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Karl’s guest bedroom door closes. Nick immediately knows something’s up by the way George heads straight for his suitcase and starts digging around for his pajamas. He doesn’t look at Nick throughout any of this and Nick feels that tight, electrical current run through his cells. George is mad at him.
If he knew George less, he might mistakenly (detrimentally) assume George is just tired and in need of some rest. Jet-lagged. Social battery dead. But there’d been threads pulling looser and looser. Ones only Nick could see. George drawing up closer and closer like a pulled stitch.
Nick watches him make little faces at his clothes. Balled up socks and boxers and sweatpants and a t-shirt of Nick’s he passes right over pointedly. Petty, cruel little thing he is. He digs through with a vengeance.
“Man, I’m beat,” Nick mutters, feigning casualty. He doesn’t say it to steer George away from a bad mood. More as a way to get George to start talking.
He gets George, he likes to think. Asking George what’s wrong point blank will just irritate him. Asking him are you mad at me? comes across as pathetic and insecure in a way George hates. And did I do something wrong? just makes Nick look fucking stupid every time. Because he already knows the answer.
So instead he just inserts a voice into the room. Happily puts a target on his own back for George to aim at if he takes him up on it.
George says nothing, continues digging. Something he’s been stewing over then. Worse. This won’t just be a spat, it’ll be a fight, then an argument, then a discussion. The fact that they have discussions now scares the shit out of Nick, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment. (He does morbidly wonder if George realizes too, though).
Nick is assuming it has something to do with Karl. George’s vicious little routine of getting Karl to gang up on Nick with him was nonexistent, not even a little playful roasting. He never thought he’d miss it, but here he is. Missing it. George seemed to get shorter and shorter with Karl as the night went on, finally falling into silence completely as they watched YouTube videos on the couch. Curled up in the corner scrolling through his phone and pulling his knees to his chest when Nick tried to drag his feet into his lap.
“Alright,” Nick starts, choosing to be the adult this time despite being younger, “I’ll bite. What’s up? You’ve been doing this all night.”
George stands up, a random t-shirt and a pair of shorts bundled up in his arms. The t-shirt is still Nick’s. So that’s what had him so pressed and digging around for so long, realizing half the clothes he wears nowadays are Nick’s. Nick almost wants to smile. That’s what he gets. Little fucking thief.
George screws his lips up, jaw set and eyes narrowed just slightly.
“Who says anything’s up?” he says, voice flat.
Nick levels him with a look, narrowing his own eyes. George, of course, isn’t actually deflecting. He’s directing, in fact. Underlining his displeasure once, then twice, then three times, circling it just so he’s sure Nick sees. Nick wants nothing more than to let him know he knows George is mad by the first crinkle in his brow. Can smell it coming on the breeze. Like how cows lie down before it rains.
“Come on,” Nick says, gives him a look that says George isn’t fooling him.
George, surprisingly, turns around and starts changing into his pajamas. Nick hears him take a deep breath—not a huff, a measured breath—when he peels his hoodie off. Nick watches him because he can’t help himself, feels his ears burn when his own shirt slips over George’s body.
“Did I say something stupid?”
“You say lots of stupid things so that would be a bit impossible to narrow down,” George hisses and slides his jeans off. Nick rolls his eyes and moves to take his own hoodie off, hat coming with it.
“You know what I mean. A stupid thing that pissed you off,” he says, irritation edging into his voice. He puts his hat back on, standing in his t-shirt with his arms hanging by his sides.
George whips his head around at him, brows raised and eyes wide. His hoodie is balled up in his hands and Nick holds his gaze. Going toe to toe with George is nothing new to him. It’s even less intimidating now that he’s seen George naked and seen him cry, seen him drool while he sleeps. Seen him come, saying Nick’s real name the whole time.
“You think you just know it all don’t you?” George asks, eyes narrowing once again. “What I’m feeling?”
Yes! I fucking know you! Nick thinks, shouts it over and over in his head through frustration.
“Well when you don’t wanna be a big boy and say what’s up your ass…”
George throws the hoodie into his suitcase, mouth set in a hard line. Nick winces internally. They’re both such livewires all the time, so quick to flames. He doesn’t know how one of them hasn’t managed to burn all of this to the ground by now. Before it can even really get started.
“Fuck you,” George says under his breath as he stalks off to the bathroom attached to their room.
Nick glances up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath, asking whatever higher power that could possibly exist for a stroke of patience. He wrestles off his t-shirt, feeling overheated, and follows after George who’s angrily putting toothpaste on his toothbrush.
“That’s my toothpaste, asshole,” Nick points out.
“Go to hell,” George says. The phrasing gets under Nick’s skin in a way that’s less about irritation and more about the fact that it’s definitely an insult he picked up from Nick.
Fucking focus. It’s so hard not to be endeared by every little thing George does lately.
“What’s your fucking issue?” Nick demands, shirt still in his hand. George whirls around, toothbrush unused and he points at Nick with it accusingly.
“What’s your issue?” he counters. Nick makes a face of utter disbelief, scoffing a little and holding his hands out helplessly. George starts brushing his teeth, furiously.
“Are you actually kidding? You’re the one—stomping around and shit,” Nick argues. George rinses and spits in the sink, tossing his toothbrush on the counter when he’s done. He doesn’t put the cap back on Nick’s toothpaste, purposefully Nick assumes.
George brushes past Nick’s place in the bathroom doorway, stopping just outside of it.
“You wanna know what my problem is? Karl’s such a fucking slag sometimes. That’s my problem,” George snaps, cheeks red and hot. He looks straight into Nick’s eyes when he says it.
Nick’s jaw actually drops, complete shock overtaking him before the blood rushes back to his head so suddenly he’s dizzy.
“You need to ease the fuck up,” Nick warns, voice low. He’s never heard George—or really anyone—say anything ugly about Karl. But maybe he’s just known better than to say it in front of Nick of all people before now. Before he apparently lost his everloving mind.
George scoffs.
“And you’re no better! You let him. Because you like it, Nick. Him throwing himself at you,” he says, fingertips digging into his own forearms.
Nick’s face relaxes, all of this suddenly clicking into place. He nods, once. Then twice. Anger roils through him. George is being a possessive little shit. He might be flattered if it wasn’t so hypocritical. Like George doesn’t revel in letting guys proposition him left and right.
Like either of them are entitled to anything.
“ Yep . Okay, I got it now. You’re being fucking crazy. That’s what this is,” he says bitingly before he turns away from George to brush his own teeth.
He uses George’s toothbrush just to spite him, which George makes a horrified noise at behind him. Nick watches him in the reflection of the mirror, standing with his arms crossed and his brow tightened and his mouth agape. Nick spits in the sink.
“You’re such a dick. I am not being fucking crazy,” George insists behind him. His voice—smaller now—shakes through it in a way it never does when he’s angry and it startles Nick into turning back around.
When he does, George’s arms aren’t exactly crossed anymore, more like they’re hugging himself now. His mouth is wobbly, eyes glossy. Nick’s face immediately softens and he reaches out for him. George lets him take him up in his arms, letting out a choked off noise and sniffling. He covers his face as he lets out a few tears, his arms trapped between their bodies.
“Hey. Hey. Come on,” Nick murmurs softly, pets a hand through George’s hair and feels him duck his face into his shoulder, embarrassed to be crying. Wetness and humidity coagulates on his bare shoulder.
It’s only like the second or maybe third time George has ever cried in front of him. Nick almost doesn’t know what to do other than feel like the biggest asshole on earth. George sniffs again, snotty.
“George,” Nick says into his hair, gently, “Hey. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”
George sniffles again, still hiding in Nick’s neck because he doesn’t want him to see. Nick rubs his back and hushes him. His shoulders shake just a little.
“No I shouldn’t—I can’t believe I called Karl that. I feel awful,” George blubbers and pulls away from Nick a bit, holding his own red face in his palms. His brow is knitted together, cheeks wet and nose running.
Nick rubs his hands up and down George’s arms soothingly. George wipes under his eyes and breathes in deep, trying to stop crying.
“I just—I’m not just mad. My feelings are hurt. I guess,” George admits quietly, eyes downcast. His voice waivers through it, no doubt loathing to admit such a thing.
Nick feels an impromptu and ill-timed thrum of pride for George, deep in his ribs somewhere. George tries, he tries, he tries . Beside it exists a fluttering and a teeming. A pride in himself too. A specialness. George trusts him. At least more than he did when he first got to Florida.
However, it’s overtaken quickly by the blemish of honest to god hurting George’s feelings.
“George…” Nick starts. George wipes his wrist over his eyes once more before he takes a deep breath and looks Nick in the eyes.
“I just—Do you still have feelings for him?” he asks, hesitantly. He doesn’t break eye contact with Nick, who opens his mouth then closes it.
Karl. Karl who was technically the first man he ever slept with. Karl, one of the first people he thinks he might have really, truly loved. Karl who rejected him. How can he explain any of what he feels towards Karl to George without being misunderstood? It was complicated. It’s still complicated. Just like this thing with George. He must have some sort of affinity for being tortured by beautiful men. Maybe being bisexual really is too much work after all.
Apparently, he takes far too long buffering at the question because George is ripping out of his arms and stomping around gathering up Nick’s hoodie and sneakers and phone charger (such a strange, half-assed pile of items) and thrusting them at him.
“Go sleep on the fucking couch then,” George says, voice wobbling but venemous as a viper still.
One of Nick’s sneakers clatters to the floor and George stares at it, waiting for Nick to pick it up and leave. It’s just like George, making him go sleep on Karl’s couch.
Nick blinks at him, wordlessly. George crosses his arms again, crying silently. They stare at one another for a long while before George drops his arms and takes a deep breath in and out, eyes squeezing shut. Trying to be patient. Nick feels like he doesn’t deserve it.
“I’m asking you. Do you still have feelings for him?” George asks again, dead serious.
Nick rubs the back of his neck then down his jaw, beard rasping. He rolls his shoulders and looks back over at George with his lips tight, whose brow now crinkles and shoulders sag. Crestfallen.
(A small but loud part of him asks—over and over— what do you care! Why should it matter? When you don’t even really want me. When all I want is you… )
“Don’t make me look stupid, Nick,” George breathes out, sounding pained.
Nick dumps his stuff on the floor, crossing the room to sit heavily on the bed. He wipes a hand down his face, feeling his own throat tighten.
“Can you just, like, try to understand me? For a second?” Nick starts, lacing his fingers together between his knees.
George gives him a shrewd look.
“You can’t have both of us. You just can’t,” he argues, always speaking before he bothers to listen.
Nick looks up at him. Swallows. He sets his jaw and clears his throat.
“Wasn’t aware I had either of y’all…” he says.
George’s mouth snaps shut and he tightens up all over again. Part of Nick wants to make fun of him, but he’s too tired and too confused by what George really means here. Why he needs to know anything about what Nick’s feeling beyond if he wants to get his dick wet.
George’s lashes flutter slightly, looks down at his socked feet, then back to Nick.
“No. You don’t,” he says, very simply. It isn’t cruel sounding. Nick can’t really tell what it sounds like. Maybe an admission of sorts.
I’m not just gonna be one of your fucking dogs, George, Nick hears his past self say, from that night at Amouranth’s party in LA. He wonders if George remembers too.
“I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll try to understand,” George interrupts his spiral. He clears his throat and Nick rubs his palms together, trying to string his thoughts together.
“I mean. George. Karl was like— it for me for a second there. He’s the one that even made me realize all this shit about myself,” he says, “And we spent so much time together. Slept together for the first time. And I loved him— do love him.”
It’s somehow easier to get this off his chest to George than he would expect, despite George still softly sniffling and standing across the room.
“First person I think I ever really loved. Many firsts, I guess,” Nick says quietly and looks down at his hands.
George stands quietly, patiently. Waits for Nick to sort his words out. Nick picks at a callus.
“But like, I wanted something different. Wanted to…commit or whatever. But that’s just not what Karl wants. At least not where he is now. He just—opens himself up to people with all he can. And it didn’t work out. And that’s okay. Really, it is,” Nick insists, “It sucked for a while, but then it sort of just stopped sucking. And we were friends again and I was just so glad we were.”
Nick finally looks up at George, giving him a sheepish expression. Rubbing his palms together again and rocking his knees back and forth a little, nervously.
“…And then of course. London. And I came to see you and…”
George gives him a watery, small smile, covering one of his eyes and scrunching his face up.
“And now…yea,” he says, nods a little. Nick nods with him. They’re quiet for a moment, digesting.
Nick sucks in a breath, breathes it out slow.
“But. I’m always gonna love him, George. I can’t shake that. Not—love with the like, need of pursuit but…I still feel this, romantic, deep thing for him. Farther away, but I’ll always feel it,” Nick explains.
George nods. Hugs himself again and looks at his feet. Nick twists his fingers together.
“I understand.”
Nick nods. Feels curiosity prodding at him.
“Do you feel the same about like…Wilbur?”
George looks back up at him, face paler and mouth a little agape. Nick doesn’t know why he needs to know. He just does. George hardly ever talks about Wilbur. Nick gets the sense something semi-sour happened.
“I was never…in love with Wilbur,” George confesses. He blinks at Nick and looks back down at his feet, toes curling in one sock on the carpet.
“I realize that now. That I wasn’t. Not really,” he adds, low and hushed.
Nick holds his gaze when he faces him. Brown eyes are weighty on his. And like most things with George lately, he doesn’t know exactly what to make of it.
“I’m sorry. Really. I just—got overwhelmed. And hurt. I guess,” George says, only mumbling the apology a little bit. Nick smiles crookedly at him.
“It’s okay, George. Really. I’m sorry too.”
His heart is pounding. He’s terrified. He swallows and it’s all rough friction.
“I mean. This doesn’t like, mess up the…thing we have going on. Right?” Nick suggests, experimentally. He dangles it in the air for George, wondering if he’ll take it. Maybe be brave and name it.
George furrows his brow and scoffs a little, shaking his head.
“No. No. Of course not,” he says. Nick nods, feels his heart sink to his feet.
“Cool. Cool,” he says, smiling and trying to make it look as chill as possible. George accepts it.
“Sorry.”
Nick stands up and pulls him in, George melting into him finally. His body sags into Nick, arms twining around his shoulders. Nick squeezes him.
“Stop apologizing.”
“Fine,” George mumbles.
“You still want some space? I can sleep on the couch. Really,” Nick offers. He wants to kiss and make up, wants to keep squeezing George til’ his annoying little head pops off.
George’s arms tighten around his neck and he shakes his head firmly. “No. Don’t. Want you to stay.”
His voice is tiny against Nick’s ear, sniffling just a bit still. For the rare times Nick’s been around to see it, George is so tender and embarrassed after he cries, burrows himself into Nick like he doesn’t want him to see. Like he thinks Nick’s going to abuse that power somehow.
“Of course, babe.”
They finish getting ready for bed in relative silence, lights flicking off and phones being plugged in and Nick’s alarm being set because George turns his off in his sleep every time. George gets the side closest to the window, Nick climbing in after him.
It’s a touch awkward, but George still eventually curls up into his side. Puts his cold feet on Nick’s shins and Nick doesn’t complain for once. He stares up at the ceiling, the white blankness of it, and his brain reels as he listens to George breathe. George was jealous, maybe. Or maybe it was just a petty, vain desire for Nick to only have eyes for him. For George to be Nick’s only option.
Nick thinks of him crying again. That awful, hurt face. Don’t make me look stupid, Nick. He doesn’t know how long he stares at the ceiling and replays that over and over.
George’s breathing has leveled to a rhythm, in and out deep and clean. Nick, gentle as he can, turns over to look at him. His face is slack, lips parted just slightly. His eyelashes are sooty and dark against his skin, cheeks still flushed from crying and fighting. Mouth soft.
Nick loves him, he knows. Is in love with him, actively. He hopes George really is asleep.
“I love you, I think,” Nick says, just to test it out.
George doesn’t make a sound.