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George isn’t a light sleeper.
When he was younger, on more than one occasion he slept through hour long screaming matches between his parents.
The only evidence that they ever happened in the first place being the obvious tension between the rest of his family in the morning.
His sister, making herself breakfast and then immediately taking it to her room despite their mother’s protests.
His father, completely disregarding any and all goodbyes to every member of the family, simply getting ready and then leaving for work.
His mother, sat at the kitchen table by herself, staring blankly out the window. Elbows on the table and hands crossed under her chin.
Even to a 10 year old George, it was obvious how miserable everyone was.
Despite the not knowing, he never once woke up during the night. And eventually, he didn’t worry about having to. His parents split, and that was the end of that.
So George isn’t a light sleeper.
He wakes up for Dream though.
George isn’t even sure what time it is, their room is practically pitch black. The only light comes from the street lights that are still on outside, shining through the edge of their blackout curtains.
He thinks he hears shuffling on the other side of the bed. He assumes it’s Dream, asleep and readjusting himself under their covers.
He’s not exactly sure why he’s up. Waking before his usual amount of sleep is an extremely rare occurrence.
And then he hears it, a quiet sniffle behind him.
It sobers him immediately, clears the remaining sleep fog from his brain.
“Dream?” He’s already turning his body to face the other man.
He hears Dream sigh shakily. Air getting caught somewhere in his throat on its way out. It cuts somewhere deep inside George’s chest.
“Go back to sleep, George.” His voice is small, rough with misuse and sleep deprivation and whatever else that’s troubling Dream.
“What’s wrong?” He keeps his voice low, hopes it’s soothing. George lifts a hand and reaches out blindly, gently rests it on Dream wherever he can reach. It touches his chest, because Dream is lying on his back facing their ceiling.
It’s terrifying how easily he can feel Dream’s heartbeat, irregular and offbeat but so sharp and clear. It feels like Dream’s heart is resting against his fingertips, with only a thin film to protect it.
George feels the crackling breaths Dream inhales before he hears them. It’s reminiscent of thunder before lightning strikes.
“It’s nothing, just-“ another crack of thunder under his palm, a hitch in his voice, “Please -“ his sigh rattles George like the resounding quake of thunder rattles the bones of an old home. Dream collects himself enough to speak up again.
“Please, go back to sleep.”
George feels his own heart crack behind his ribcage.
They sit in silence for a moment, bar Dream’s quiet sniffles and trembling breaths.
George is rubbing small circles on top of Dream’s chest, wanting so badly to pacify whatever has gotten Dream like this but also not wanting to push Dream’s boundaries.
The last thing he wants is to upset him further, but it’s painful hearing him like this. George wants to comfort him desperately, he isn’t sure he’d be able to go back to sleep now anyway, not when Dream’s seemingly struggling with something.
“Can I have a hug?”
“George-“ he stops him before he can protest.
“Not for you. For me.” He knows it’s a dirty trick, but Dream can be stubborn. A little tough love goes a long way with him.
He hears Dream sigh shakily, sees the barely there shape of his hand reach up to his face to presumably wipe away tears that have fallen past the borders of his lashes.
Then Dream is rolling over to face him.
“C’mere.” It sounds like a sigh of relief as soon as it leaves George’s lips. It is a sigh of relief.
His hand slips from Dream’s chest so he can rearrange himself. He ends up halfway on his back, hands searching to pull Dream in. The younger follows him, winds an arm around his waist, pulls himself closer to the older man before George even has a chance to do so himself.
Dream ends up with his head against George’s chest, arm wrapped tightly around his middle. It’s already warm in their room, but George is willing to sacrifice being a comfortable temperature for the night.
After Dream’s settled and George can feel his soft breaths dampening his t-shirt against his chest, he lifts a hand, traces his fingers through Dream’s hair.
He slowly brushes through the knots that he finds until he’s able to run his fingers through without interruption.
George hears Dream release a shuddering breath, hears him clear his throat.
“I’m sorry.” He sounds so small, so fragile. It hurts to listen to.
“Baby, don’t apologise.” George can feel his eyes starting to water. He holds back the tears, the last thing he needs right now is for Dream to blame himself for ‘upsetting’ George.
Dream sighs heavily against his chest. He can feel the material dampening from more than just his boyfriend's hot breaths.
He squeezes Dream's upper arm gently, rubs soft patterns into his skin in an attempt to soothe. He trails his hand lower, rests it on Dream’s forearm that’s wrapped around his waist.
Dream responds by squeezing his middle, turning his face further into George’s chest.
He plays with Dream’s hair for who knows how long, fingers tracing through the strands periodically. George lets his nails graze against Dream’s scalp, does it again when Dream sighs dazedly.
By the time the younger man is asleep against him, George’s t-shirt is no longer cool where the air touches Dream’s fallen tears, and the hold around his waist has loosened considerably.
George doesn’t cease his ministrations though, fearing if he does so, Dream would awaken and be forced to face whatever was troubling him all over again.
The younger’s chest expands and contracts against his front, steady with breaths unchanging. No hitches, no sighs, no skipped intakes.
George relaxes for the first time since waking up (as much as he can anyway with the lingering worries Dream’s distress left him with).
His fingers still brush through soft hair.
He blinks at the ceiling, doesn't anticipate the tears that start falling quietly down the side of his face.
George’s heart aches. It hollows out the space it occupies in his chest, skips beats to remind George of how Dream choked on his breaths.
He looks down, eyes now adjusted to the dark. He takes note of Dream’s features.
His hair is off of his forehead, courtesy of George. The slight bump on the bridge of his nose isn’t visible from this angle but George knows it’s there. He’s spent so long looking at Dream over the years, the details that make him up are like a second language he’s learnt.
George’s eyes try to connect all the freckles on the younger’s cheeks that he knows the whereabouts of, imagines he can still see them even in the dark.
He focuses on Dream’s hold around his middle, pretends he can feel the press of the soft cotton bracelet Dream always wears against his skin.
Before he knows it, his eyelids are heavy from exhaustion and his skin is dry of tears. He turns his face to the side, Dream’s hair tickles his nose. The pleasant smell of their shared shampoo on his boyfriend settles something in his chest.
He stills his hand in Dream’s hair, pulls it away to fix the blanket over the younger’s shoulder.
George smoothes out the wrinkles in the fabric against Dream, pauses when his hand is on his back, keeps it there.
He’s fighting off sleep, he can feel the promise of rest wrapping it’s vines around his brain. Before he gives in to it, he’s able to turn his chin down enough to press a soft kiss to the top of Dream’s head.
I love you.
The last thing he remembers before sleep takes him is the gentle touch of lips pushed against his sternum.
I love you too.