Dream walks into the electronic doors of the cardiac care unit, chilled AC hitting his skin. It's familiar, of course it is. It's the same place the blonde went to every day.
It's where he had learned what it felt like to love George. It's the place he walked out of the other day, trying his best not to make it look like he was crying. It wasn't possible, so he found the nearest bathroom and locked himself in a stall to cry.
Dream's not exactly sure why he's even here in the first place.
He got insisted on leaving the beach house and came home instead, reassuring his parents that he'd be okay staying alone.
Now, he's not so sure.
Dream woke up, ate breakfast with Ranboo, and set his thoughts free. His thoughts ended up taking him to flower store, which made him more relaxed, yet anxious.
He walked the aisles of sweet scented flowers and garden decorations, chest filling up with nostalgia. He remembered walking through the same store, talking to the same employees, but he knows that it's not the same.
The last time he paid a visit to the flower store was for George. He thought of George as he walked through the door. He thought about George as his fingers ran along the delicate, soft petals of each flower. He had thought of George as he walked out of the store, endless possibilities clouding his head.
Now, there was nothing to think about. There was nothing to hope for. Nothing Dream could do except to "wait it out" and let time do it's job.
He knew that, yet he still went to the hospital and made a direct beeline to where George would be.
His gaze falls on Eileen, who was by the entrance scribbling down notes on the papers on the long, marble counter. She waves as she sees Dream, a confused and half-apologetic look on her face.
"Hi, Eileen," the blonde politely smiles, making his way to the table and standing there patiently.
"It's a Tuesday, and you know you don't have to fill out a visitor's form," the nurse laughs. "You've been here enough times to know that." She shakes her head and returns to the task of writing on the stack of papers beside her.
"Yeah," Dream sucks in a sharp breath. "I just- How is he?" he asks, voice full of curiosity. "I hope I'm not bothering you or anything but... how is George?"
Eileen raises a suspicious eyebrow. "Why don't you go find out?"
"I know, but-"
"Well," she sighs. "I can't exactly tell you the wellbeing of a patient unless it's family or another type of legal guardian, but I know you and how you are with George. He's okay, but I think he's a bit lonely."
"Oh."
Eileen nods with a grin. "So I say you should probably go and resolve whatever tension is between you two," she waves her hands around to add emphasis. "That's my piece of advice, anyway."
Dream's heart sinks.
He knows Eileen's right. He can't be dismissive of whatever that's going on. He wants answers, and the only way to get that is by going directly to George.
Without a warning, the phone by the table starts ringing, diverting both of their attention.
Eileen sighs. "Saved by the bell," she gestures and answers the phone. 'Good luck,' she mouthed, slightly waving Dream off.
The blonde reluctantly moves away from the table and makes his way down the well-lit hall until he's standing in front of George's door. His shoes tap along the glittery floor, and it's too silent. Each sound echoes and seems to be amplified.
His head buzzes with things to say to George, quietly reciting how he's going to act. He couldn't act like himself, because Dream knows himself. He'd just rush to the brunette, hold him close, and cry. And knowing George, the brunette wouldn't do anything to stop Dream. He wouldn't push Dream away, he'd just let things be.
The answers would be lost.
Dream's heart hammered in his chest as he places one hand on the doorknob. The metal is cool against his skin as he rests his hand there, no intention in opening the door. He stands for so long that the doorknob becomes warm against his touch.
There's a moment where his breath hitches and he almost twists the doorknob, but he doesn't move. Time feels frozen as Dream stays as still as a statue. He feels all too hot and cold at the same time.
He exhales slowly, his hold on the doorknob faltering. The metal escapes his grasp, his hand falling limp by his side.
He can't do it.
The door seems to be taunting him, mocking him for being too weak. The distance seems to stretch between Dream and the door. It feels so far that the blonde has to forcefully blink to snap back into reality.
George is just behind the door. With answers.
Answers that Dream's so desperate for, but somehow can't muster the courage to seek them.
That's when it occurs to him.
He's not here for answers, he's here for George. George who was behind this very door. George who had wanted to take a break.
The brunette could be doing anything behind the door. He could be having the time of his life, he could be crying, he could be living freely and happily.
Here Dream was. Standing behind the door, wondering if he should just leave. Leaving would mean sticking to the promise of a break. Sticking to the promise of a break meant breaking the promise between the two.
The blonde sighs, shifting the weight from one foot to the other nervously. He digs into his backpack, snaps a single flower from the medium sized bouquet he bought for himself, and sets it parallel to the door.
As he tries to zip his backpack, his eyes fall on the sealed envelope that he had wrote when he was at the beach. It's untouched, and the blonde has tried forgetting about it. His fingers graze the smooth texture of the envelope as he takes it out and inspects it.
He lets his hands drop the piece of paper, watching it flutter and skim the ground. It stutters along the floor as it finally comes to a stop, resting just in front of the broken flower.
Dream looks at it with a sad expression. He wonders if George will see it. He probably wouldn't, but at least the blonde had the satisfaction of doing something other than wandering around like a ghost.
The blue petal stands out from the pearly tiled floor, and the blonde just watches it with sorrow eyes. He wants to step on it, he wants to feel the crunch of the flower beneath his shoe, but he doesn't have it in him to do it.
It'd be destroying something that used to be beautiful.
Dream's not like that.
—————
Dear George,
I've walked to the hospital too many times recently. My brain just turns off and drags me places until I'm standing at the entrance of the hospital again.
No one recognizes me. No one stops to say hi or wonders why I go there so many times and not go in. I wonder that too.
I'm still trying to find the answers to that, but I realized that some problems are better left unsolved.
Love,
Dream
—————
Today is the day Dream decides that he's going to go to the hospital—and go inside to actually see George. He's sick of standing at the curb of the car-pickup area by the entrance, watchful eyes observing at the commotion around him.
There's a flutter of anxiety in his chest, and it makes him wonder what he's going to say when he finally sees George. Part of him knows that he's going to be dumbfounded, that he's going to freeze up when he meets the brunette's soft gaze. There was always something about the way George looked at him that gave Dream butterflies.
Dream wonders if George would still look at him the same way.
He thinks about it the whole way to the hospital. He tries not to let his mind wander to the topic of George, but it's as if George was implanted to one section of Dream's brain.
He stops by at the flower store first, greeting Audrey and Sophie with a friendly wave. They ask why he's been going to the store for so many consecutive days, but Dream doesn't provide a clear explanation. He just throws them a smile and hopes it's enough.
He himself doesn't know the exact answer. It'd be wrong if he had said something he didn't exactly believe in.
If he had known, he wouldn't be where he was now. He wouldn't be rereading the texts between him and George. His desk wouldn't be covered completely with all kinds of flowers, loose petals scattered all over the tabletop and on the floor.
The hospital's atmosphere is nothing if not invariable. There's the same chilled air surrounding the high ceiling and spotless hallways, the usual murmur of voices in the background.
Dream enters the elevator, his hands half-tucked in the pockets of his hoodie. His chest rattles with anxiety, and as of right now, he just wants to run home and watch a pointless TV show that he'll forget about in a couple of hours.
He tries to bury his nerves under his mask of serenity, but it doesn't work. He needs to know what to say when he sees George.
Having an abstract idea of what he was going to do isn't good enough. Dream needed a full-on structured plan of what he was going to say and do.
He found his way to the correct wing of the hospital almost instinctively, dodging hospital beds and rushing patients along the way.
This time, Eileen isn't at the counter right by the entrance. The whole room is silent except for the clock ticking on top of the desk.
It sounds like ticking time bomb, which doesn't soothe Dream's rustling nerves.
He stands there wordlessly, hands gripping against the backpack's shoulder strap. With a sigh, he walks through familiar halls until he finally reaches the door of George's hospital room.
The door is no longer taunting him. Instead, it looks inviting.
It should be inviting.
Dream inhales sharply, gathering enough courage to bring his hand to the door, knocking twice before twisting the doorknob.
He doesn't open it right away. He leaves it open just a little bit so it's enough for the AC to hit his face, but isn't enough for Dream to get a view of the room and George.
Exhaling, he opens the door, and is immediately greeted with a mildly dark room. The curtains are drawn, a sliver of light from the hall seeping into tue blanket of darkness.
"George?"
His voice cuts through the emptiness of the room, the atmosphere cracking from the tone of Dream's voice.
"George," he says again, this time sounding more like a statement than a question or a greeting.
Dream lifts his hand to turn on the lights. The switch clicks as light floods the room, slightly blinding Dream from being used to the dark.
Instinctively, the blonde uses one hand to shield his eyes, lowering his hand when he's finally adjusted.
The room makes his heart stop.
Nothing is different, everything's the same. Except everything feels different.
The candle George always burns still sits on the corner of the table. A mug with the hospital logo is still filled to the brim with pens and is on a stack of blank papers.
Except the papers aren't blank.
They aren't even stacked neatly on top of each other, not in that pin neat way George always did it. They're scattered all over the desktop, the slightly gray table covered with white pages and black ink.
Dream's gaze drifts to the empty part of the room, and that's when it hits him.
The bed is gone. George is gone.
The room feels sparse without the brunette's presence. It's as if there's a giant hole dug where the bed is supposed to be, and it's slowly carving away Dream's grasp of reality.
The blonde stops. He stops breathing, his chest heaving with fear.
He doesn't know what he's doing until he steps backwards, distance between him and the room increasing.
He hears the squeak of his shoes against the ground as he takes a few steps back. His back collides with the wall of the hallway, breath hitching.
Dream wants to shout. He wants to scream until his throat feels all weird and scratchy. He wants to do something. He needs to do something.
The scream in his throat gets lost in the cloud of his thoughts. He's thinking of everything, but it comes out as nothing.
It's as if time has stopped. The blonde's feet are planted right where they are, having no intention of moving and actually doing something.
Until hears a voice behind him.
** (ignore these stars for now, im using it to mark something)
Dream instantly turns around, heart thumping loudly in his chest.
It's only Niki, hair pulled into a tight ponytail, wearing her usual hospital scrubs with a pearly white lab coat. She's standing on the other side of the hallway with a shocked expression, eyes wide and lips pursed.
"Dream?"
The blonde just stands there. He doesn't know what else to do.
"Where is he," Dream tries to say, but it dies down as whisper.
His expression seems to be enough, because Niki immediately starts making her way down the hall towards Dream.
The heels of her shoes click along the ground, cutting through the sharp tone of silence.
"George," the blonde gasps, voice cracking lightly. "George—where is he." His glance flicks from the ground to Niki, eyes cold.
The doctor clears her throat, an eerie silence falling upon the two.
"Dream, I'm sorry. I can't tell you unless you're a legal guardian or have a specific—"
Dream wants to scream even more now. He wants to grab Niki by the shoulders and explain to her how much he needs to know.
"George is my boyfriend, I deserve to know," the blonde says, voice edged with a surprising hint of harshness.
There's something in Niki that changes, like a switch being flipped. Her eyes soften, empathy flooding her face.
"Niki," Dream whispers helplessly, voice sounding far away. "Please."
He knows he sounds desperate, but that's because he is.
It feels like the world is caving, not enough for Dream to keep living happily, but too little for Dream to be eaten alive by it and put out of his misery.
Niki hesitates before nodding slowly. "George is in critical condition right now. His condition was only worsening over time, and he responded to the new treatment well. His relapse was never on the charts and it was completely unpredictable—"
"Will he be okay?" Dream asks weakly.
He's much taller than Niki, but he feels so tiny and pathetic. All of the confidence he had was now completely washed away, leaving only the ghost of what he had been.
"I cant make any promises, none of us can," the doctor says, squeezing Dream's shoulder reassuringly. "But we're trying our best."
Dream isn't aware that he's crying until Niki reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a tiny pack of tissues.
"Okay," Dream says, but his voice is rough and his throat hurts.
"George is a fighter," Niki added with the tiniest ounce of a smile. The clear blue of her eyes still show sadness, the sharp cut of sympathy.
"I know," Dream responds, letting out an airy laugh. He rubs a tear away with the sleeve of his hoodie, not caring how rough the cloth is against his skin.
He grips the pack of tissues firmly, as if making sure he wasn't stuck in a nightmare. Dream looks at his hand, looking at how his nails left tiny crescents into the palm of his hand. He notices the sting of pain cutting through all of the numbness.
This was not something he could wake up from.
This was real life.
Niki keeps talking, her voice steady and hushed, as if she knew how one sudden move would absolutely destroy Dream. However, Dream doesn't listen. He stares at the marble-tiled floor, even when he could feel Niki's gaze slowly studying him.
The air felt stiff between them. Dream didn't care. Niki asked if he would be okay. Dream didn't care, he just nodded with a grimace as, as if the lie was all too obvious.
"When did it happen?" Dream asked softly.
"George went into cardiac arrest very late last night."
"Was he alone?" Dream blurts out without thinking.
Niki's eyes are full of understanding, lips pressed together nervously. Dream knows the answer before Niki slowly nods her head.
Something in Dream flips like a switch. It's not anger, but it's not sadness either. It feels more like guilt. It feels like all the blame is all directed to Dream with sparkly, pointed signs.
Everything in Dream's head feels clouded over. It's a numb feeling, like a whole chill is running through his body in shock waves.
"Niki?" Dream asks, wiping a tear away.
"Yeah?"
"Where can I wait?" he asks, folding a clean tissue anxiously. "I want to be there when he wakes up, it's the absolute least I can do after what I've done."
Niki doesn't push anything, nor does she ask him what happened. She just nods and points out the waiting room that Dream could stay in.
And that was how Dream ended up sitting on a worn couch watching a muted cooking show, waiting for someone to come in the room and tell him that George was okay, that he would always be okay.
The waiting room is pretty spacious, with a mini-kitchen and a snack bar on one side, a row of comfortable chairs on the other.
There's only one other person in the waiting room. She's sitting on the other side of the room, on a solo chair that is turned to face the window, looking onto the busy streets. She's quiet, arms across her chest in a closed-off manner.
Dream feels the same way.
He doesn't want to say anything, he's just staring expressionless at the TV screen, mind running so hard that it had completely numbed itself out.
He just wants to disappear, but he can't. All he can do right now is to sit and wait for good news.
He waits. Minutes pass, hours pass, time becomes a lost concept to him. The ticking sound from the clock becomes a blur of background noise, bringing a numbness to Dream's body.
He had already stopped crying, tears dried up on his face. The feeling of pure anguish is still clenched up in his chest, caught in his throat.
"Dream?"
Hearing his name being called, he turns to look at the voice, the flicker of hope strengthening. He wishes that it's someone that came to tell Dream that George was fine, that he was conscious and healthy again.
But it's not.
By the entrance to the waiting room is Mrs. Davidson, Molly right by her side. They both look tired, with their clothes slightly wrinkled and Molly's hair in a messy ponytail.
Dream winces with the hit of familiarity. Seeing a reminder of George deepens the scar, the ever-so subtle reminder that Dream could've been there— but he wasn't.
"Oh my gosh," Mrs. Davidson says, walking over to where Dream was sitting. Molly followed obediently, Grace the jellyfish in one hand, and a floral umbrella for kids in the other. "Oh my gosh," she says again.
"Hi," Dream replies, not knowing what else to say. His mind is once again, blank.
He wants to say everything, he wants to apologize and ask for more details about what has happened. Nothing comes out.
Dream just sits there, not knowing what else to say except for a vague: "Hi."
Mrs. Davidson's expression softens, eyes wrinkling in the sides when she offers an apologetic smile. "Have you been okay?"
It's a stupid question. Especially as Dream is sitting on a sofa, arms crossed in a standoffish way. There are subtle yet evident tear streaks still on his face, and Dream is sure that the expression he has on right now is something close to desperate and hopeless.
"I've been better."
Mrs. Davidson takes a seat close to Dream, Molly sitting in between the two. They sit in silence for a while, but it isn't awkward.
The cooking show continues, but only Molly seems slightly engrossed in how a chef had started crying after aggressively being shouted at.
"There has been... hospital scares like these before," Mrs. Davidson clears her throat. "George has always been okay, but his condition takes a fatal hit afterwards."
Dream looks away from the screen, not that he's even watching the show.
"It has happened around five or six times, but it's always scary. The hospital called and left an emergency message last night, just as I was about to go to bed," Mrs. Davidson explains just as commercials start running.
"Mum and I are in a hotel now," Molly innocently chips in. "I'm skipping summer camp today." She hugs her stuffed animal close to her chest, hair falling out of her ponytail and onto the purple cloth of the jellyfish.
Dream gives Molly a polite smile, hurt deepening from how innocent and clueless she was.
"I'm just hoping George will be okay," Dream says softly.
Mrs. Davidson smiles sadly. "Me too."
A blanket of silence falls between them once more, focus returning to the TV. Dream finds the remote thats laying on top of a stack of books, turning the volume up.
Dialogue fills the silent room, and Dream hugs his sides to avoid the aching that fills his whole body.
The other person in the room gathers her things and leaves, leaving the three alone to suffocate in the air.
Mrs. Davidson says something about getting a drink from the cafe downstairs and offers to get something for Dream.
The blonde looks up from the screen and just shakes his head.
"It might help," Mrs. Davidson explains, eyes filled with sympathy and sadness.
Once again, Dream shakes his head. Nothing could soothe the quaking feeling he feels beneath his grasp of reality. Nothing could reassure him that everything was going to be okay.
The only thing that kept him grounded was no longer beside him. The only thing that made his heart skip every time was now behind medical doors, surrounded by doctors, when all Dream could do was sit in a waiting room with George's sister.
He felt a gentle poke on his side, then Molly spoke. "Dream?"
The blonde tried his best to smile, to show that he was the same person Molly knew him as, but he couldn't.
His heart hurt when he looked at Molly. Looked at how similar they both were. They had the same brown hair, the same subtle freckles, the same eyes.
Dream had never known how alike they were, but it all crashed into him.
"Are you okay?" Molly asked. She furrowed her eyebrows slightly, "You're crying."
The blonde raises his hand against his face, skin coming contact with tears that he let slip past his eyes.
Molly leans forward onto the table and grabs a tissue, folding it up in a neat square before placing it in front of Dream.
"I cry a lot too," the girl says innocently. "There's a couple of mean kids in my grade, they make me cry sometimes." She looks up at Dream, "George taught me this thing once. He told me to count to a hundred, then to do it ten times, so I won't cry."
Dream let's put an empty laugh, covering up the sob that almost escapes.
"I know that it's a thousand seconds, but I did the George way," she smiles. "He probably thought I was too stupid to count all the way to a thousand, but he never said that."
Dream gives Molly a questioning look. "You really think George thinks your stupid?"
Molly returns this question with a small shrug.
"Of course not," the blonde tries. "He thinks you're such a smart girl, and I know that he's so proud of you."
Molly's gaze snaps up attentively, a sliver of a grin creeping onto her face. "Really? He told you that?"
"Yes," Dream lies.
But it doesn't feel like a lie. He knows that George is proud of his little sister. Dream sees it in the way the brunette lights up every time Molly is mentioned. He sees it in the way he gets all concerned when Mrs. Davidson talks about Molly's troubles with her classmates.
He sees it in the way George pretends never to care, but in reality, he's the one who cares the absolute most.
"Hey, Dream?" Molly asks, voice sounding tiny and unsure. "When you said that you hoped that George would be okay... what did you mean?"
The blonde wipes the last tear off of his face, eyes already feeling sore from crying so much. He looks at Molly, trying to decipher the blank look on her face. She looks doubtful, as if she's trying her best to answer a philosophy question.
The little girl's eyes narrow, gaze returning to the ground. "He is going to be okay, right?"
All the words Dream wants to say catches in his throat. Suddenly, he doesn't know what to say. Everything is lost in a puddle of uncertainty.
She didn't know.
Dream cleared his throat, setting his face in his hands. It was all too much. Molly didn't understand what her brother was going through. She didn't understand what possibilities there could be.
It was unfair.
Everything was so unfair. All the good in life felt cracked. Not broken, but just damaged enough that made everything blurry. It was as if everything was picked apart and loosely put together by someone as disorganized and stupid as Dream was recently.
The stab in Dream's heart deepened as he looked to the side and studied the hurt look on Molly's face.
"Is he not going to be okay?" she whispers. "Is George not going to be okay?"
Dream's breath hitches as he tries to collects his words. He wants to tell her that everything is perfect, that nothing bad was happening, that life was going to be smooth and steady from here on out.
He wants to hug George's sister and protect her from everything he was hurting from.
But he couldn't.
So he didn't.
"I don't know, Molly," the blonde admits quietly. His gaze goes from the floor to Molly, and he's surprised by what he saw.
Molly isn't shocked, she doesn't shake her head in disbelief or call Dream out for being a pessimist. She looks at the stack of books on the coffee table, hollow expression on her face.
"You knew, didn't you?" Dream asks. It's unfair to say that to Molly, but the curiosity has been eating him alive.
There's something in her face that tells him that this wasn't the first time she has heard something like this. She looks defeated, as if she's too tired to deny it, but not yet ready to come to terms with the fact that her brother was dying.
That George was dying.
The little nod from Molly is all Dream needs to completely break his heart.
A sob breaks out in the room, but it's not Dream. The blonde looks to the side, but it's not Molly either. There are tear streaks on her face, but Dream knows that it wasn't Molly who made the sobbing noise.
Dream turns around, his gaze falling on Mrs. Davidson who was standing at the entrance of the waiting room.
She's just standing there, tears rolling down her face. Her lips are moving, but no words are coming out. There's a lost expression in her eyes, hollowed and weak.
It's a look that makes Dream stop whatever he's doing. It makes him panic, it makes him rack through his mind of whatever that could've gone wrong.
And as it turns out, a lot of things could have gone wrong.
Dream just hopes it isn't what he's most afraid of.
Dream studies the look on Mrs. Davidson's face. He sees how her breath is stuttered, her purse clutched to her chest so tightly that her knuckles turned into a too pale shade of white. He looks over her shoulder, eyes meeting someone in a white lab coat.
A doctor.
The flush of realization hits him like a large wave, crashing into him and sending him tumbling into the depths of the sea. It's not deep enough to drown him, but it's enough to cause the sting all over.
"George," Dream chokes out. "George."
Everyone has a moment when it's like time is frozen. There's no sound whatsoever, just a slight ringing that seems concerning, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter when everything feels like it's been put on pause.
Sometimes it's a good thing.
Sometimes that happens when you finally get to kiss someone you've been wanting to kiss for a while, maybe even a lifetime. That moment when your lips connect and you know that everything was okay. That slight reassurance that bubbles up in your chest, telling you that nothing would ever ruin your mood, that it never could, because in that case, time was not a concept.
Time was something that didn't matter.
Other times, it 's not exactly the best.
In Dream's case, time froze, indicating the exact moment when everything literally stopped. There were no thoughts in his head, there were no sounds around him (that he could hear, anyway).
Nothing mattered. It was all clouded over with an incoherent blur.
Dream didn't cry. He didn't ask questions. He just sat there, arms crossed protectively across his chest.
He didn't answer Mrs. Davidson when she sat beside him and said something, her voice cracking because she was relentlessly crying. He didn't even react when a doctor came into the waiting room and spoke in a hushed, calm voice.
There was no battle to fight anymore. This was surrender.
A part of Dream had died that day.
----------
5055 words
I've been waiting to kill George for such a long time, thank god it happened
btw this isn't the end so don't ditch me just yet. love u
-p.