right of Dream's knee, Patches purrs, and he tries not to wheeze at how similar they look.
Sapnap gives him a denunciative stare when George stirs anyway. He blinks behind his eyelids. He closes his mouth, swallows, and parts it again.
“D-Dream?” He murmurs, eyelashes dancing. Sapnap scoffs and Dream melts a little.
“Hi, George.”
“Yeah, Hi, George.”
“That was… You—” George blinks. He reaches out for Dream, who subconsciously slides their fingers together, like it’s something they’ve done before. “That was fast.”
“I said I would be.”
George’s eyes, glossy again, flicker with emotion. Dream matches the expression naturally, a pleasant feeling pumping in his chest.
“Wanna see what I got?” He motions to the kitchen with a tilt of his head, a little surprised when George actually picks up on the cue and pushes himself halfway off Sapnap’s lap. Sapnap urges him the rest of the way into a sitting position with two firm hands on his back, but George still seems a little disoriented at the movement.
“I can bring it to you,” Dream amends, but George shakes his head.
Neither of them say anything more. They don’t have to. Dream, fingers still loosely intertwined with George’s, guides him upward, and the second he’s able, his other hand sprawls out across his lower back. George instinctively reaches for Dream’s shoulder, and somewhere far away, Dream thinks that they’ve never touched as much — in as many ways — as they have today. He drags his eyes to the dizzy look on George’s face and forces the guilt to take over, swallowing the heat that had been crawling up his neck, threatening his cheeks.
“Ready?”
George squeezes his hand before letting go so Dream can tug him close to his side and waddle him to the kitchen. The whole thing feels ridiculous for both of them — scratch that, all three of them — but nobody vocalizes a thing. Sapnap stays put on the couch, sending an affirming nod Dream’s way as they disappear into the house.
“There you go,” Relief floods from Dream’s lips as he helps George slide onto a bar stool. Reluctantly, he carries himself to the other side of the kitchen island to rifle through bags.
He slides a red box across the marble.
“Are you hungry? This isn’t one of those pills you have to take with food, apparently, but I don’t want it to upset your stomach or anything.”
George shrugs, and it almost looks painful. “Risky either way.”
Dream is about to start listing off all the things he bought — including canned soup, tissues, and an entire bag’s worth of American candy strictly for later — but decides it doesn’t matter. He finds his way back to George, who’s started aggressively shivering in the, like, 3 seconds he’s been left unattended. It’s the tears welling up in his eyes, though, that pull Dream’s hand to his cheek, fingers cradling his neck and jaw, thumb ready to catch any that dare spill across his skin.
“Hey,” he tries. It feels stupid to ask, but he can’t help himself. “What’s wrong?”
George shudders and a drop melts into Dream’s thumb. He shakes his head, but it only makes more tears fall. He squeezes his hands between his thighs, dropping his head.
“This is st-stupid,”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I just,” George exhales, hard and shaky, and his vision of the ground warps a bit. “I feel like shit.”
Truthfully, Dream was expecting much worse, but the strangled sob that follows the admittance suffocates him. He panics for a moment, paralyzed by desperation and a senseless need to take all of George’s pain away. Today and forever.
He tries to absorb it by wrapping himself fully around him, crouching a little to wind his arms around the lower part of George’s torso in a way their height difference doesn’t usually allow. George chokes cries into Dream’s neck, arms scrambling to pull him impossibly closer.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats until Dream stops knowing how to respond. “I’m sorry for this.”
After a while, Dream tries an “It’s okay,” instead of dismissing the apology, and George quiets a little. “Just breathe, George. This is okay with me.”
It takes almost an hour, but Dream gets half a piece of toast and two pills into George, all of which he keeps down long enough for them to talk more coherently through his whirlwind of feverish emotions.
Dream does his best to soothe George’s guilt, assuring him that he’s not, and never is, a burden to him or Sapnap. He reminds him that he’s had an insane few weeks, moving across the ocean and adapting to friends he’s never met, all while maintaining a streaming, filming, and editing schedule far more rigorous than even Dream’s.
“You’re allowed to do this,” he says. “You’re allowed to be... ‘weak,’ or whatever. To be sick, and cry, and ask for help. Especially now. Especially now that we can actually give you that, Georgie,” Dream cups his face and feels every inch of skin they share burn.
As George’s temperature lowers, the crying subsides and exhaustion turns their conversation one-sided. He offers Dream a thousand sleepy “thank you,”s and eventually, Sapnap joins them. If he overheard anything — which Dream is certain he did — he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he engulfs George in a clumsy bear hug that seems to convey all he's thinking, and Dream grins at the sight of George lazily gripping the fabric on Sapnap's back, knowing how much reciprocation of affection from George means to them both.
Later in the night, once Dream and Sapnap have surrendered to sandwiching George in his bed, George expresses a thought so quiet that Dream almost doesn’t hear it, with his ear pressed to his chest.
He sees the blush swallow his face before he says it.
“I kinda miss my mum.”
With his hand on George’s stomach and his head nuzzled between his shoulder and neck, Sapnap whispers, “Me too.”
For a while, Dream isn’t sure if he should say anything at all. He knows it’s harder for them. Suddenly, Sapnap seems entirely too young and George entirely too far from home. He furrows his brows, eyes trained absently on the dark footboard that George’s feet don’t reach, and feels a deep sadness wash over him. He tries to swim through it, feeling selfish, and finds that it’s the rise and fall of George’s chest and the tickle of Sapnap’s fingers on his arm that pull him to the surface.
“Me too,” he says and neither boy punishes him for it.
Silent understanding, relief, fills the air. George falls asleep first, feeling much cooler to the touch, and Sapnap follows suit, snoring softly. Dream stays awake as long as he can, listening to Sapnap’s breathing and George’s heartbeat blend into something like a song.