bleach. george daniel x reader
synopsis: your life is changing rapidly, all good things— yet you’re feeling behind and lost in life. in an effort to cope, you bleach your hair, with the help of your boyfriend george.
word count: 1,488
warnings: angst?-(not really?) general feelings of feeling lost! perhaps a bit self indulgent!
a/n: this is my first published writing! yay! it’s maybe a bit too wordy but I had too much fun. i saw @bayleequits post that there’s a lack of george fics and angst/fluff and i have to agree! so I’m attempting to rectify that:)
anyway! enjoy! <33333
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You were being unfair.
Blaming your own ineptness to cope with change on everything around you, including George, was only making matters worse. What made everything far more confusing and complicated was that these changes were all good. You had just taken a new job offer, one that pays far more than your last job and has flexible hours, and you’ve finally moved in with your boyfriend of two years. Things are looking up, yet you’re feeling lower than you have in months.
After a domestic discussion about your now shared finances turned into an avoidable argument; here you are in the bathroom of your shared house with tears drying down your cheeks. You feel emotional, embarrassed of yourself, and guilty— achingly so.
George has done nothing but love you and welcome you into his home, he has done nothing but share in your success and joy with your new job. It isn’t his fault you’re feeling this way; you just feel off, distant, the changes all overwhelming and hitting at once.
Yet, you still feel the same— like you’re standing still as your life keeps moving around you.
You take in your appearance in the mirror across from you, the light bouncing off of the pale gray bathroom walls making it seem unbearably bright. Your eyes are puffy, your cheeks flushed and tear-stained, your hair a mess.
Your hair, the same length it’s been since you first started at the job you just left— 5 years ago; the hair that’s been through two break ups and the beginnings of your time with George. Never really having changed it, you decide that your hair is one of the small things you could do to change yourself, no matter how surface level that difference really is.
Ducking down and opening a drawer under the sink, you see a box of cheap hair bleach, unopened and likely being saved for George’s next touch up. He’s always been adamant about doing it himself, using a single gloved hand to smother his scalp with bleach. Lacking sleep and the correct parameters to make a sensible decision, you grab the box and begin to open it, all the while attempting to remember where the hair scissors are.
You’re so engrossed in your own thoughts that you don’t notice George’s head peeking in through the bathroom door, his deep eyes thoughtful as they watch your hands deftly working to inbox the hair kit.
“D’you want some help?” His tone rumbles this softly, not questioning your actions as he allows you to notice his presence.
All current thoughts and feelings are replaced by love and guilt as he nears you. You want to apologize for your stubbornness and fighting words, yet all you can do is nod wordlessly and hand him the box. George grants you a soft smile, patting the counter of the sink with his palm as he sets the contents of the box on the closed toilet lid. You watch his sure movements as he mixes the contents into the bowl.
“Where d’you want it?” His eyes rove over your features as he speaks, taking in the emotions staining the face he loves so dearly.
You hadn’t thought about it and you don’t want to commit to your whole head, “Just a strip in the front, could look cool,” the smile you shoot him is weak, barely able to be held up by the weight you feel.
George steps closer, your legs widening instinctively to allow him between; his tall, broad build shadowing over you. The silence between you two is achingly tense as he sections off your hair, tucking what is to be untouched by the bleach behind your ear.
Neither of you know how to approach this, as neither of you can put a name to what is so wrong.
His willingness to aid you after you had been so harsh says a lot about who George is as a person, as a partner. Forgiving, comforting, empathetic, and warm. All traits you continually fall in love with; over and over and over.
Pulling a glove over his hand, he holds the strip of your hair, his right hand using the bleach coated brush to slowly apply it. In languid streaks, he coats the desired section. His sharp features are focused as he gnaws at his bottom lip, careful to not brush anything outside of the given parameters. Silently, he clasps the bleach-drenched hair back, starting a timer on his phone to allow for the chemicals to set in.
Slowly but surely, he looks up from his phone, gaze latching onto your own. Tenderly, he reaches a hand out, the pads of his fingers brushing the apple of your cheek before cupping your face in his large, calloused palm. Brows furrowing, creating a crease in the skin between them, George's eyes fill with concern and with words he’s unsure of speaking aloud.
“What’s going on in this head of yours?” He questions softly, his deep rumble of a voice strained with worry.
You feel a jolt in your chest at his feather light touch, reserved for you; only you. “I– ” you pause, still unsure of how to put this into words, you just don’t know, “I don’t know.” It comes out as a weak croak, reverberating in the small bathroom space.
“Love, there has to be something. You’ve been on edge all week,” he says with concern brushing across his features, his thumb tracing the dried tear streaks on your cheek. “Is it– are you regretting moving in?” George’s tone is marred with worry, his brows furrowing impossibly further, “I never wanted to push you to move too fast with us, I just– ”
“God, no. Of course not,” you whisper, cutting him off. “It’s just– I– I feel stuck,” you attempt to explain, “Everything around me is changing so rapidly and life is moving on, but I feel the same. Like my mind is unwilling to adjust to any of this.”
His hand slips from your cheek to rest upon the crook of your neck, his calloused thumb rubbing soothing circles across your collarbone. It’s one of his favorite places to inhabit; with his face, tender kisses, the point of his nose, or the tip of a finger.
“D’you need to go back to therapy?” George asks gently, almost with an air of hesitance, as he takes the glove off of his left hand. He knows therapy’s not something that anyone necessarily enjoys; though it has potential to help.
You’re quick to say no, your head shaking weakly.
“The last thing I want to do is feel like I regressed, George. I’m so tired of feeling like I can't get better. I should be over the moon about moving in and getting a new job– and I am, but it’s like everything I knew is gone for good. The only constant is you, and I keep being an asshole,” you groan into your hand, wiping at your irritated eyes.
“Darling, stop that, please” George pleads softly, his warm palms engulfing your shoulders in a loving attempt to keep you upright, “I can’t say it’s been easy. I know life hasn’t been as of lately, regardless of how good it’s appearing to be.”
He’s always been an anchor for you, in all aspects of life. Somehow his warm brown eyes soften even further as he looks to you, to your overwhelming feelings that seem to seep out of every aspect of how you exist lately. You’ve been trudging through the past week, hoping your pathetic attempts at getting better will aid you in escaping your feelings.
Unfortunately they chase right behind you, biting and gnawing at you. “I know I should go,” you admit in a nearly inaudible breath, “I know I should,” you repeat, more to yourself now as if to convince you that therapy might help.
“It can only help, yeah?” He murmurs softly, careful to not touch your bleach soaked hair as he pulls you to his chest, “I can drive you, take you for dinner after.”
You can’t help but smile against his broad chest, your load lightening ever so slightly as you breathe him in, feel his heart beating beneath your cheek. Every steady tap of its rhythm seems to reassure you; ‘it’ll be okay.’
“You wanna help me touch mine up?” George asks as he pulls away, hands grazing the side of your arms tenderly.
“You must really pity me, to let me bleach that special hair of yours,” you tease, sniffing up the last of your emotions.
“Take it or leave it,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes as a soft smile tugs at his lips.
You’re quick to take it; quick to grab the bowl of bleach, just as he’s quick to kiss your lips, quick to bend down to your height; always and forever attempting to make life just a bit easier for you.
