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Summary
George knows something is wrong the second he wakes up.
The room is warm, too warm for the frigid January outside his window. The mattress below him is softer than normal, the blankets piled on top of him silkier.
Slowly, he cracks one eye open.
Across from him, in a bed that is not his own, is a sleeping man.
“What the fuck,” He mutters to himself, anxiety surging through his body, “What the fuck,” His body springs into action, throwing himself out of the bed and tripping over his own feet as he crashes to the floor.
“George?” The other man asks, and George’s blood runs cold. He knows that voice. He would know that voice deaf, or underwater, or six feet underground.
“Dream?” His voice cracks.