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Jack squeezes his shoulder, then grabs the ribbon from him and fixes it onto the front of his dress.
“It’s your bloody birthday, mate. Have some fun, eh?”
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“We were thirteen. Idiot kids.”
“Aren’t we still idiot kids?” Matty asks, turning his body into Ross’s, pressing his chin into the zip of his puffer jacket.
“Oh, we are. But we drive now, and we smoke weed, and we play incredible music,” he says, with a crooked grin.
“And we’re together,” Matty finishes for him. “We were then, too, but now it’s for real. We’re together.”
“Yeah,” Ross agrees. One hand on Matty’s face, the other lingering on his forearm. “We’re together.”
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Making music together. Learning from each other. Fuck. This is way worse than sex, isn’t it?
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“But nothing’s going to happen, right?” Matty asks, slow and hesitant.
“Nah,” George replies. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
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Fallingforyou, he’s decided to call it. One word, not three, to perfectly capture the all-consuming feeling of free-falling into a known unknown and watching the ground closer and closer as you struggle with opening the parachute. He still hasn’t decided who the song is about, and a huge part of him hopes he never finds out.
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Ross huffs out a bitter laugh. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” he asks, shrugging.
He watches George’s face go through a myriad of changes, as if he was fighting a whole war inside himself in the space of a few seconds. Then, George sighs, completely deflated. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Ross takes a couple of steps towards him, until he’s so close that he can feel the warmth of George’s breath on his face. He touches George’s chest, pressing him lightly against the tree trunk. He feels George resisting him a bit at first but then yielding. “Then you’re just. Like. Me.”
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George doesn’t want his fucking sympathy. He just wants him back.
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Happy Thursday everyone, it's reblog time 🥲
George doesn’t want his fucking sympathy. He just wants him back.
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“I know I should have written something. I tried, I really did, but it was too hard. I always… There’s always so many words,” he says, tapping the side of his skull. “Just so many fucking words, in here. Most of those are other people’s words, of course, and what I do with them as I process them is not always that great. There’s maybe ten percent of it that’s good, really, and the rest of it’s as shite as my wrapping. And you’re too good for that. I think I’ve realised…” He’s making himself emotional again. Great. “I’ve realised that for you, I can’t find words. I’m going to keep trying, but until then I hope that what’s in here is enough.” He means the present, but he’s also clutching his chest. Ross isn’t saying anything, but he’s smiling and his eyes are glistening. “And now that I’ve made a complete fool of myself, here’s the short version: happy Christmas, I love you.”
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When Ross comes back to the surface—shocked, gasping for air, his nose burning from the water that has inevitably gone up his nostrils, his hair sticking to his face and covering his eyes—there are four thoughts buzzing around his head.
One: he had his phone in his pocket, and his phone is now likely fucked.
Two: he had money in there too, a couple of bills he’d forgotten about and that he’d been incredibly glad to find in this pair of jeans he was going to put in the wash, because these days every single penny counts.
Three: he’s just lost his contact lenses in the pool and the world has now turned into a blurry VHS.
Four: George Daniel is a dead man.
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Maybe there was never any reason to hide.
Maybe we could just have been together.
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“Well, I’m going after him.” “You are?” “Yeah, course. Why wouldn’t I?” “Dunno. He looked like he wanted to be alone.” “Ross always looks like he wants to be alone. Doesn’t mean it’s good for him.”
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“Well, then,” Ross declares, confident as a big-shot football lawyer about to have two teams sign on a multi-million-pound acquisition. “I suppose you are.” “I’m what?” “Are you really going to make me say it?” “I’m afraid so.” “You’re…” Ross grins as he chews on his bottom lip and looks at the crack in his ceiling, the one he sometimes stares at for way too long when he’s nervous or sad and ends up believing is coming apart, getting wider and wider until whatever’s above it comes crashing down on his head. But it never does, of course. And today, it doesn’t even look scary. It’s just there, looking down at him, as if it was telling him to get the fuck on with it. “You’re my favourite.”
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“You’re alright, though, aren’t you mate?” Ross asks.
“Yeah course,” George replies dismissively. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m okay.”
“I know I don’t,” Matty says cooly. “You always are, aren’t you.”
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“What are you trying to—”
“You don’t need me.”
“I do, though,” George says, taking a step closer to Matty and grabbing both his arms, shaking him lightly. “I didn’t say that.”
You do need me? Prove it.
“Kiss me, then.”
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“You know you don’t ever have to be alone if you don’t want to be, right?”
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“Oh my god, Matthew, why don’t you just shut the fuck up and sing?”
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