Personalised Hen Party "To Have and To Hold (Your hair back)" Party Favours - Hair Ties/Bobbles/Elastics

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Dream rolls his eyes so hard for so long that George is pretty sure he’s trying to read the Declaration of Independence off the inside of his own brain. “...Fine.” No, you’re not,” George calls from the bathroom, where he collects the discarded washcloth and the forgotten paper towels. He feels like an ancient caveman kind of, like a hunter-gatherer or whatever. It’s weirdly… gratifying. To take care of someone like this.

One of Dream’s arms is wrapped around George’s waist, lying half on top of him. George is pretty sure Dream is drooling on his chest, but when he hums contentedly and nuzzles ever-closer, George can’t really bring himself to be upset. He’s not even hesitant about the touch anymore. It’s just another layer of warmth. Between the early morning sunlight curling around the edges of the blinds and the light pink wash of the salt lamp and the feel of Dream’s skin, soft and sleep-warmed underneath his hands, George’s eyes are getting awfully heavy. He tugs Dream a little closer, settles in, and drifts off. Dream’s closed eyes squeeze shut a little tighter. He turns away from George’s hand, breaks the link of their pinkies, pushes his face into the arm he still has resting on the toilet. George’s hand immediately feels empty without Dream’s face to hold, the lines of his palm running cold without the soothing pulse of warm breath. You don’t have to be sorry, idiot. I don’t mind helping you,” George says quietly, letting the typical sarcastic edge of his voice subside. And he’s telling the truth, he doesn’t mind helping Dream, even if it’s gross and a little awkward and his knees are getting sore from kneeling on the tile. It’s Dream. George would sort of do anything for him. I dunno.” Dream’s voice is quiet, words slurred together. He butts his nose gently into George’s palm. “I don’t feel good.”He’s being forced to have a peaceful night to himself, for once in his goddamn life. Sapnap’s in North Carolina, Dream is apparently too busy editing to accept guests, and even Patches has found herself a nice warm spot on the couch. George, turned out to pasture and left to find his own fun, has elected to spend the unwanted alone time reorganizing the spice cabinet. George huffs a little laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I can tell. You look awful. This is so gross.” Oh god, George is pretty sure getting shot would be less painful. Be brave for him, he reminds himself.

Dream sleeps, looking peaceful and angelic and exhausted. Sometimes George manages to drift off too, mostly he’s too anxious watching over Dream. After Dream has slept for about an hour, he starts squirming in his sleep, brows furrowing and fingers twitching. Sometimes he writhes, sometimes he whines in pain, sometimes he reaches out and blindly grabs for George. He’s close to him now, sitting beside him with one hand drawing circles up and down his spine. He can feel the rapid rise-fall of Dream’s lungs, can smell the sweat on his skin when he leans heavily into George’s chest. Better,” Dream’s smile drops, and he looks away, looking a little guilty. “I’m so sorry. I know I’m kinda clingy, I’m sorry you had to see me like that. Thank you for helping me.” Oh. Um. Are you alright?” George takes a tentative step closer, watching as Dream shakes his head and spits into the toilet, looking miserable. One of his hands slips off the bowl, and he blindly reaches for George, eyes screwed shut and fingers twisting in the seam of George’s sweatpants.

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And touch has never come easily to George, but Dream is different. Different, somehow, with his soft hair and softer smile. His broad shoulders, so easy to hang off of, and his small waist, so inviting to hold on to. Yeah. He’s just… different. Dream curls up on one side, cuddling up underneath a blanket. He blinks sleepily up at George, and reaches out a hand to be held. Hey, you’re okay. You’re alright. I’m gonna get a washcloth, okay? Not going anywhere.” George pushes himself to his feet as Dream thunks his head lightly against the toilet, groaning. It’s not what you called me last night,” Dream says, and George freezes. “I was pretty out of it, but I do distinctly remember a certain someone calling me ‘baby.’” Anything, including carefully tilting up Dream’s jaw to pour water into his mouth, instructing him to swish and spit before he swallows.