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Stepping out of Spain’s enthralling atmosphere that he’s wrapped himself up in for days feels—well, not ideal.
George has spent the past hour unpacking his bags, unfolding crumpled pieces of clothing and shooting them into his laundry bag. He’s almost produced a game in his head: calculating all the precise angles and possibilities so as not to miss the bag again, and subtracting points in his head whenever he does, paired with a discontent grumble.
He contorts his face, planting a small one-sided pout on his lips. The carpet scratches his bare legs underneath. His luggage is still a mess, and he still hasn’t dared himself to move—temptation entraps him. He imagines a golden piece of string, wrapping itself around his leg, tying him right back to the locked hotel room door that’s twelve steps away from his.
There’s a sharp tug on his skin, wildfires crawling underneath and burning him with need; he needs it more than he needs oxygen. In less than nine seconds—yes, he’s counting and no, he doesn’t care that he’s a little out of his mind—he leaps up and finds himself running wherever his heart takes him.
To Dream.
He knocks. Waits. No response.
Some semblance of heartache seeps through the little gap under the door, weighty and all-encapsulating. Freefalling right into the arms of love—in the midst of last fall—had been no easy task. Pouring blood vessels out of his heart and all over airports, parking lots, front yards; he had never felt more see-through. He had never been absorbed by such feelings all at once, like hurricanes and whirlpools hauling him in.
He feels a pit of dread open up in his stomach. It’s a laughable imagery; he’s weaker than he thought he would be. He’s not one to invade Dream’s personal space. Dream had specifically requested two rooms at the reception desk, and the woman had murmured nonsensical phrases in French to her coworker before nodding to them both. Usually, locked doors and numerous unanswered text messages would signal that he doesn’t want to be bothered, and George sees himself as no exception to that.
There’s notably no reason for him to be here right now, and the steaming bowl of lentil soup in his hands could grow cold if he waits for a minute longer, and yet—
He knocks once more, and the door opens in full-force, startling him.
“George?” Dream croaks out with a wince as lamplight stuns his face. His hair is unkempt and still humid from the shower, face creased in total confusion and a little zoned out, and he’s ruined. His waterline is rimmed red, cheeks still stained with what seems to be leftover teardrops.
And there’s no miracle in the world to fix him in less than two milliseconds; realistically, George knows this. Realistically, there’s absolutely nothing he could do to make up for how cruel the world is. He aches with the urge to move, to speak, to blurt out whatever nonsense he can come up with from the top of his head. He’d envelope Dream in thick layers of bubble wrap, if only it were possible to never let him feel a moment of pain again.
Regret floods his bloodstream. “I brought you soup.”
It shouldn’t scare him as much as it does, with the innate knowledge that Dream would—eventually—be alright. Over patience. Over time.
Neither of them have the courage to interfere, but naturally, as the string unravels itself, “but ‘m not sick.” Dream makes a face at the bowl, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a straight line.
You didn’t have to.
George nods, and the exhale he forces out trembles around his lips. “I know,” he agrees. “But—”
I wanted to.
Dream wraps loose fingers around the bowl, carefully stepping backward so as not to spill its contents. Once George is able to step in, he pushes the door shut behind them. “Thank you,” he murmurs through a smile that George doesn’t see, but can feel nonetheless. A brief moment later, like an afterthought: “You’re amazing.”
“Mm.” George grins. “I know.”
He tiptoes over to Dream’s half-made hotel bed, placing the bowl on his nightstand. The trail of steam has faded by now, and the soup seems to have cooled down. He watches Dream sit down, leaning back on the headboard with two pillows to hold him upright. At this point, George would’ve found it reasonable to leave, as he’s brought soup to Dream’s room and fulfilled the task to check up on him. The moon gleams far up in the sky; he’s lucky if he’ll be able to get more than five hours of sleep before the panels tomorrow, and—
Before he can even articulate his thoughts, he feels Dream’s crushing weight around him: practically collapsing toward George with the pinch of strength he has left, arms loose around George’s stomach, head tipped over his shoulder. Their hearts melt into a muddy mixture of agony and hopelessness and fear—and George thinks he’d carry it all for Dream, if pain were transferable. It doesn’t go beyond a wish.
“You’re upset,” he mumbles into Dream’s clothed neck. Not as pouty and accusing as a little kid would be, but observant.
“I’m stressed,” Dream is quick to correct, as if that would lighten the immense weight of the moment at all. George gives his shoulder a tender squeeze. He couldn’t ever truly grasp the extent of how heart-wrenching it must feel—but, for now, it’s enough that he’s here.
Once he releases his death grip around Dream, he steadies himself the best he can, throwing a look at the aglow laptop screen on the floor next to him that disturbs the absolute darkness. It wasn’t quite noticeable when he came in, but he can see the colorful format of Dream’s editing program now, piles of unopened tabs and a messy email inbox waiting to be returned to.
Would it be dramatic to think that Dream must be the strongest soul he knows? And somehow, as surreal as it sounds, Dream has become exceptionally talented at reading George’s mind and proving it. “I actually haven’t slept much since Spain. It’s not, like, the end of the world. I mean, it’s not that—”
“Dream.” With a sharp tone, and a spoonful of soup that he coaxes through Dream’s lips: “You need to stop doing that to yourself.”
His knees collide with Dream’s once he manages to shove the heap of blankets to the foot of the mattress and sits down on the bed in criss-cross-applesauce. He motions purposefully to the half-filled bowl, and before another word, Dream complies and takes it into his palms.
He tends to get defensive, indulging himself far too deep into these rambles that could go on for hours if he had the spare time. It isn’t unusual for the world to accuse him without a moment of proper contemplation, so naturally—George gets tearful if he thinks about this too hard—he’s become desensitized to it. Rumors, threats, truthful phrases that the Internet twists and blows out of proportion. Gradually, the urge has grown irresistible: to hold him in a secure pair of arms and never let another speck of darkness get to him.
Dream waves his free hand around senselessly as he elaborates. “I’ll have— hopefully these four videos to post within the month so I can get back on track before tour, and— oh, the tour. Right. And the EP release before all of that, obviously, and tons of rehearsals to perfect my vocals.”
“That’s a lot of things.” George points out the obvious with a sweetened tone of surprise, like he’s discovered a marvelous new concept. “‘M so proud of you, y’know that?”
Dream starts to laugh, or lets out a row of exasperated breaths—George can’t quite tell anymore. His laughter has weakened, as if someone’s grasped his lungs and drained the life out of them. “I know, I know—” He intertwines one hand with George’s on his knee, and uses his left hand to guide another spoonful of lentil soup into his mouth.
He looks up once at the spinning fan, then down at their entangled hands, searching for some sort of antidote—or comfort, out of all else—that he knows would come to him over time. Patience. George feels sick to his stomach at that implication.
“I just don’t think I should, like, let it get to me too much.” He attempts a bitter smile. “Or else, I— I don’t know how I’d stay on top of it otherwise.”
Patience. George could never connect with Dream’s true feelings at heart, not that it’s humanly possible to have such a level of empathy. He still can’t shake off the feeling that he somehow needs to. Wait, he tries to console himself, and that terrible word seems to backfire as soon as it dares cross his mind.
“It’s so stupid,” he lashes out, feeling himself sink beneath the waves of profound anger, twisting itself around his throat like ever-spreading vines. The more he tries to make peace with it, the more it consumes him altogether. “You don’t deserve this, you— you’re so kind, and genuine, and so wonderful, but they’re so cruel to you. They’re not misunderstanding. They’re— they’re horrible, Dream, I don’t—”
Dream has gone quiet. He puts the bowl of soup down on the nightstand again, opening his arms wide.
George takes in a shuddering breath for one moment, and the next, he can breathe again. It takes one desperate hug and a little clumsiness; they’re tumbling down together. Patience. He feels the release of Dream’s clenched shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest untensing. Dream starts to giggle underneath George’s slumped weight, gracefully—finally—welcoming the little spare kindness that he’s given.
George feels his heart swell with true pride. “One day,” he whispers, one hand buried in Dream’s hair. A single, sincere phrase that, at its core, holds the power to mend the universe again. “One day soon.”
“One day soon,” Dream retaliates. Promise. George wishes—prays—for whoever’s out there to listen, if anyone even is, to grant his single wish.
He could only hug him a little tighter, for now.