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It’s three am when George gets the call.
His phone lights up on his nightstand, a blaring alarm ringing out and startling George from his sleep. In seconds he’s fumbling with his phone, and knocking it off the nightstand.
“Fuck.” George shifts in his bed, leaning over the edge and scrambling to grab his phone before whoever was sent off to voicemail. He doesn’t even spare a glance at the name, just presses the green dot and lifts the phone to his ear. “‘Ello?”
Wind blows in the background, and someone clears their throat. “George.” Dream’s voice is ragged and soft, and in an instant George is awake, sitting up on his elbows as he casts his eyes to the digital clock casting soft red light across his nightstand. 3:24 AM.
“Dream? What’s up, are you okay? It’s really late.” It’s not odd for George or Dream to be up so late, and even less strange for them to be up late talking to each other. It is odd when Dream said goodnight hours ago, and George had fallen asleep just before eleven.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m…” Dream pauses, and then sighs. “Sapnap wouldn’t pick up. If.. If I sent you my location would you come pick me up?”
Something’s wrong. It’s clear, not just through his words but in the way his voice drags itself from his throat, the fact that it’s three in the morning, and he can hear noises in the back that mean Dream is standing on some street corner, cold and alone.
“Of course.” George is throwing his covers aside, planting his feet on the cold floor and forcing the sleepy ache in his bones away. “You need me to bring anything?”
Dream sniffs. “No, no, just.. Hurry, please?” Dream’s voice cracks some on the please, and George feels an ache in his chest so sharp he almost can’t breathe.
“Of course. I’ll get there quickly. Just send me your location, alright? Want me to stay on the phone with you?”
“No, it’s alright. My phone’s almost dead anyway.”
George pauses, halfway through shoving his legs through some jeans. What? Why would-
“George?”
Right.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here, I’ll be there soon.” He quickly reiterates, and shoves his jeans on. “See you soon.”
“Thanks, George. Bye.” Dream hangs up before he has a chance to say anything else, and George feels his head buzzing, entire body running on adrenaline and slowly growing panic. He barely takes the time to tug his shoes on properly before he’s out the door and calling the elevator, looking at his phone as Dream pings his location to him. In a minute he’s sliding into his black SUV, and tearing out of the parking garage.
New York streets at three am are quiet, abandoned as the occupants slept, and George is grateful for this as he speeds as much as he dares, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly he thinks he may leave cracks behind. He’s at the street Dream sent in ten minutes, slowing carefully as he spots a familiar body beneath a streetlamp. Dream’s leaning against the peeling black paint on its metal surface, yellow haze covering his features. His breath billows out in a cold fog before him, head tilting up some as he recognizes George’s car.
George gets a sudden sense of deja vu as his car rumbles to a stop, and Dream yanks the door open and climbs in without a hello.
The scent of whiskey hits him hard, enough to make him blink. Dream slumps against the leather seats, body turned partially away from George, as though he’s trying to conceal himself. And there’s a darkness marring the side of his throat, running along his jaw and anger settles firmly in Georges gut.
“Dream, what happened?” George breathes softly. Dream only answers in a shrug, and tilts his head some to look at him. His eyes are dark, a viridian forest turned into an ebony sea in the dark lighting.
“Just drive. Please.” Dream swallows, and then tilts his head back, and the anger and fear dissipates as he gets a closer look at the markings on his neck, and-
Oh.
Oh.
George hesitates for a moment, his gaze stuck on the marks on his neck, a new feeling making itself known deep within his chest. He can’t describe it, other than a wretched bile coating his tongue, making his throat close up around words he wants to say.
“George.” And Dream’s voice is thick ice, hard and cold, and it draws him from whatever feeling had been growing in his stomach as he clears his throat and sits back.
“Gotcha.”
George drives slower now, now that Dream is safe beside him, but there’s a tension to the air that is so thick he’s certain it will choke him if he doesn’t focus on breathing through it. Dream says nothing, just stares out the window as the dark car passes beneath the amber lights. After a few minutes, however, George can’t stand the silence any longer.
“You’re drunk.”
Dream scoffs, bobbing his head in his direction. “Wonderful analysis. No one would have guessed that.” George winces some. He’s seen Dream drunk before, but this was different. This was not warm smiles and rough laughter. Dream is dark, casting shadows over the center console as he huddles closer to the cool window as though he plans to launch himself from his seat and back out onto the frigid streets.
“Did you go out drinking?” George continues, as though Dream were sober and they were having any other kind of conversation. “You said you were going to bed.. Man, hours ago. What changed?”
“None of your business.” The words are harsh, and unexpected, and George waits for a moment, waits for that deep laughter to rumble from his throat, for Dream to flash a toothy smile and say it’s all a game, just a stupid bit.
Instead Dream scowls and looks at the passing streets.
Dream seems to want to be left alone. So, sure, fine, he’ll leave him alone. Even if it was him who called at three am, almost begging for George to be his knight in shining armor and save him from the cold expanse of the New York streets.
Whatever.
The drive is quiet from then on out, a tense silence he’d never experienced laying in the air as he makes the familiar turns, and finally pulls up in front of a burgundy door and brick steps. And Dream’s unbuckling his seatbelt, throwing the door open and climbing out without a word.
The slam of the car door gets him, digs just enough under his skin for George to grit his teeth, yank his seatbelt off and throw his own door open.
“Dream!” The other man stops just before his steps, turning in slight surprise as George makes it to the sidewalk. “What the hell is going on with you, man?”
Dream grimaces, heavy shadows over his face in the moonless night.
“Just let it go, George. I’m tired.” George huffs some, and crosses his arms.
“Yeah, and
I’m
tired too. You’re the one who went and called me at three am, remember?” Dream glances away, as though ashamed. “I don’t even get the slightest bit of explanation? About why I had to haul ass out of my bed to come and pick you up, drunk as fuck?”
Dream rears his head back at that, and he grits his teeth, jaw tensing. He looks like a bomb, ticking away slowly.
“No. I don’t want to talk about it.” Dream turns away then, intent on heading up the stairs, but George is stupid, and stubborn, and confused and hurt and fucking tired and aggravated with the stupid drunk bastard leaving him behind.
“Hey, no!” George takes a few demanding steps forward. “Tell me what’s going on!” When Dream turns back to him, he can’t help but drop his gaze to the hickeys across his neck, and his tongue moves faster than his mind. “Does it have to do with those?”
Dream makes a wheezing sound, as though George had just punched him in the chest, and one hand drifts up to cover the bruises along his throat, nose scrunching in a grimace.
“None of your fucking business .” He hisses out, dangerous venom. “Why the fuck do you care so much?”
“Why do I care?!” George stares at him incredulously. “I care because I’m your friend, Dream. I care because it’s three am, and
you
called
me
, begging for a ride from some random street. Dream, I ‘care so much’ because I actually care about you.”
Something in Dream shifts. It’s like something misaligned itself, gets knocked aside by his words. A gear running off track. If George wasn’t so intent on getting an answer he’d notice it, would notice the white of his knuckles as he clenches his fist, would notice the bleary tears in the low light, the shake of his lips as he tries to regulate his breathing.
“Oh, fuck off. ” Dream snaps, sneering at him. “You don’t give a fuck. Last I checked, you’re just my boss.”
George feels something in him crack.
“What?”
Dream takes a step forward, and George resists the urge to run backwards.
“You heard me. You’re just my boss, you only give a fuck because I’m your employee, and you’re obligated .”
Dream is like a freezing wind, carrying low temperatures as he stares down at George. And George feels like he’s crashing through ice, the dark pull of frigid water sending his vision spinning.
“So. Fuck. Off.” And with that Dream has spun around, and climbed the steps two at a time, and slammed his door behind him to leave George behind.
For a moment he stays where he is, staring at burgundy paint before his knees suddenly go weak. Quickly, he grips the railing beside him, blinking back tears. Make it to the car, just make it to the car.
George numbly drags himself to the car, barely feels his keys as he wrenches open the door and slides into the driver's seat and slumps forward against the steering wheel. For a moment he sits, staring at his rearview mirror, willing Dream to come back for him, like some coming-of-age film. One second, two seconds, three...
Nothing but a silent street.
“Fuck.” He whispers, and then anger boils in his gut, and he slams a hand down onto the steering wheel, reveling in the sharp ache it brought. “ Fuck! ” George slams his hand down again, again, again, until his hand is numb and red where it’s been struck, and his vision is blurry with tears as he sobs.
Because what the fuck? He thought Dream had been a friend, and he had felt more for him, feelings he hadn’t felt before, feelings he wanted to try and explore, even with his tentative nature. But now it was a confused and jumbled mess. Like someone just destroyed a nearly complete puzzle. Where did all the pieces go?
With shaking hands and a sniffly nose, George turned his car on, and winced as a british man's voice sprung from the speaker. Swiftly, and without thinking, he slammed his hand into the radio. The voice chattered for a moment longer, then cut off completely.
“Damnit.”
That would be an expensive fix.