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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?”
and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here
“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.”
and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here
Making music together. Learning from each other. Fuck. This is way worse than sex, isn’t it?
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“I’m not really going anywhere. You know that, right?”
(aka: Paris is called the City of Love for a reason)
“But nothing’s going to happen, right?” Matty asks, slow and hesitant.
“Nah,” George replies. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here
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.
and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here
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.
and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here
“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.”
and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here
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.
and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here
It’s Saturday and they’re in Portugal, and Ross is driving them to a beach across the Tagus. It’s a gorgeous day, windy but warm. Ross is wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt and big sunnies and bopping his head to some corny reggaeton on the radio; Polly’s in the back, on the phone with her girlfriend. And John’s in the passenger seat, feeling like his heart is going to explode if he doesn’t let the words out.
(feat. one of my actual snaps from the Lisbon show, because the Raughy at that show was Intense Dot Com)
Maybe there was never any reason to hide.
Maybe we could just have been together.
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“Two mil because Matty wanted to kiss you.” John says that without thinking, then finds himself physically having to peel his eyes off of Ross’s lips. Jesus Christ. Pipe down.
Ross doesn’t seem to mind, however. He smiles fondly, chuckles. Turns his eyes to the night sky. “I know, right. What a fucking waste.”
“I dunno,” John says. Impulsively deciding to ignore the voice in his head, he reaches to stroke the side of Ross’s arm. “I think you’re worth it.”
Ross’s face smoothens with surprise, then he arches an eyebrow. “You’d pay that, would you?”
“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.”
and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here
It’s a ringing realisation, one of those epiphanies that you can’t ignore. Never unseen, never any less striking.
Ross is home.
John is really going to miss this tour—which is just another way of saying that John is really going to miss Ross.
