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His breath ghosts through cotton, heating the skin of George’s lower stomach, and George struggles to keep himself thinking straight. 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. ” George. Can you…” Dream shifts around, pulling his legs under him to sit cross-legged. At George’s inquiring hum, Dream continues timidly. “Can you hold me?” 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.
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.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.” George wedges the paper towel roll under his knee and rips one off with one hand so as to not drop Dream’s, and tries to pass the towel off to him. But he just blinks slow and lets out a pained whimper, low in his throat. His hand is clammy and limp against George’s, but still, he holds on. George can feel his face burning and briefly wonders if he caught Dream’s stomach bug. 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. George huffs a little laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I can tell. You look awful. This is so gross.”
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. 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. His eyes snap open, and he shoots upright to find Dream grinning at him, leaning against the headboard as he scrolls through his phone with one hand. “Good morning,” he greets George casually. His voice is still scratchy, George notes. And he looks better. More alive. His hair looks clean, he has a full water bottle leaned into his side. His skin smells like his eucalyptus body wash. He still doesn’t have a shirt on.
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.
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. 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. I dunno.” Dream’s voice is quiet, words slurred together. He butts his nose gently into George’s palm. “I don’t feel good.” You wanna get some sleep?” He asks gently, readjusting Dream’s little ponytail, and Dream gives him a small nod, his nose rubbing against soft fabric. 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.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. 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.
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