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It would’ve hurt less if Sapnap had slapped him.
Instead, he cups George’s cheek. It stings.
He doesn’t know why he’s here. It’s four in the morning and the hospital lights are so bright that George must be hallucinating, because why is there a sheet covering Dream’s face? George doesn’t think it’s Halloween.
“It was only a few minutes ago,” “he was going to tell you,” “he loved us so much, you know that, right?”
But George can’t speak right now and he doesn’t know what Sapnap is saying, he doesn’t understand, and why does Sapnap sound like he’s underwater? There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears, turn it off, turn it off, and why is Sapnap crying? It’s a joke, it’s not real, it’s a dream, dream, dream, Dream
Sour bile is rising in the back of his throat. His thumb presses hard into his palm and something warm and mockingly, sickeningly familiar slides down from the base of his pinky onto the tile and he doesn’t feel a thing. The pressure is building behind his eyes; there are so many questions swirling around his head; somewhere he hears an ambulance siren, elevator music, radio static. And there’s a drumbeat, an overwhelming orchestra, a shouting in his ears, but Sapnap’s mouth is closed and everything is too quiet, deafeningly quiet, so loud that it’s flooding his eyes and nose and mouth and he can’t think or breathe or feel and his vision is tunneling, and he’s spiralling, and this is it, this is the end and everything is so fucking loud and then
It stills.
And George breaks.