Work Text:
“Dream,” George says. He doesn’t elaborate, nor does he bother offering up any other improperly correlated words of nonsense. He just stands there in the doorway of Dream’s room, arms crossed, looking like he wants an answer to a question Dream isn’t quite sure of.
So, he responds, “George?” with enough confusion laced between the letters that the smaller man groans and rolls his eyes.
“The sutures are loose,” George explains, gesturing outward as if Dream is supposed to do something about that. “It’s only been, like, a day and a half. I can feel the ends brushing against my tongue and the inside of my cheek.” He grimaces at that, which inevitably causes Dream to sigh and shut his laptop.
“I can’t do anything about that,” Dream says simply, setting his computer aside. He pats the empty space on the bed next to him, and watches delightfully as George crosses the room and seats himself over the sheets. “It’s not supposed to happen,” he continues, “but it’s not too uncommon.”
George frowns. “But it’s annoying,” he comments. His hand reaches up and rubs at the bottom of his jawline, seemingly massaging out dull waves of pain. “And—and the hole is larger than I thought it would be. If I open my mouth too wide, it looks like it’ll never seal itself up again.”
Dream huffs out a laugh despite the oddly serious concern carrying across George’s voice. He clears his throat. “Look,” he says, gently placing a hand atop George’s shoulder, “it’s gonna be…sucky.”
George shoots him a look, but he scrunches his nose and continues.
“And it’s gonna be painful and annoying and every other form of mild torture under the sun,” he tips his head to the side, just barely catching a flicker of amusement cross George’s face, “but it’ll be over soon enough.”
“I know,” George grumbles, leaning his weight over onto Dream’s side, “but it’s taking forever.”
“Well, they’re supposed to dissolve.”
“What?”
“The sutures,” Dream says. He gestures vaguely toward George’s mouth, nudging him with his shoulder. “They’re supposed to dissolve once the gums heal. In, like, a week or so.” Vaguely, he wonders if George pressing his cheek into his shoulder is a coincidence.
“Oh,” is all George says.
It’s like that for a minute—just the two of them sitting in bed, shouldering weight and pressing together. Then, George huffs and crawls away from Dream, standing up and stretching himself out enough to pop every single bone in his body. He looks faintly reminiscent of a rubber action figure in the hands of a rowdy toddler.
“Feeling better?” Dream asks.
“Not really.” George’s lips are downturned, but his eyes don’t conceal the truth the same way; he’s thankful and Dream knows it. Even though he could have done his own research, he’s aware of the way Dream gives in to him like this—the way he babies him, Dream recalls Sapnap saying. It’s fine that way.
Dream crosses his leg up, tapping idly against his ankle. “Well,” he starts, pulling his sleeve down just enough to catch the blinking numbers of his wristwatch, “you have to take your meds again in about an hour. Hungry?”
At that, George’s expression sours. “I don’t even want to think about food,” he says. “I’m—ugh, this sucks so bad.”
“It’ll get better,” Dream reminds him.
“But I want it to get better now.”
“You can’t make it magically heal instantaneously.”
“I wish I could,” George grumbles. He crosses his arms over his chest and rocks back and forth on his feet. “I’m just, I dunno, worried . Even if I do everything right, what if one thing fucks up and I get stuck with some random problem that I’ll have to deal with for the rest of my life?”
Dream hums, tilts his head forward, and tentatively opens his arms. George looks at him for a moment, as if unsure, but ultimately crosses the line drawn between them and collapses into the blond’s embrace.
“It’s barely been two days, George,” Dream assures him, face tucked into dark brown strands and breathing in the scent of mocha. “Besides, if there’s an issue that turns out bigger than we thought, I’ll drive you right back to the dentist. Okay?”
A pause, and George nuzzles his face further into Dream’s chest. “Fine, okay,” he says, muffled by body heat and a cotton hoodie.
“You sure you’re not hungry?”
George’s body trembles with an inaudible reply, and Dream hesitantly pries George away from him. He pats his hair back into place and holds his cheeks in his hands, warm and still the slightest bit swollen. At least he’s not bleeding anymore, which would have been the worst issue.
“I’m kind of hungry,” George concedes.
Dream smiles, brushing a thumb under his eyelids, dark with a lack of proper sleep. That is another thing he’s sure George is missing. “What do you want?”
“Um,” George tears his gaze away, though he leans into the comfort of Dream’s palm against his face, “I don’t know. It’s hard to eat because of my mouth and—and the sutures,” there’s a bitter edge to the word as it escapes him, “so, just…something easy. Eggs—I can have scrambled eggs, right?”
“Right,” Dream agrees, and he’s less than happy to have to maneuver the two of them away from each other to stand properly. He takes George’s hand in his own, though, and isn’t entirely certain who the comfort is for. It doesn’t matter, though, because in the next beat he’s guiding George into the kitchen and seating him at the island, starting a fire on the oven and cracking chilled eggs into a frying pan.
George watches him, both with overwhelming adoration and the same curiosity he has when watching Dream do anything; his legs swing lazily and he props his jaw up in the palms of his hands.
“Make yourself some.”
“Hm?” Dream cranes his neck back, gazing at George from the corner of his eye, just under his eyelashes.
“Make yourself some,” George repeats carefully. He looks somewhat shy, a pretty pink dusting his face. “I don’t want to eat alone.”
And with a laugh that shakes his shoulders, Dream reaches for the carton and cracks another egg.