Chapter Text
Requested by SketchySk1ttles (@sketchyypng): Some hurt/comfort post G&G with Dream having a nightmare or a flashback about his past and George running into his room and comforting him?
Running, gaining on him, feat beating over the marshy ground of the swamp.
Xilo, standing there, his voice warbled, sounding threatening, standing over his quarry. He shoved him to the side, they fought, Xilo face down in the mud. His quarry turning to run, his quarry coming back.
Swells of nausea, in and out of awareness, blinded, vision swimming. Arms too exhausted to lift a sword
Arms too exhausted to lift a sword, arms straight out at his sides holding buckets of water, someone screaming in his face, the knowledge that if he dropped the water he’d be punished, he’d be in trouble, they’d hurt his dad, they’d kick him out and then where would he be then
Where is he now? Burning hot, a lake of fire, George on his back on the scorched black bricks, face full of pain, face full of fear, and a sword in his gut, and Dream’s sword in his gut, why had he done that? When had he done that? George saying get away, Dream, get away, blood sputtering up around his mouth, get away Dream, his hands red and sticky with blood, the stench of iron, George his friend, George his only friend panicking and struggling and breathing a familiar deathrattle, get away Dream get away
His room was dark and cool and notably did not smell of blood.
He rubbed his hands together. They felt dry. He hesitantly raised them to his nose, gave a cautious sniff. They smelled like sweat. But not blood.
He sat up, the bedsheets pooling around his waist, and he rubbed at his eyes. The nightmare
xilo face down in the mud a swell of nausea
The nightmare lingered, hovering just out of the corner of his vision. He kept his hands over his face, pressed his knuckles gently against his eyes. It wasn’t real, technically. Technically, most of it had happened, but it had been years or months. Some of that stuff he hadn’t even felt that bad about, at the time.
They came fast and loose, these days, the memories of things. He’d be on his way to advise Techno about something and catch a distinctive smell, or the shape of a sunbeam, or three notes of a song, and it’d pull a memory about some awful thing up to the surface. Someone he’d killed. Someone he’d hurt. Someone who’d hurt him, a hurt that he hadn’t felt until years later.
He slept with his door cracked ajar most nights, so Patches could wander in and out of his room. It did mean that he woke up every time George got up to go and get a drink of water, or whatever he did in the middle of the night, the creaking of the stairs barely audible unless you were listening for it.
He wondered if he’d ever stop listening for it.
He wondered when he’d get to sleep through the night.
He wasn’t expecting the gentle knock against the doorframe, but he wasn’t surprised when it came. He turned his head to the side to see George, a dim lantern in hand, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey,” he croaked, his voice low and rough.
“Morning,” George said.
“Is it?”
“In a few hours.”
“Fuck,” he said, and rubbed at his eyes again. Little coloured spots of something popped behind his eyelids.
“Did I wake you up?” he asked.
There was a short pause.
“No,” George said, and Clay had never been good at reading people, but George was a mediocre liar at the best of times, and being half asleep didn’t make him any better.
He nodded anyway.
“Nightmare?” George asked, voice gentle.
Had they been? They’d been bad memories more than anything. He could barely remember the details, could barely remember how one event bled into the next. He remembered being
blood on his hands arms aching being yelled at xilo face down in the dirt his sword in George’s gut his hands
He remembered being sick and scared and guilty.
He nodded.
There were a few more seconds of silence before he heard George’s footsteps fade away, heard the staircase creak. There was the gentle splashing of water, a muffled “come here, you little-“ and a put-upon meow. He laughed a little and dropped his hands to his lap. The stairs creaked again as George returned and gently shouldered the door open.
He deposited Patches into his lap, who seemed slightly miffed at her involuntary relocation. Clay laughed and ran his hand along her back, her fur soft and warm. She let him pet her for a few moments before wandering over to the spot she usually slept and digging her claws into the increasingly threadbare blanket.
“You spoil her,” George said.
“She deserves it,” Clay responded, and watched Patches destroy his property with a small smile on his face.
The mattress dipped as George sat down on the edge of it Clay turned to glance at him, and the mug of water in his outstretched hand. Clay took it
hands red and sticky with blood hands red with blood hands that stink of iron
Clay took it and drank. He wasn’t sure if it helped.
He started just a little when George laid a hand on his shoulder. George quickly took his hand back, like he’d touched something hot
hot burning scorched stone george saying get away get away get away g
Like he’d touched something hot, and it made something painful and nauseating and frightened swell in his stomach. He leaned back against George a little, the angle kind of awkward, but George caught him and shifted, accommodating his weight, putting an arm around him, holding him steady. Clay tipped his head against George’s shoulder, and heaved a deep breath.
George was tracing little concentric circles on his arm. “D’you wanna like…talk about it?”
He shook his head. Talking would just dredge it all back up again. He wanted to forget. Sometimes he daydreamed about waking up one day with no memories at all, a blank slate, none of the things he had done or the people he’d killed lingering, lingering just out of sight.
He glanced down at the brand on his forearm.
“’S cold,” George said. Clay snorted a little laugh.
“Duh, it’s midwinter,” Clay said. Just last week Sapnap had spent the night because they’d gotten snowed in. They’d collapsed in a heap of blankets and drunken limbs in front of the fire, laughing about nothing.
That was a memory he could keep. The rest could probably go.
“I’m cold,” George said.
“Then go back to bed,” Clay laughed quietly. Patches had already settled down to sleep in her clawed-up part of the bed. He could see the quiet, slow rise and fall of her breathing in the low orange lamplight.
This was a memory he could keep too.
George didn’t go back to bed. He sat there, arm around Clay, rubbing circles onto his arm for a long while. After some time, Clay extracted his arm and slung it low around George’s waist, settled in a little closer. He found himself staring vacantly down at the sheets, waiting for them to turn red with blood, for them to melt away and-
“What did I just write?” George asked quietly. Clay looked up at him.
“Huh?”
“I just like, wrote a word on your arm, what was it?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” Clay said defensively.
“Well then pay attention,” George grinned. Clay rolled his eyes.
“Do it again.”
He focused as he traced G-e-o-r-g-e onto his shoulder.
“Oh my God,” Clay laughed. “George.”
“Yeah. Okay, how about-“ i-s
“Is.”
W-a-y
He narrowed his eyes a little.
“Way.”
S-m-a-r-t-e
He dug his fingers into George’s ticklish spot, causing him to yelp and flail, trying to squirm out of Clay’s grip. Patches looked over her shoulder at them with the most disdainful look Clay had ever seen in an animal. He laughed, trying and failing to stifle it. He felt laughter bubble up out of George as well, his shoulders shaking.
Fatigue hit him suddenly, an abrupt swell of tiredness.
He didn’t really want to go back to sleep. Whatever else was lingering in the shadows, he didn’t want to see it. He yawned into the back of his hand, the cup of water mercifully empty.
“You sleepy?” George asked, glancing down at him.
Clay shrugged unhelpfully. There were a few more seconds of easy silence before George shifted away, but only to shuffle under the blankets. Clay glanced down at him, one eyebrow raised.
“It’s cold,” was all George said by way of an explanation. Clay snorted a laugh.
It was as good an excuse as any.
He laid back down under the blankets, scooting a little closer to George. When he didn’t react, he scooted even closer, close enough to press his face against George’s collarbone.
The shirt he was wearing smelled soft, the gentle smell of milk and soap. It was wearing out, starting to sprout holes from all the washing and wearing. George wrapped one arm around Clay’s shoulders, scratched his blunt fingers against Clay’s scalp. He let out a long sigh and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing closer to George.
“You’re okay,” George whispered, running a hand through his hair. “You’re good.”
This was a memory he could keep as well. Maybe it was worth all the other ones.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
He wasn’t sure who he was agreeing with.