[ WP ] You forgot to take your dream suppressant again ...

The boy, young, only fifteen, lays down in his bed. It's dark outside, the Toronto skyline lighting up the horizon. He loves the view from his room, the city just bright enough to see, past the dark trees and houses of his neighbourhood. The room itself is small. Cluttered. Hockey stick in one corner. Guitar in another. Tall bookshelf. Bed, closet. So, he settles down in his bed, swaddled in blankets. Thinking happy things, excited for the next day, Saturday. He and his guardian are going to play some shinny. It was going to be fun. Fun. He takes a content breath when he falls asleep. 
 
 Then he's plunged into *dreams*. *Dreams*, the thing we all love and hate. His dreams pull him back to that *day*. The dream is a beastly thing. He feels the seatbelt pull him back, bruising his chest. His head aches as it's thrown against the seat in front of him. He looks up, then and screams at the sight of his parents. It's always different. Sometimes they're okay; those are the good days. When the accident goes an entirely different way. Sometimes, they look up, and get out. They fuss over him, as the ambulance comes. Sometimes, though, he sees them exactly as they were. Those are the worst. He relives it. A sick joke. 
 
 And today, it's happening all over again. He's back in the accident. His father; nose bent the other way, teeth knocked out, head cracked open. Kind brown eyes suddenly cold. Suddenly desperate. Suddenly lifeless. His mother, much the same, except her grey eyes fall lifeless right away. All of a sudden, he feels pain wracking his body. The bruises, the cuts, the scrapes, the hairline fracture. He looks up. He screams at the sight of his parents. His eyes fill with tears. It hurts to scream, but he does it anyway. He ca n't move. He ca n't *breathe*. 
 
 `` Freak accident on the 401.'' 
 
 That's what they call it. 
 
 Then he's in the hospital room. The next day, obviously, because that's the part that hurts the most. His room overlooks the city, the `` hospital district'', where SickKids ( his newfound hotel ), and a few others are. It's grey, raining. It's freezing. It's going to be winter soon. He knows that. Then, *he* bursts into the room. The man that will be his guardian. A school teacher. His seventh grade teacher. You see, he was close to the family. A good friend. He'd helped the kid break out of his shell, his shyness, and then the teacher was suddenly being invited to dinner parties. The boy and the teacher were n't awfully close, but they were decent friends. 
 
 But, nonetheless, the boy's parents asked the teacher to be his godfather. Neither of them had siblings, their own parents too old to look after him, closest friends too far away. It'd be a shock to the kid if they died, and then he'd have to move to Arizona, after all. He accepted. He did n't think. It made sense. 
 
 And so, the boy lies in the hospital room, as this man bursts in. He looks urgent. Then he calms down. He pulls up a chair and sits. The boy simply looks at him. He just wants his mother and father. In the dream, he's reliving those emotions. The want, the fear. His eyes filling with tears. Tubes in his nose. The soreness he feels all over his body. His ribs hurt; he'd broken a few. He watches the teacher. 
 
 `` So, uh,'' he looks down at the kid. He looks tiny, young in the bed. `` Uh, Connor, I'm so so sorry.'' He kicks himself. So generic. 
 
 `` W-what? What's wrong? What's wrong? Did something happen- oh God, please don't-,'' when he speaks he wishes he were dead. `` Why are you here?'' 
 
 `` Connor, your- ^your ^parents ^were ^dead ^at ^the ^scene,'' he says. Connor is suddenly reliving the shock. The panic attack. They sedate him then, but he's just panicking in a fog now. The tall man wraps him up in his arms. Connor screams, and screams and screams and screams- 
 
 `` Connor! Connor wake up! It's a dream!'' The boy jolts upwards. His body is soaked with sweat, and he sees kind brown eyes overflowing with concern. His throat hurts, and he suddenly realizes he *was* screaming. The man does n't move towards him ( bad idea, he got hit once like that. Had a black eye for days ), simply sits at the edge of his bed, near him. `` Are you okay?'' his voice is a whisper. Not interrupting the darkness. 
 
 Connor simply shakes his head. He does n't trust himself to speak. Knows he'll break into sobs. `` C-can I hug you?'' he nods his head to that. He needs touch right now. All in all, the man is very comforting. He eyes him as he pulls himself up on the bed, near the headboard. He stiffens as he pulls him into his lap, and wraps his long arms around him, pressing him close against his chest. Connor looks down at the teacher's legs, nearly at the very edge of the bed. He's damn tall. Then a hand is rubbing his shoulder, his back, a kiss is being pressed to his forehead. 
 
 The man's beard tickles his forehead. 
 
 He'd just gotten a rush of fatherly-ness. The boy looked miserable. Circles dominating his eyes. He could n't sit there and do their usual thing: a hug, until he calmed down, and then back into his own bed. Instead, he whispers comforting things against the boy's forehead. `` ^it ^was ^just ^a ^dream. ^You're ^okay. ^I'm ^here.'' He shooshes the boy, too. A calming *shhh*. 
 
 `` ^Did ^you ^forget ^your ^sleeping ^pills?'' 
 
 Connor nods. He had forgotten them. He'd forgotten his dream suppressants. 
 
 `` ^Want ^me ^to ^go ^get ^them?'' 
 
 He shakes his head. 
 
 `` ^Alright. `` 
 
 The boy is shivering in his arms. 
 
 `` ^It's ^okay ^if ^you ^cry, ^you ^know. `` 
 
 `` I-I'm s-sorry, you're p-p-probably really ti-tired, you can go ba-'' Connor's voice is cut off with a sob. He does n't want him to leave at all. He wants him to stay here and hug him and tell him it'll be alright. He trusts him, now. He loves him, now. Loves him like he loved his father. His body shakes with sobs. *Would Greg die if he left? He probably would, everyone does. He hates me does n't he? He hates me so much I just keep him up. * Thoughts are racing through his brain. 
 
 But Greg does n't leave. He sits there, and hugs him close. His shirt gets wet with tears. He rocks back and forth a bit. Connor listens to his heartbeat as he cries. He feels so cold right now, and the man is warm. He clings to him. Greg just shushes him gently, pushes the hair out of his face, keeping his lips pressed against his forehead. They stay like this for a while, until Connor cries himself out. He's far from calm, but the tears just wo n't come anymore. 
 
 And then he does something he has n't done before. He pushes himself down, with the boy, until they're both lying down. He has n't stopped hugging him. `` Get some sleep, okay? I'll be right here if you wake up. I promise, okay? I wo n't leave.'' 
 
 Connor is looking up at him, and Greg is looking down. He brushes away the wetness on his face with his thumb. Connor nods. He presses his head to his chest again, and listens to his heartbeat. 
 
 `` Just copy my breathing, okay?'' 
 
 Connor nods again, and does his best. 
 
 In the end, he does fall asleep, warming up under the covers, wrapped up in his arms, listening to a steady beat in his chest. A reminder of how *alive* he is. 
 
 The man's content, too. His kid, not his son per se, but his kid, is calmer now, and that makes him calmer. It scares him when he gets like that. Soon, he falls asleep too. Listening to the boy's breathing, this time. Hoping that he gets some rest. It's cramped for his 6'5'' frame, but he makes do. He loves the kid. Really, truly. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 I did n't plan on this being so long, but once I started writing I could n't stop. I've been pretty stressed with a lot of stuff, and I want some comfort and a hug, and this kind of gave me that. In writing, at least, haha. Thanks for the prompt OP! 
 
 edit: formatting, grammar
