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

Product Information

You okay?” George asks, as gently as he can manage. He’s never seen Dream like this before. He’s seen him crying, sure, seen him bone-deep tired after several days spent with too much work and not enough sleep. But never so… pained. Dream looks exhausted . It’s a little overwhelming.

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.’”Dream grins. “Yeah. Woke up sweaty, didn’t want to make you deal with my stink. I already put you through enough last night.” Dream’s nose scrunches as he thinks. “Mm, prob’ly. Not for a bit though.” His voice is so low and so slurred, George is definitely going to hell for the way his stomach flips at the husky sound. 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. 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.

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. Blunt nails scratching lightly against his scalp, fingers carefully combing through what is surely a mess of bedhead. It feels… nice. He must make some sort of appreciative noise, because he can feel the rumble of Dream’s laughter against his face. And George has never really understood Dream’s stupid self-sacrificing nature, but looking at Dream’s sweaty face pressed up against porcelain, his arms wrapped around himself, the lines of the floor pressed firm into his knees, George kinda gets it. In this moment, if he could make a deal with God, he would swap their places in a heartbeat just to erase the helpless look on Dream’s face. M gonna throw up but there’s no food in my stomach,” Dream breathes against George’s throat. “I need to throw up but I-” he cuts himself off with a gag that brings tears to his eyes “I can’t. ” Dream makes another quiet, muffled sound into his arm, then lifts his head with another violent cough that fades into a pained whimper. The force of the action sends Dream falling from his knees to his ass, sitting on the floor with his legs curled up next to him. “Ow, ow,” he murmurs, arms falling to clutch at his stomach. “George, hurts.”

And George is always sort of helpless when it comes to Dream. He’s helpless to do anything but scoot over so he's sitting behind him, legs on either side of hips, arms around his waist, surrounding Dream safely in the touch he finds so comforting. He slides his palms flat over Dream’s stomach and when he gags, George realizes with horror that he can feel the muscles jump and seize with every pained dry-heave. But even as Dream leans forward over the bowl, his muscles relax slightly under his touch, so George stays. He’ll stay however long it takes. The noise is horrible though, really. The dry heaving, the not-dry heaving, the shaky breathing, the spitting. Slowly, Dream lifts his head, eyes bloodshot and teary. There’s a mixture of puke and drool dripping from his open mouth as he gasps for air, and George immediately releases his grip on Dream’s hair to fumble for the paper towels.

If George feels Dream’s tears wetting his t-shirt, he doesn’t mention it, and if Dream hears George whisper “I’m so sorry, baby,” he doesn’t mention it either. Oh god, George is pretty sure getting shot would be less painful. Be brave for him, he reminds himself. 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. Eventually, the pain twisting his stomach gets to be a little too overwhelming, and his body drags itself awake. The look on his face is always heartbreaking. Teary eyes clouded by exhaustion and confusion, like he can’t quite make sense of the pain he’s feeling. He blinks slow, still half-asleep.

George was prepared to get his friend a roll of toilet paper. He was fully equipped for that. He was prepared for flooded toilets, and clogged sinks, and even overflowing bubbles from one of Dream’s indulgent little baths. What he’s not prepared for is Dream’s chest heaving under his t-shirt, his scruffy blonde hair hanging in front of eyes full of tears, and his pretty face twisted in pain. Instead, he does the best he can do, which is shuffle forward to push Dream’s hair out of his eyes and do his very best at saying gentle words. And, well, George would probably do anything to ease the pain in Dream’s eyes. And he’s definitely not gonna pass up an opportunity to get his hands in Dream’s hair, even if it is sweaty and possibly has vomit in it. He joins him on the floor. Dream’s hand moves to grasp for George’s. George lets him hold on.