soft sound

Waking up in a uncommon place isn't out of the ordinary for George. Finding himself in spare beds, occupied beds, couches, bedroom floors, bathroom floors, kitchen floors, back gardens, bathtubs, bins. It takes him a minute to adjust, to situate around the dull throbs echoing - his head. He can tell he’s in a bed - at least there’s that.

The first thing he realises is that it’s raining - hard. Pounding - against the window, the pavements outside. Almost in time with the aches circling his skull. He can smell it nearly as clear as he can hear it - window open. Cool air mingling with weed and coffee.

The second thing that breaks through the haze of his hangover, music. Drifting - he doesn’t recongise it, but it still sounds familiar. Quiet and angsty - if American Football and My Bloody Valentine had a baby. Emo lyrics, melancholy melodies - it reminds him of long days spent in Matty’s garage, Pete’s back garden, writing about everything and nothing. His youth - early adolescence. He likes it - deciding whoever put it on has good taste, rolling onto his back.

The third and final things that tells him where he is, who’s bed he’s in - the musk of jasmine and vanilla, fairy lights strung over his head - eyes opening, black sheer curtains, and familiar posters, pictures. A dorm room, your dorm room.

Sitting up, hand dragging through his hair - dim light, dark clouds, thunder rolling not too far in the distance. Lights flicker and tremble - casting shadows. Eyes heavy with sleep, glimpses of you - sat across the room, a desk chair, an old t-shirt, bare legs pulled your chest, hair a mess of waves around your shoulders, bed hair - spliff, hanging from your lips. Focused - your laptop, fingers relentless against the keyboard.

He watches through hazed vision - waking up, adjusting. That weird kind of feeling bubbling in his stomach, the more awake he becomes - not fully panic, but waves of anxiety, drunken amnesia. Thoughts of what he did, how he ended up in your bed. His jeans are still on but his shirt is gone, so are his socks. His feet are cold.

Blurred vision - hesitating on the bin, an empty Domino’s box, bottle of tequlia. The sight alone enough to bring his stomach to flip and throat to close, resurfacing memories.

Friday night, nearing ten - showing up unannounced with a tequlia bottle in one hand, a pizza box much too big for two people, and a smile that desperately tried to hide that something was wrong. And of course - a bit of weed. George.

Insisting that it was his way of saying thank you - a few weeks back, a bar, towards the end of the night, meeting him outside struggling to light a smoke. You were drunk but George was drunker. Completely wrecked with a dead phone and no Matty in sight, even after a few laps around said pub. You ended up bringing him back to your dorm, feeling inexplicably responsible for his well being. His tall frame and drunken limbs occupied most if not all of the mattress, a smaller than average double, so you left him snoring soundly on his side - in case he got sick, and crashed with one of your friends down the hall.

So a favour masked as a thank you - a thank you for taking care of him and a subtle plea to get drunk with him, give him a distraction. Because like most people who don’t deal with their emotions and refuse to face their problems, George simply wanted to get fucked up. He didn’t need to tell you something was bothering him, You weren’t one to pry. Instead of questions you pulled out leftover lukewarm beers from the temperamental mini fridge. Silent acceptance, George’s smile grew.

By twelve - the pizza box held nothing more than grease stains, empty sweet wrappers littered the floor, and idle conversations about nothing in particular circled the room, the low hum of Web in Front soundtracking. George’s focus on empty beer cans - triangled across the floor, tearing pages from an empty notebook, crumpling sheets into balls and flinging them in the general direction of the cans. Spliff - hanging from his lips, his aim, judgement is terrible. Something you laugh at between swigs of tequlia.

Entertained sounds only seeming to make him more determined - when he runs out of paper, grunts of frustration, pulling off a shoe and firing it at the cans. It too misses, instead finding a target in your lamp - knocking from the shelf, ceramic shattering over the floor. Your laughs fade into a gasp - eyes widening as they meet his.

He’s apologising - your exaggerated dismay, promises of replacing it, paying for it. Relatively blazed - finding his honest concern more amusing than you should, winding him up further. Telling him he can’t replace it - a special uni lamp, limited edition, made specifically for campus dorms, cost a fortune, and that you’ll have to pay for a replacement at the end of term. 

Not quite believing that he’s actually buying it, probably the weed, or tequlia, or both - patting down his pockets in search for his wallet, mutterings of, “sorry - fuck, sorry, I’ll.. I can pay for...”

A bubble of laughter - finding the situation, George’s seriousness, suddenly immensely funny. Piercing through the illusion. Probably the weed, tequlia, both. Eyes - flickering to you, confusion, and then realisation. Practically hearing the click - gaze darting from you to the shattered ceramic. 

A slow, deliberate sound. “You’re having me on.” 

"You're having me on," Repeating - accusatory.

Fingers - a shard of ceramic, holding it out to him. An IKEA stamp. “A special Uni lamp - really, George?”  

He blinks dumbly, the IKEA marking - “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You’re an idiot,” resounding. 

“Oi, piss off.” 

And then his hands were on you, pulling you closer to him, across the floor. Fingers - finding places that made you shriek, squeal. Laughter entwined with protests, scrambling, and, ‘I’ll fucking special uni lamp you.”

Vain attempts - to tell him that doesn’t even make sense, to break his grip on you. Something that finally happens when your foot kicks the tequila bottle, liquor spilling, your shorts. Breathless - you blame him, the trail of destruction he’s leading around your room. 

A shrug, toothy grin, and sarcastic mumbles of promises to buy you new shorts and a new special uni lamp - reaching for skins on your desk, another spliff. 

Glancing up - met with an eyeroll, telling him to let the lamp thing go, but still a soft sound, laughter. Something he intends to quip back to - tongue halting, turning to lead, bare skin, your legs. Tossing tequlia stained shorts into the corner, what he assumes is your washing pile.

He doesn’t quite know why his heart begins to kick - maybe it was the drink, or the weed, or maybe it was down to the lighting situation. Fairy lights - hues of blue, flickering over skin. Your average height - but it’s the first time he’s taken notice of how long your legs are, and how smooth they are, and how pretty they are - and fuck, he thinks he’s way too high, or drunk, or both. Knowing - Matty would get months of torment out of this if he were here, how he was borderline getting off to your fucking legs.

It only worsens - turning your back to him, faintly hearing your voice, quickly drowned out - blood rushing in his ears when you pull your tshirt over your head. Earlier stains of pizza, not escaping the splatters of tequlia - he’s faced with more bare skin, your back. Nothing but your underwear left. 

His heart does that weird jack hammering into his throat kind of thing, his stomach flutters and plummets. Too high, or drunk, or both. 

Blue, accentuating - a tattoo beneath your shoulder blades, stretchmarks scattered across your hips, paler skin - a scar running from the back of your thigh to knee, peaking curiosity. 

And then your side profile, curve of your lips, dip of your nose - glancing back, calling out his name when you realise he wasn’t listening at all. Sounds of acknowledgment - sort of, he feels a bit dizzy. 

Finally - putting him out of his misery, pulling an over sized thsirt from the drawer you had been rooting through. Much too big for you - he wonders if it’s actually yours or someone else’s. He oddly finds himself hoping for the first option. 

“You gonna roll that or not?” asking, giving him a strange look, kneeling back on the floor beside him, pulling your hair back, ponytail. He thinks you look prettier like that, with your hair up. He doesn’t know why - he’s never really thought about you being pretty before, not this way. Maybe in a ‘just friend’s way’. Too drunk, too high. 

Nodding - your question, but his fingers fumble, hands shake, mumbled curses. His heart still pounding against his ribs. Another laugh - from you, a drunken whisper. 

“George, why’re you acting like you’ve never seen a girl in her knickers before?”

His throat - closing up, eyes meeting yours, feeling his cheeks flood with heat, thankful for the shitty lighting, and he doesn’t even know why he’s suddenly so flustered. Way too drunk, too high - the only explanation. 

“I wasn’t - I mean, wasn't watching you or anything, you were just-”

The more he fails to offer excuses, the more intense your gaze on him feels. Teeth - your bottom lip, attempts to suppress giggles, spilling past your lips anyway. Another realisation - that it’s a sound he likes, loves even, your laugh. 

The Streets - somewhere in the background, when laughs fade to silence, but you’re still looking at him, and he still has that weird feeling in his stomach, and it’s suddenly way too hot, blood boiling under his skin. 

He wants to kiss you. An unanticipated thought - almost intrusive. Your face - closer, unsure if it was him or you that had leaned in. Not missing how your eyes slide down, lingering on his lips. Conscious - that he’s done the same to you. Way too drunk, too high. 

Half sure - that he can feel your breath, that you can hear his heart beating. The room spins, everything sudden, melting, moving too fast. The innocence of earlier in the night - spiraling after the fucking lamp, tequlia, weed. Skin - prickling, stomach churning, and before he even realises what’s happening, he’s sick, puking - right into your lap. 

“You snore, you know.”

Dragging him back - he blinks. 

“I puked on you.” 

A giggle weaving with his groan, head hitting the wall, closing his eyes. The room was too bright. Fucking tequlia. 

“Yeah, you did. Fucking rank it was - all bits of pizza, and fucking red vines in it.”

He groans, again. Surprised - that you sound entertained by it, not disgusted. His skull feels like it has a pulse, or maybe his brain, or maybe both. Craving - to curl up and pass out under the duvet for another few hours, the more he remembers about the night before, the more he cringes, the more his head throbs. 

A passing thought - if you knew, that he had wanted to kiss you. Not knowing what he’s more embarrassed about - the fact that he had turned all fifteen year old boy at the sight of you in your knickers and had worked himself up so much over the prospect of kissing you that he had puked on you or just the actual fact that he had puked on you.

About to apologize - catching up on your ealier comment, and instead of sorry, his tongue curls around, “I don’t snore.”

Voice - hoarse, sounding as bad as he feels. A scoff, and “yeah, you do.”

A small game - ‘Don’t’, ‘Do’ tennis. 

Until - he finds the cold toast, lukewarm coffee, and a fresh spilff on the bedside table, starting to feel more human again. His phone, missed calls from Matty, not something he’s ready to deal with.

Quiet again - finally managing to open his eyes properly, asking what you're typing, more so to hear your voice again rather than interest, and you call him out for it. 

“Nothing you’d be interested in, just uni stuff.” Glancing over - a teasing sort of smirk, closing your laptop, rolling your chair over to him. He feels his stomach flip again, he’ll blame the hangover. Refusing to believe - that now sober, he still feels the same as last night, that you look equally as pretty in the morning light as you did last night, and that your laugh still makes him smile. Unintentional, unaware. 

“Makes me sound like a bad influence.”

A shrug - telling him that’s because he is. That you were supposed to finish an assignment last night - ended up looking after him instead, again. 

The rain is starting to die off - inconsistent splatters, outside. Wishing he could say the same about his headache, hangover. A creak in his neck, shoulder - sleeping awkwardly. A frown - a sudden thought, asking where you slept last night, the mattress hardly seeming big enough for two bodies.

Confusion - your answer sounding more like a question. “In my bed?”

“What, here?” Voice - an octave or two higher, he cringes at the sound, fifteen year old boy, again. In fact - he thinks he was a lot smoother as a teenager. 

A nod - still with the same glint in your eye as last night, the look that told him you thought he was being a bit mental, a bit insane. Shifting - the space beside him, your lips tilting. Telling him you slept right here.

“-but don’t worry, I had these on,” fingers - tugging your tshirt, pajama shorts, “know how freaked you get over me in my knickers.” 

Desperation - he laughs despite himself, a hoarse sound, then a groan, hands rubbing over his face. Knowing - you were not going to let that go anytime soon, and fuck, he needs a smoke. 

Sun - breaking through the clouds, the window. It was too bright before - cloudy, torture now, sun rays echoing in his head, stinging eyes. Although - he likes the way sun catches your skin, hair - natural highlights. Gaze lingering - watching him watching you, until he has to say something, silence too heavy. Another drag - spliff. 

An apology, sincere - for last night, the other night before that, for you having to deal with him messy drunk. Smoke curling - mingling with sunlight. Closer - again, too close. He remembers you get freckles in summer, adolescence. It’s only spring. 

Fingers - stealing the last of the joint, a sound between a sigh, a laugh, his name. Shaking of the sorry’s, apology. Saying you like his hair - changing the topic. He’d been starting to grow it out again. Sunlight - your eyes don’t move, saying on his. He feels a bit sick again, leaning in anyway. 

Lips - meeting yours, a soft halfway there kind of kiss. Lingering - until he pulls back. A snap of reality - another apology and, ‘dunno why i did that.”

You ask him, tell him - to do it again. 

A mumble, a surprised sound - thinking he’s heard you wrong. 

“Want you to kiss me again, properly.”

Lips - curving, not needing to be told twice. Despite the fact his stomach flips again, defying odds that he could puke on you again. He kisses you. 

A different kind of kiss - starting off uncoordinated at best, spiraling into open mouths and tongues. Growing heated quite quickly. Your hands - his jaw, face. His hands - your waist, hips. Efforts to pull you closer - his lap. All heavy breathing, desperate sounds echoing, swollen lips. Heat - building, the more you press into him, soft sounds. Lungs - straining, neither you nor him even attempting to pull away, burning. 

Perceptions - a new noise, George’s phone, ringtone. It goes ignored, dying out only to start again, seconds later.  Sounds of annoyance, vibrating against his lips, his hands - dipping under your shirt, a silent reassurance. It’s when it happens a third time - you pull part, sighs of impatience, you reaching for his phone. Annoyed mutterings - why doesn’t he keep it on silent like everyone else. George - not missing your eye roll when you look at the screen. 

It was a Thursday night, mid July. The week consisting of an unbearable heatwave, and despite the fact it was a little past eleven, dark skies and brighter stars, the air was still heavy and humid. 

Maybe the fact that you were livid, and shouting and screaming at an equally enraged George, only added to it. Heat. 

Both bursting through the front door of the flat only moments ago, the air feeling even hotter, clinging to skin. You - stumbling over to the window, thanks to the impossibly high heels that you had chosen to wear to impress rather than practicability. George continues to rant somewhere behind you, struggling with a tie that he had worn for the same reasons as your heels. 

“I didn’t have to fucking bring you, George. I’m sorry I did, I shouldn’t have. I forgot you don’t know how to act around people that don’t lick your ass over your stupid fucking shitty band. My fucking mistake.” 

The window sticks, refusing to open more than an inch, no matter how hard you push - it’s been a problem for weeks, something neither George nor Matty bothered to try fixing. 

“Fucking Christ - can neither of you fix a bloody goddamn window! There is no fucking air in here. ” 

You quite literally stomp your foot, for emphasis and out of utter frustration, while reaching around to unzip the stupidly expensive dress you had bought only yesterday. Matty had helped you pick it out, while being the mess he was, his own fashion sense blurred between edgy hipster goth meets homeless person - he had quite the eye for what would look good on other people. 

The dress was simple - short but not too short, slightly poofy skirt, off the shoulder sleeves, and of course black, but scattered rose heads, red. Now it felt like it was burning into your skin, your head already on fire from drinks and George. 

“They always fucking hated me, dunno why I thought it would be any fucking different this time. Pretentious fucking prats.”

Turning to face him at that, tossing his blazer over the couch haphazardly. The heat was clearly getting to him too, struggling to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt his face was flushed a similar shade to your lips. Red. 

You roll your eyes - George always had a problem with your family, and your family always had a problem with George. The more you think about it in retrospect, the more you wonder how fucking insane you were to bring him tonight. He cuts you off when your lips part. 

“And don’t you even fucking dare say that I didn’t try, there’s only so much smiling and laughing you can do at the ‘oh you’re still in that band’, ‘still haven’t gotten anywhere with that band’, ‘still wasting time with that -’  Fucking hell, how do you do it?”

It was your mum’s idea to invite George. Well, she didn’t know it was George at the time, she just insisted you bring the ‘new boy’ you were seeing. She had done well to mask the shock when you showed up with George on your arm, and to be fair she gave him more of a chance than anyone else had. Your older brother had gotten engaged recently, it was a soiree kind of celebration. A few hours later, and copious amount of digs about the band, and fastly downed drinks - you had to drag George outside when the two of them began a rather heated, and a rather loud argument. “You just brought me to piss them off, didn’t you?” is what he had yelled once you got him outside. You didn’t, but he didn’t want to believe that. Accusations.

He repeats it again now. And you scoff, now that you were comfortably away from your family, and didn’t have the added pressure of not trying to cause a scene. 

“Yes, George. That is exactly what I fucking wanted to happen. Well done, thank you for playing the arsehole boyfriend so well. You’re a natural.” 

He’s not your boyfriend, nothing’s official and you don’t know why you said it but you’re tired, and hot, and frustrated. Your throat is burning now too, whether it’s from shouting or thirst, you don’t know. George didn’t lose his temper often, he wasn’t about confrontation at all. It was bad tonight - bottled up rage, sparking. You can see it in his eyes - the exact opposite to the air in the flat, cold and ebbing. He won’t let you past him, when you try to walk away. 

“You know what’s always really sickened me? We’re exactly the same. The only difference is, I don’t want my parents privileges. I never used Mummy and Daddy’s money to go to Uni, or to rent a fancy apartment in a posh part of town, or so that I could prance around fucking internships and not have to worry about anything else. I have more fucking dignity than that, everything I have - I’ve earned myself.”

He had dropped his tone to a snarl, stalking closer until he had you backed up against the wall. You can’t look at him, afraid you’ll slap him if you do. Your hands shake, and your jaw clenches. You and George had grown up on the same street, when he moved there. Your parents had liked him for a short space of time, until he found Matty and the band, and the wonders of drugs and alcohol. Your dad never warmed to Matty, or his van, or how the smell of cigarettes and weed always clung to you after spending time with them. Your mum had a change of heart when you were sixteen, when she came home early from work one day to find a very stoned and very half naked George in your bedroom, struggling to get his clothes back on while you looked equally disheveled. Your older brother had grassed you up a small number of the times - like when he spotted you in a bar the band was playing at, or when you had asked him to pick you up from hospital after Matty had an accident with the van, leaving you with a minor concussion. 

“So yeah, spose you’re really slumming it with a bloke who’s in a shitty dead end band who delivers fucking Chinese food and shares a flat that’s falling apart with his best mate, right - princess?” 

You focus on his chest, how it rises and falls restlessly - the lack of air, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. And you know he doesn’t mean it, not really - but you hate him for saying it all the same. 

“You know I never thought that.” 

It comes out quiet, barely audible. Almost masked by late night sirens that creep through the window, through the shadows of street lamps. You chance glancing up at him - but his expression hasn’t changed. 

“Do I?” 

It’s a mocking sound, harsh and cold. You think you lose it then, his body too close to yours, too hot. 

“Oh, fuck you.” 

It’s a typical, cliche reply - but it’s is all you can manage to get out, frustration - anger twisting your tongue. Making it hard to breathe let alone speak, you push past him. Needing air, needing to get away from him. Fingers - catching onto to your arm, imprinting heat, and you pull away. You’re both off again then - hurling insults, shouting and more shouting. 

There’s shouting until his lips are on yours, and you’re not sure who had instigated the kiss, but neither of you were fighting it. The kiss is all hot breaths, uncoordinated mouths, and desperate sounds. His hands - your waist, hips, fingers gripping until he has you back against the wall, then his hands travel to your face, jaw. Yours fisting the collar of his shirt, in efforts to pull him closer. The heat was nearly unbearable now, making you dizzy - but it felt good, it felt like George. 

Discontent sounds - when his mouth leaves yours, pressing his forehead to yours instead. He shakes his head when you try to catch his lips again, telling you to look at him, through breathless sounds. It’s a soft sound, not patronizing, cold like before. His eyes are still closed, but you wait nonetheless. The room silent - save for heavy breaths and thundering hearts. His chest heaves under your palms, and your feet ache more and more every second in the heels you were currently cursing.  

“I love you.”

Is what tumbles from his lips and sends shivers right down your spine, despite the heat. You had expected an apology, or a simple sorry. You didn’t really know what to do with a proclamation of love. It stayed sitting in the air, heavy.  At the moment, you still hated him for how he had behaved, what he had said, but love and hate are separated by a fine line.

So instead of saying anything, you kiss him again. Just as heated as before, holding nothing back, fingers stumbling over buttons on his shirt. 

Naturally, you both end up in his bed. Clothes disregard somewhere between the sitting room and his bedroom, until it was just skin on skin. The window in his room is thankfully in full working order, although the sounds of lazy night time traffic do little to hide the desperate noises, and the sound of hot skin against hotter skin that circle the room. Everywhere he touched - his lips, hands, left new trails of heat, fire. Enough imprints of mouths and fingers to prove that. Hot breaths - span across the skin where your neck and shoulder meet, his hips relentless against yours, your leg hooking around him and your fingers tugging on hair in both silent and fairly vocal requests for more. It’s all messy kisses, harsh movements, sharp pants, and sweaty bodies. Outside it starts to rain, pour. A final break.

He knows your body at lot more than you would have thought. He knows the exact places that entice soft sounds when his lips taste hot skin, and louder sounds when his teeth sink in. He knows how to drive you to the brink of insanity and make you beg for him by slowing things down when your hips arch up against his, before giving in and giving you more. He knows when you’re about to lose it, when you’re nearing the edge, from the way loud sounds turn to breathless ones that resemble his name, from the way your fingers grip, and pull, and mark skin, from how your body arches into his like there’s nothing else. Just you and him.

It’s a Thursday. An interminable habit.

George can’t find you anywhere, something else that was becoming a new habit. Pete’s house, a small house party. Most of downstairs - a permanence of weed, obnoxious sounds. He finds Matty in a fluorescent lit kitchen, arguing with another guy George recognizes, vaguely.  A girl beside him is doing lines off the counter - he recognizes her too, vaguely.

Closer - he realizes it’s a long ago fling of Matty’s. Penelope. And Matty’s currently arguing with her boyfriend, Nicholas - a kind of well known dealer. George doesn’t want to get involved, only interrupting to ask if he’s seen you - a swift no in reply. Continuing - his hunt for you, ignoring Penelope’s enthusiastic sounds resembling his name, pushing past an intertwined couple at the foot of the stairs.

He thinks the whole scene is a horrible cliché, and he’s not drunk or high enough to be into it.

Upstairs - is quieter, muffled voices, music of downstairs. He’s hesitant - about opening shut doors, but one catches his attention. End of the hallway - slightly ajar, soft glow of orange seeping out onto the darkened landing.

That’s where he finds you - alone, cross legged on the chaise lounge by the window, open. He guesses it’s a guest bedroom, nothing out of place, nothing to suggest it’s being lived in, all neat picture frames and unwrinkled bed sheets. Gaze - flickering to his, when the door creaks. Smoke - curling past burgundy lips.

A smile - creeping across his own, you’re all heavy eyes and freckles and he feels stomach jump to wear his heart should be, and his heart presses against the base of his throat so that heartbeats ring through his ears. It’s a weird sort of feeling, a weird warm sort of feeling. One that was habitual whenever you were around.

Your gaze stays on his - neither of you saying anything, a comfortable silence. Calm - contrast to the scene downstairs, he shuts the door behind him, shutting everything else out.

“Alright?” A mumble - not really sure if he meant it as a question or just a general statement, not knowing what else to say. You nod in answer anyway, holding out the spliff to him.

Chaise lounge - perched on the opposite end, smoke filling lungs, emitting in clouds. Warm air - the sweetness of summer nights, the open window. It’s quiet outside too, peaceful. He wants to ask why you’re up here alone, in a random bedroom and not downstairs with him and the others.

Passing the spliff back instead - he can’t really blame you, you’re not really missing much downstairs. He kind of wishes he had stayed home, with you.

A clock - the wall, tells him it’s past eleven, well past twelve, and he was still relatively sober. A first - not puking in a bin, not passed out in the garden. Matty would be proud.

“What’re you doing up here?” - pulling him from thoughts, back to you.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Countering.

A smile - mirroring his, you shrug. Fingers - reaching for a bottle balanced on the window ledge, Malibu. Stolen from downstairs.

“Just wanted to get away from everyone for a bit.”

Something he can understand, humming in agreement - taking the bottle when she offers.

“Could’ve taken something a bit less shit,” - teasing, drinking it none the less, not happy with his level of sobriety. Not that Malibu would help with that.

You giggle, another shrug - your speech flowing with the smoke, slow and lagging. “I like it, tastes like holidays.”

He thinks to ask if that means that you taste like holidays too - all coconut and sweet rum. Biting his tongue - holding back, a chuckle to himself. You ask what he’s giggling about - he shakes his head, watching how your lips wrap around the bottle, clouded eyes not leaving his.

“Nothing, nothing,” a dumb sort of smile. Reticent.

“Liar,” teasing, hands meeting in the middle - swapping the bottle, spliff. Watching - your lips wrap around, smoke hazy among dappled moonlight, the window. Wandering - his mind, to other things involving your lips, specifically your lips wrapping around a certain part of him.

Shrugging thoughts away, shifting in his seat - turning to glance out the window, voices drifting from the back garden, when you erupt into a fit of giggles, and it’s his turn to ask what you’re laughing about.

Music, drifting upwards with the voices, backdoor of the house under the window, music flowing out -  recognizing them as Matty’s, Penelope’s, mixing with the song. Wherever You Will Go, The Calling. Something that’s familiar, nostalgic. The start of Penelope’s 90′s mixtape, something he hadn’t heard in ages. Since the breakup.

Shaking your head - spluttering out that you don’t know, between giggles. George - sporadic chuckles of his own, watching - your cheeks flush, choked sounds, wondering how long you had actually been up here smoking. Fingers - snatching the little remaining of the joint from yours. Amused mutterings, lips curling around smoke - about you being a lightweight.

Except you don’t hear him - trying and failing to take a swig of Malibu, a fit of giggles in between, liqueur - spilling down your chin, top. Not something that should be at all attractive, but George finds it rather endearing. Even more so when you drag the back of your hand across your lips, mumbles of curses between laughs.

Leaning closer - fingers pushing loose strands of hair, behind ears, trying to save it from the stickiness of the alcohol. He soon finds that it’s too late. Hazed eyes - meeting his, faces close, fingers still against your jaw. You let out a quiet apology, teeth catching your lip, as if suppressing more threatening giggles. Flickering - from your eyes to lips, he closes the gap, lips against yours. Although - it’s quick, soft. Only catching hints of coconut, weed, your lips before pulling away.

Much to your discontent - lips chasing his, harsher kisses. And he finds that you do taste like holidays - when your tongue meets his, tinged with smoke which really isn’t that bad of a taste at all. Soft sounds echo - in forms of breaths, muted giggles, that cause his lips to curve against yours. Fingers - his hair, and it’s sudden, something wet, spreading - his jeans. Malibu.

Bottle between them - fingers knocking when they moved to his hair. More giggles - a soft ‘oh no,’ between, against his lips when they both glance down. And he can only laugh along. Endearment.

Third Eye Blind - How’s it Gonna Be, wafting upwards, moonlight. You - between George’s legs, wet jeans, back to his chest. Fingers - playing with his, his other hand holding a fresh spliff to his lips, one he was giving you a hit of every now and then, mostly keeping it to himself - thinking you’ve already had enough, high enough. Quiet - comfortable. Your face - turned towards the window, watching.

George - following your gaze, the back garden, Matty and Penelope, sharing cigarettes, or maybe something else. Faces, bodies - much to close to be considered platonic, friendly.  George idly wonders where her boyfriend went. You - echo his question out loud, he shrugs, telling you about seeing him in the kitchen.

“Haven’t seen Pen in ages,” a mutter, sipping from the bottle of Malibu that somehow to George’s astonishment still wasn’t empty yet.

“Yeah,” he’s not really interested in the topic of Penelope, he thinks Matty’s being stupid. After what she did to him - but that’s not something he’ll confess out loud to you, sounding way too teenage girl about it.

“You used to like her,” you point out, eyes flickering up to him, and he rolls his eyes. Yes, there was a time when they were close, teenagers. Something he’d learned from, outgrown. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for Matty.

“Matty can’t say no to her,” smoke curling around words, bitter almost.

He feels you shrug against him, countering, “You can’t say no to Matty.”

Fingers - digging into ribs in a form of ‘shut up’, squeals shaping laughs.

“She’s not that bad, G. They’re good together, y’know, how some people fall apart to fall back together again, kind of like fate, innit? Kind of like us..”

You ramble on - half nonsensical, and George knows it’s a product of the weed. Philosophical, but it sounds kind of familiar. Fingers - tilting your chin, up towards him, heavy eyes meeting his. “What bullshit rom-com is that from?”

A wide, tired smile - “Dunno, a good one.”

Lips - warm against his, smoke emitting. Uncoordinated - awkward positioning, giggles and chuckles echoing. Breakfast At Tiffany’s, Deep Blue Something. George always hated this song, and you remember - muffled singing against his lips. Something he both hates and loves at the same time. Endearment.

Disheveled - hair, you had pulled him up to dance, the song he hated. Now - spinning around in fast circles that made him dizzy just looking at you, the opening to You Get What You Give, New Radicals. He remembers it as one of Matty’s favourites, he also remembers that you and Matty could take over a whole room dancing to it. Memories - rushing, nostalgia was a bittersweet thing.

Leaning - the bed frame, content with watching. Until - sudden, you crashing into him, a blur of giggles and sounds resembling his name, demanding him to dance with you. Fingers - coaxing the bottle from yours, and he’s relieved to find it’s finally empty. But - he gives in, letting you pull him away. Clouded eyes and freckles that he could never deny.

You - duck around him, a few seconds later, standing on the mattress, beckoning him closer. You’re a few inches taller than him now - giggles, fingers through his hair, before arms drape over his shoulders, gaze drifting over him.

“George?” asking, wobbling a bit on the bed, his hands - your thighs, steadying and humming in response. Face closer - and he can still smell Malibu off your breath, something he knows he’ll never be able to look again without thinking of this night and you. Nostalgia - bittersweet.

“Take me home?” breath - warm against his lips.

“Home?” repeating - not sure if you meant your place or his, although he hopes it’s the latter.

Giggles - his lips, your voice - lower, eyes flickering to his, “take me home with you?”

Heart - jumping, and he can’t stop the toothy grin from emerging, so he nods and laughs - a soft sound, fingers gripping skin - lifting you down from the bed.

“Alright, love.”

Eager fingers - dragging him back downstairs, jumping from the last three in effort to keep up, you - tugging him out the front door without so much as a backward glance, goodbyes to anyone. Outside - air only slightly chilly.  

You Get What You Give - echoing behind, coming to an end, when George hesitates. Something catching his eye - a familiar van. Matty’s. Nostalgia.

Penelope - climbing into the back, laughs echoing along the empty street, and Matty’s eye catches George’s, a knowing smirk - a wave, in form of goodnight, and George shouts that he’ll leave the flat keys in the usual spot. The odd chance he decides to amble home, knowing he won’t have his keys. Habitual.

Sunday afternoon, hungover - Matty and George’s shared flat, an unusual silence blanketing the space. Exceptions - Matty’s guitar, offbeat strumming circling the sitting room, a dull buzz of the shower - George, the usual muffled singing, absent. Highlighting his mood. 

You, nothing but an old tshirt you had stolen from him ages ago, knickers - sat on his bed, crossed legged, absentmindedly picking at chipped nail polish, black. Half thinking about the scene George had caused on his arrival back after the weekend, half thinking about your craving for chips to subdue the hangover. 

George - visiting his parents for the weekend, you - running into Matty on Saturday in town, an invitation to a last minute house party, something you took him up on, being sick of spending most nights in doing uni work. Something that lead to George arriving back less than an hour ago to find the both of you still passed out, and one of three things that had provoked a familiar hotheadedness, temper to surface. 

Although this time you think it was a combination of all three, Matty once again trashing the flat mostly single-handedly in his absence - which was of course always left to George to clean up, you and Matty were equally messy, something you knew got on George’s nerves from time to time, or else it was Matty once again smoking the end of his weed - something he always found, no matter how well George hid it, or else it was the latest thing that seemed to rile George up no end - how close you and Matty were growing. 

And while Matty was simply too hungover to argue back with him, only letting out croaked ‘sorry mate’s’, ‘won’t do it again’, and ‘love you’s’ whilst still half asleep, fetal position on the couch - you had followed him when he stormed off to the bedroom, having it out with him. Stupid accusations, meaningless jibes. More shouting, arguing for the sake of it whether than meaning it, both just as stubborn. 

George - towel draped around his hips, you can tell he’s still pissed off. Eyes - flicker, meeting yours for a fleeting second, jaw still set as it had been when he entered the flat. You roll your eyes, wanting to tell him to stop being such a dick, but also not really wanting to set him off again, staying quiet, eyes following him across the room. 

He does a pretty good job of pretending you’re not there - back faced to you, rooting through drawers, although slamming them shut, emphasizing tension - annoyance. You bite your tongue - as stupid as the argument, hostility is you’re still too stubborn to be the first to say it. 

And you think about leaving for a second or two - like he told you to before he went to shower, but again - too stubborn to give him his own way, do what he asked. Towel - dropping, pulling on loose shorts before turning back out of the room, not sparing you a glance this time around. Stubborn. 

TV  - football, noise echoing from the sitting room. You hear Matty say something - not getting an audible answer back, rolling your eyes again. 

Living room - Matty glances up, still strumming disjointed chords. George - not acknowledging, same fixed expression - vexation. Stubborn - but you’re past it now, mumbling something about him being so fucking childish, walking past him - kitchenette. 

Matty - a chuckle, George - a snap of, ‘what was that?’ - eyes meeting yours again, you only glare back, filling a glass of water. One you’re half tempted to throw over him. 

“Don’t call it a fight... When you know it’s a war..” 

Voice cracking - effects of a hangover, paired with guitar strings. A scowl - not really thinking now was a good time for him to come up with new lyrics, not a situation that needed a soundtrack. Considering it all really was kind of his fault anyway. 

George chooses to ignore him, and you - attention drifting back to the match. Matty however, chooses to continue - carrying out the beat, gaze flickering over you, still half dressed. 

“With nothing but your tshirt on...” 

A smirk - and now you think the water would be better used on him rather than George. An annoyed sound - “Piss off, Matty.” 

Bedroom, not having energy to put up with either of them - hearing George echo you, telling Matty to give it a rest, harsh sounds of fingers on strings, obviously trying to wrestle the guitar from him, noises of protest. 

Tiredness - the night before, a yawn. You think about going home again, unfinished uni assignments - crawling into his bed instead, muffled voices - the buzz of the telly. Comfortable - despite the situation with you and George, knowing he’ll get over it sooner or later. Eyes - heavier. 

It’s dark when you wake up - too warm, hot skin pressed to yours, a weight across your torso, warm breaths flutter against skin, your neck. George. Familiar. 

A soft sound - resembling his name, twisting limbs out of his grip, too warm under him. A sleep infused groan resembling something along the lines of ‘go back to sleep, love’ - in reply, but he doesn’t attempt to move. Your eyes begin to adjust - dark, struggling to turn to face him. 

Matty can’t really believe what he’s hearing, or seeing. Yes - he knows George can have a temper, a kind of sudden rage that escalates quickly but deflates just as fast. He knows, he’s the same - which is why they knock heads from time to time, but all in all brings them closer, a common ground.

Tonight - it’s different. It’s not the typical tour bus wind up’s, the annoyance when their manager messes something up, frustrations when some part of a song, new project won’t come out the way it is in his head. 

Tonight it’s something new. Tonight it’s because of his girlfriend.

Weekend afternoons became somewhat of a vice between you and George.

Thursdays were spent in the flat with him and Matty - afternoons built on weed and Mortal Kombat and Chinese food. Nights often ended in George’s bed - soundtracked to records from George’s collection, ones you weren’t familiar with, ones that George insisted were crucial staples in music history. Time passed through different activities. Sometimes there were heated kisses, sometimes lazy touches where mouths found new places to draw soft sounds, sometimes simply conversation until one of you fell asleep.

Fridays were rushed mornings and burnt toast and maybe promises of seeing each other later.

Today was one of the Fridays that the promises held up. Grey - cloud heavy skies, sparse raindrops. Uni. Fingers - rooting through your bag, spare change for the bus when a car horn breaks thoughts. The Mustang. George’s Mustang.

A half forgotten promise - weeks ago, a Thursday night in the flat, Joy Ride on the telly. Now - a mostly abandoned stretch of road on the outskirts of town. George knows it’s there from one of Matty’s long ago flings, she lived nearby. Their first ever song was written about her, her namesake. And you tell him you remember, of course you remember. Penelope.

The thrill of doing something you shouldn’t - hot, spiraling through your veins, accelerating heart beats. Attaining an octave at every inch the speedometer gains. Breaths come out fast and hard in laughs or not at all - when George takes sharp corners - rubber squeaking against the ground. Soundtracked to loud laughs, brash cackles, excited squeals.

Adrenaline pumping hard and fast. Windows - down, spring air warm despite it hits like ice, strands of hair ripped from hair ties, your eyes, mouth. Maybe it’s your shouts of delirium, elation are the only reason he needs to push it further, or maybe it’s to keep up with the high spiraling through his veins, knocking through nerve endings. Reckless - you both now, dangerous - at best but the feeling is enough to justify. Alive, lethal.

A growl - the engine revving sounding almost impatient, George having brought it to a stop for too long. Salt & Vinegar crisps, Dr Pepper and shared fags. Kanye - the radio. Seatbelts off - and you’ve turned to face him, legs draped over his lap. Giggles - echoing, heartbeats still struggling to settle, heads still light. Crisps - aiming for his mouth, not exactly working out, but he keeps telling you try one more, eventually ending up smacking the back of his head off the window.

Giggles only growing louder at that, between muffled curses. Fading - but starting up as quickly as they stopped when you catch his eye. He doesn’t help stop them - only grabbing a hold of your legs, fingers tickling your thighs. Ensuing in shrieks of laughter, legs kicking in vain attempts to escape, no refuge in the cramped car.

“G,” when everythings died down, adrenaline fizzling out - something you’re craving more of. His phone, texting, biting his nails - furrowed brow turning to a toothy grin. “Give’s ago?” - you ask, nodding to the steering wheel, already knowing what the answer will be. Eyes - following yours before flickering back with a chuckle. Deep, rasped - “absolutely not, love.”

A pout - mock petulance, he shakes his head, an amused grin. “Let me teach you how to bloody drive first, then maybe..”

A pause, eyes flickering, a smirk - “Actually maybe we’ll use Matty’s van for that.”

You - a huff, telling him to fuck off, only earning more chuckles in response and an, “I love you, babe - but not enough to let you wreck my car. Wanna go again?”

And you nod, despite yourself - buckling back up your seatbelt while telling him he really can be a fucking dickhead at times. Leaning over - a sloppy kiss to your cheek, something you vehemently deny. Giggles echo anyhow.

Only beginning to build up speed, switching gears - the familiar rush beginning to flip in your stomach, beat against your chest when there’s a sudden buzzing, ringing. George’s phone.

Curses - under his breath, slowing down. Phone - from his jeans pockets, an apologetic look before cursing once again when he looks at the caller ID.

“Adam, mate - told you I’m busy, have Matty sort it out, yeah?”

A pause - grunts of disagreement and a breath of, ‘fucking idiot’, listening to whatever Adam is saying. Jaw - clenching when he tries to cut in with, ‘but’s’ and ‘can’t’s’. Sighing - head falling back against the headrest, “Fuck sake, fine fine, I’ll sort it - but after that I’m officially off the fucking grid for the night. I have... arrangements.”

Brown - a glance over at you, before his brow creases -  “What? No - well yes.. oh piss off, she has a name.. No that’s not it, fucking hell is Matty there?”

A few more grumbles, sighs - hanging up, tyres screeching with a hard U turn, back in direction of the main road. Telling you that that was Adam, some guy at the pub needs some gear, he has to shift it.  Apologies - for dragging you into this, he tried his best not to. Adam - busy picking up, Ross out of town for his birthday, and Matty can’t be seen dealing at the minute because he owes money.  Reiterating his earlier point - “fucking twat,” and “they keep calling you fit uni girl, soz about that..”

Rambling - you’re not really listening all that much at this stage. Too caught up in a new kind of thrill - tingling through your blood, sparking. A new kind of danger, risk - resonating through his words. The sudden excitement of joyriding - if you could call it that on a good enough as abandoned stretch of road - was overtaken by the idea of it all. 

You weren’t stupid, or completely oblivious to the fact George and his inner circle of friends - particularly Matty, dabbled in dealing. Now - the idea of messing around with a borderline drug dealer, was becoming quite the reality. 

An idea that turned you on a bit more than you’d care to admit. 

His lips - mirror the curve of yours, when he asks what you’re smirking at. You don’t hesitate to tell him - that this whole thing was quite naughty, sexy even. The chances that he, they could very well get caught only made it a bit more wild, pretty badass. An unexplained electricity, adrenaline building. 

It’s obvious your confession has effects on George. Ego - rising, boosting a bit, and he can’t help but think maybe this was such a bad idea after all. Maybe Hann’s call had been somewhat of a blessing, the kind where he was almost certain the night would end with him definitely not being alone in bed, and definitely not being the only one naked between sheets.  To be blunt about it - Hann’s call had given him a 90% guarantee of getting laid tonight. With a girl he was very much infatuated with. Not bad at all. 

Pressing down on the gas a bit harder once you’re on the way back to town - unintentional, more so on purpose. Excitement - rushing, hearts stuttering. Unknowingly - surpassing the speed limit, gaze shifting to drift over you or a second. Lip - caught between your teeth, pupils blown out. Quiet - exhilaration filtering through the air. George - hand, slipping off the gear shift, finding your thigh. Fingers - squeezing, heat sparking. 

Minute by minute - fingers inching higher, hot against skin. Breath - short, a lack of air, the car.  A new kind of high. 

One that escalates - sirens sounding somewhere behind, car closing in. Police. 

A jumble of breathy curses - eyes flickering up to his rearview mirror, clenched jaw. His thoughts spiral, tumble ahead to the baggy in his jeans, the arsehole behind him finding it - and the seriesi of unfortunate events that would occur after that. Cursing Hann, fucking Matty. Sweaty palms. 

Pulling over - a new kind of tension, asking him where it was. Half sigh, half grumble - his trousers, pocket. Hand - rubbing over his face, through his hair - and you vaguely catch mumbles about being done for.  

Exhilaration - still tingling through your senses, and maybe it’s the thump of adrenaline rushing through you - that guides your hand. And before George can gather his thoughts enough to ask what you’re doing, fingers slip into his pocket, blinking in disbelievement at the flash of the baggy, disappearing under your skirt. Your idea of a prime hiding space. Mouth - still slightly ajar, two policemen appearing at the window. 

It’s the usual routine - asking if he knew why they pulled him over, by how much he was over the speed limit, all that. Reckless. Only beginning to gain his confidence back, kicking the shock of you helping him. All cocky smirks, snide comments - ego rebuilding, recalling your earlier words about the chances of being caught. 

Attitude - proving to be a problem, probably not the best way to go, deal with it. Eyes - watching in the wing mirror when he’s asked to step out of the car. Focused on him - the gravel in his voice saying this a well waste of time, how he has a head in height over them, his hair starting to get longer again. Deep brown - catching your eye in the mirror, a wink, and you roll your eyes but can’t bite back a smirk. Heart still thudding - head light with the idea that you both are on the verge of getting away with this. 

Fingers - tugging, the hem of your skirt down further, George reapproaching. Finding nothing on him - a half full pack of Parliaments, chewing gum, spare change. Heavy warnings of fines, penalty points the next time - ringing in his ears. But not loud enough to kill of the buzz filtering through his veins. 

You - leaning forward, peering around George, the cop hovering by his window. A bright smile - asking if they needed to check you too, politely. George - suddenly growing very interested in his Parliaments pack, eyes staying down, but you don’t miss the amused smirk, the cough covering up a giggle.

A new set of eyes - glancing over you, a gruff, “No, you’re alright, love.”

Silence, electricity still buzzing between bodies - George, driving, under the speed limit this time. Although he had been going exaggerating under the limit for the few minutes the police car had followed, only leaving you to giggle and them to grow undoubtedly increasingly aggravated. You’re only half surprised they didn’t pull him over again.

Eventually - his hand, your thigh again. “Y’know, you didn’t have to hide that for me, babe.”

And you arch a brow - because yeah you kinda did, or he’d be well fucked, but he shushes you, knowing your expressions before you speak out.

“I don’t need you getting caught up in my messes. I’m to look after you and all that, not the opposite.” - glancing over at you, a sigh. “But thank you, you having my back tonight was most helpful, my lifesaver.” 

Overpitched, dramatic - causing an echo of giggles, laughs. Expelling pent up tension, adrenaline. 

Until - his fingers, a squeeze on your thigh. “You know I’ve still got to shift this gear, yeah?” 

Lips curving - your legs parting, fingertips trailing higher, and you give him an expectant look. One that dares him to get it himself. So he does. 

Fingers - dipping into silky material, grasping around the baggy, brushing against skin. And you ask - with a teasing sort of lithe, what you’re to do with him, after him very nearly getting you both into serious trouble. 

Watching - his lips curving into a smirk that’s quickly becoming your favourite, licking his lips. Fingers - lingering in your underwear for a breath or two longer, before slowly sliding out. 

It was a Thursday. That part of the week that seemed to drag - when everyone was done with being anyway productive. Afternoons built on talks about plans for the weekend - discussions Manchester’s best pubs, clubs favouring over the team assignment you were supposed to be working on. Uni.

It’s when there’s a sudden buzz, a flashing screen - your phone. A break in the haze of boredom and stagnant conversation.

Outside. Red vines & vodka ready.

That is i’m outside if you’re in uni.. which i assume you are cos you’re a good girl ;)

But i was thinking you could come be a little bit bad for a couple hours..

A knowing smile - the series of texts. Familiar. But someone you hadn’t heard from in a while.

George Daniel, back to corrupt me more?

An almost instantaneous bounce back of;

We both know that ship has long sailed, love.

Biting down harder - the cap of your pen, faint buzz of ongoing conversation fading, replaced by his voice when you read the next message.

So.. seeing as you’ve really nothing to lose.. meet me outside? Might even be some flying saucers in it for you..

And despite his constant disappearing acts - he knew you well. Well enough to know your favourite drinks and sweets. And you’re already shoving books, notebooks into your bag. No one notices, looks up when you hurry out of the room - trying for dignified and not at all like you were rushing. Trying to shrug on a jacket whilst text, pen still hanging from your lips. Eagerness.

Any chance of some chocolate? ;)

George’s flat - a shared one with his best friend - stinks of weed. An unmistakable smell - exacerbating in his room. George never really invited girls into his room, and when he did it was in the early hours of the morning, when there was echos of gin between mouths and hazy thoughts ran parallel in heads, and names that would be long forgotten come the morning.

This was a first.

George was cool - very tall and very attractive in a nonconventional way. He used to have long hair - that made it messy when you kissed. Only a handful of times - heavy touches in bathrooms of houses where the thundering of your heart whenever he touched you, was hidden by a heavier bass flooding, reverberating through the floorboards.

Conversations were soundtracked by intricate rap that you could never keep up with and deep bass that made your veins buzz and head spin. George mumbled a lot when he spoke - unintentional but his sentences kept the same mantra as the house music, words kept the same beat as the rap.

So George’s room was a surprise. From the colour of the walls to the posters scattered around them. Some were films, some were music, and a lot less naked girls than you had expected. A stack of books - Aldous Huxley, Carl Nielsen, a few of the names that stand out, again not what you had expected. Maybe the biggest surprise - was the record player in the corner, and shelves packed with an extensive collection of vinyls.

Not a rap, dubstep CD in sight.

“They’re organised by year,” he tells you. Watching - fingers spanning over names. He hadn’t spoken since - gauging your reaction, a new dimension of him. One he didn’t have to worry about in the dark when the main concern was getting clothes off, figuring where mouths should go. Too sober - handing you the glass, lemon fanta and vodka and a half eaten red vine as an afterthought.

“Top shelf is 60′s, 70′s, 80′s, more 80′s, 90′s..” - trailing off, watching his gestures moving down a shelf with each year. He points out a few from each decade - landmarks, favourites.

The 60′s hold Rolling Stones, Velvet Underground, Beach Boys, Hendrix, Ray Charles, Jackson 5. A lot of jazz. 

70′s - Fleetwood Mac, Sex Pistols, Zepplin, Pink Floyd, The Stooges, Bowie, Queen, Joy Divison, Deep Purple, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, The Eagles, The Clash. There’s a twitch then - a wave of relaxation when you ask about names you haven’t heard, and he explains the whole jazz fusion experiments in the 70′s, a universe aways from the age of punk rock vs new romantics you were familiar with. And it’s nice to hear his voice without the bass, the rap. It’s nice to hear his voice near combusting with passion.

He’s making eye contact by the 80′s - the glass being passed. The Cure, Peter Gabriel, INXS, Bowie, Depeche Mode, Bon Jovi, Michael Jackson, Prince, The Blue Nile, Sonic Youth, The Replacements, The Cramps, Fleetwood Mac, Ramones, New Order, The Smiths, The Jam, Talking Heads, Morrissey, Yazoo, The Stone Roses, The Flying Pickets, Tears For Fears, Psychedelic Furs, Pixies, Cocteau Twins, My Bloody Valentine.

The 80′s went on - clearly his favourite, a playful debate over the best record of the decade. Him - Everywhere, Fleetwood Mac. You - Hats, The Blue Nile.

It’s Hats that ends up on the record player. Background noise, you can still hear him, without the music pumping in your veins. He has a shoebox under his bed - Matty thinks there are actual shoes inside, not weed. A practical hiding place. Rolling spliffs while you get more drinks. You know his kitchen better than his bedroom.

He tells you stories from the floor - about the band, Matty, fills you in on what you’ve missed while smoke clouds. Obscuring features and thoughts.

The band are close to getting signed, they’re writing better stuff, he’s not with Alexa anymore, Matty’s dating some seventeen year old and has started writing a book, his sister got a new puppy called Lola - yes after the song. He talks most about Matty and dogs. More of the latter when the weed begins to kick in. His two greatest loves, you tease. He doesn’t deny it. Quintessential - typical George.

He’s teaching, attempting to teach you, how to blow smoke rings, sat opposite you on the bed. Downed drinks and melting ice - forgotten on the floor. Giggles filtering through smoke. He tells you - you should come over more often, like old times, to play Mortal Kombat. Matty was getting way too cocky, and you were the only one that could ever manage to top him.

Then it’s back to bands - he remembers how much you adore punk rock, Sex Pistols. He thinks Matty still has a tshirt you left here once before a night out. He does - you seen him wearing it at a gig a few weeks back. George pontificates - about genres for a while, about how their new sound defies that. Defies the genre boundaries of the charts, society’s perceptions. Why they couldn’t manage to get signed. He tells you he’ll play you a few songs later if you stick around for supper. Matty’s bringing back Chinese.

He has new tattoo’s - ones your fingertips trace with ease, splatters of colour spiraling down his arm. There’s a snail on the inside of his wrist - one he tells you he wishes he could remember the story behind when you ask. Smoke curls - thick in the air, when you tell him you want to get one. He grins, insisting he’ll take you to his mate.

“He’s gotten well good now - me and Matty don’t just let him practice on our legs anymore,” he tells you through an exhale. When you still sound doubtful - having seen the practice scrawls on both their legs - he chuckles, a lopsided smirk, setting his blunt down before leaning closer and naturally your eyes flicker from his to his lips. “Don’t worry, love - wouldn’t let any less than the best touch you.”

For a second - you’re certain he’s going to kiss you, and you’re ready for that. It’s been way too long. His lips land on the tip of your nose - enticing further giggles, and you don’t ask him to kiss you. Despite every bone in your body, every thought - screaming, burning.

When spliffs near half finished - record replaying, George sprawled on the bed, smoke clouding - watching your every move. Not quite sure why he hasn’t done this before - with you. You’ve found the wall that held clutters of polaroids - some recognisable as ones you had taken, shared mates, gig nights, festivals, birthdays, pubs, family - a lot of memories, a lot you knew the stories behind, a lot you wish you knew the stories behind.

Surprisingly there’s a lot of you and George - scattered dates and smiles and funny faces. The only real giveaway that time had passed between poses - George’s hair went from short to long, your’s changed style and colours, tattoo’s made appearances and your braces disappeared.  

“You always looked well cute with them,” quiet, in time with the record. Realising he’s moved closer, edge of his bed, a clear view of the wall you were currently entranced with.

A giggle, shaking your head - “they were hideous, Christ.”

It’s quiet then, a comfortable silence. Through The Downtown Lights, smoke, and evanesce of evening sunlight filtered through half shut blinds.

"C'mere," - low, setting the spliff down, fingers reaching for your hand, pulling you back over to him, the bed. You edge inbetween his legs, lip catching between your teeth when he takes your blunt, inhaling before setting it alongside his.

Fingers - his hair, and you mumble something about how you liked it when it was longer.

Fingers - spanning down the back of your neck. bringing your lips to his. Smoke curling, intertwining around tongues. Hesitantly - lowering yourself to his lap, knees at his hips, arms - his neck, your fingers hover around his hair.

George - not so hesitant, fingers gripping at thighs, bringing bodies closer. Evoking - soft sounds, when tongues overlap. Lips - slow, lazy against yours, but there’s still a lack of air, lungs beginning to burn. And you’ve missed this - the feeling of him, the taste of him. The familiar ache for more, the welcome electricty of every touch. He tastes like how he smells - with an underlay of something sweeter.

Fingers - end up entangled in hair, using it to guide his mouth back to yours when swollen lips wandered astray. When the burning in chests and spinning in heads became unbearable, and oxygen became more of a vital need than a want - lips left yours in favour of planting messy kisses along your jaw, all pants of hot air and heaving chests and frantic touches through hazy vision.

George is the focal point - the only centre of gravity keeping you down. His name echoing through your thoughts, his taste rushing through your veins, and his touch drums out your heartbeats.

Warmth - fingers grip your hips, so tight you know there’ll be ghosts of imprints later on, not something you were adverse to. Just like the marks he took the initiative to litter down the right side of your neck. Drawing out his own beat of soft sounds in forms of breathless sighs and whimpers. All while frantic fingers struggled with the zip on your hoodie, yours on the hem of his tshirt. Heat radiating, lust surging.

A harsh carnality - a growling hunger for more skin, a new ground for lips and teeth.

Your back - cool sheets, a catalyst to the heat. It was cold in the flat, his room before this had started. Bodies - fitting together in an almost flawless manner, fire running in your veins, filling your lungs.

A hellish heat enunciated with each touch of his lips when they travel over untouched skin, exploring new reactions, marks. They stop - the waistband of your shorts, palms against your thighs.

“Is it - I mean is it alright if.. Can I.. Fuck it, is this alright?” dilated pupils, kiss swollen lips, stumbling over words with an evident frustration. Eagerness.

You can only nod, teeth latching onto your lip to suppress giggles. Heat - reigniting when lips skim over skin, inside of your thighs. Enticing new sounds - hinting towards carnality. Hips - twitch, upwards, chasing his mouth when kisses are felt through thin material. Where you crave him. His name - spilling from your lips, a desperate kind of sound, not one you have any control over.

Friction - calloused fingertips coming to rest, play with the hem of your underwear. Clouded pupils meeting yours - and you’ve grown far too impatient. Fingers - his hooking into green cotton, yours reaching guiding his down.

This was something you and George did - together. This was new - but it had always been there. An over looming tension, a threatening thunderstorm.

So when your breath sort of stops at the sudden realisation of it all, and George’s catches in his throat, an almost inaudible sound - somewhere between a groan and a chuckle of ‘nice.’ Albeit - it’s an almost to himself comment, one you can’t prevent a bout of giggles to, echoed by him when he glances up again. And they sink into your veins when his lips, your thigh.

His name mixed with jumbled expletives - ricochet around your throat when his mouth is finally on you. Where it counts, where you crave him, where the source of the fire is.

Your eyes snap shut - the intensity of the pleasure, heat. His glance up - gauging reactions of certain spots. Fingers - one hand entangled through his hair, the other gripping at bedsheets. Fingers - your thighs, hips, cool imprints.

There’s gravel in his throat when he gets a taste of you. Better than what he had ever expected - sweet, a hint of tangy. His low sounds against you enticing louder ones to travel through your body.

Teeth - sinking into your lower lip, hips arching towards him when he tongue ficks over hyper sensitive flesh. An action he repeats just to feel your thighs shudder, tremble around him for a second time. Just to hear the harshness of the carnal sounds spilling from your lips.

And after seconds, minutes of him setting a tormentalous dance, you begged for him to do it again. Begged in form of unhinged sounds resembling desperate pleas, breathless pants of his name. Something he’s be lying if he says he’s never thought about, fantasised about. Hearing her beg for him. Hearing how needy she was for him. How much she needed him.

Once it sufficed enough for him, smirk curving against skin - he gave in. Fire - brought your thighs to tremble around his head, your back to arch when nerve endings sparked off in your lower stomach. Frantic mewls - desperate renditions of his name, along with, ‘please’s’ and ‘fuck’s’ all disarranged into one word.

Gentle coaxes, encouragements - reberverting against sensitive skin, your hips twitching towards him, breathless sounds. His hand catching yours - fingers lacing, your nails grazing the back of his hand.

Building - blood rushing, and your sounds grow louder, his name echoes, thighs tremble. Nearing the edge - you fingers, his hair, all but forcing his face further against you. A state of overbearing ecstasy.

George - low groans, throaty sounds, giving another sensation. The one that tips you over the edge, knocking any sort of balance you had left. Spiraling undone, shattering around him.

Messy hair and equally messy bedsheets. Sheets - wrapped around your lower waist, bare legs draped over George’s. George - Calvin’s, heated skin cooling, harsh marks darkening. The shared spliff between his lips - fingers tracing freckles along your leg. Comfortable, silence. George put on a different record. Beach Boys. 

Gaze - lingering, when he passes you the spliff. You focus on the smoke instead, teasing out shapes, smirk curving your lips when his hand, fingers inch higher, tracing over a mark he left. 

“You’re proper cool, y’know - really fit,” and it obvious by how much his words lag just how high he is. Not that you’re much better. A soft sound - a laugh, head resting against the wall, lolling towards him. “All that from a bit of head? Wow, G.”

“Oi,” - an uneven smile, elbow to your ribs. “Always thought you were cool - even with the braces and very edgy fringe.” 

 A louder laugh when you tell him to shut up. But - he tells her he’s serious when she passes him back the blunt, smoke curling - obscuring features. It’s darker now, the last bit of sunlight fading, casting shadows across his bedroom. Pink skies. 

Your name leaves his lips - full of sincerity and earnestness. Different. “You know, I really like you. And I know neither of us have been around much but that’s what got me thinking...”

Trailing off, receding back into thoughts for a moment or two, until you make a snide comment.  “George Daniel, thinking - imagine that.”

Chuckles - and he tells you to shush, holding the spliff out of your reach, telling you to be nice and he’ll think about giving you a drag. 

“But seriously, when we leave on the first tour - eventually, I know I’d want you to be there.” He says without really looking at you, and your eyes go wide, the last thing you’d expected him to say, expected him to be thinking about. The confines of his room held more surprises than what you had bargained for and the bass of all those house parties and late walks home was building up in your veins again.

“I mean - I know you’ve uni and probably a proper job by then, but y’know you could still come out to a few, yeah?” Clouded pupils catching yours, his voice lowers further. “It - It would mean a lot to me, I want you there for the start. You’ve always been here, and yeah we don’t talk as much as we’d like to at the moment, but - you’ve never doubted the band, me. Alexa did, you heard how many times she told me I was wasting my time. C’mon, it would be mint - especially with a really cool, really fit bird who doesn’t mind exchanging head every now and then.”  A smile, one that reaches his eyes while you roll yours and tell him he’s gone mad. 

But - George has never been one to give up easily, you know that by now. Just as stubborn as he is placid. Shifting to sit up against the wall. “Look, babe - think about it, anywhere in the world you want to go,” and he lists off names and places you’ve mentioned before, you’re surprised he remembers. “all that with paid hotels. And new merch,” fingers tugging at the faded Nirvana tshirt you had put back on, “Okay, it’ll be our merch, but the best. We get to meet new bands, work with new people - and all those gigs we wanted to go to but could never afford, Matty won’t be able to blow that much on fucking drugs anymore.” 

Smoke clouds, and time passes. George blurts out more selling points, and by the end of it - watching how happy, ecstatic the whole topic makes him. Whether  it’s got to do with the possibility of you being there or not. You’ve made up your mind. You want to see more. More of him being this happy.

Winding down - George’s voice fizzling out, for a second you think he’s fallen asleep. Your name - a different tone, more serious, a hint of uncertainty, vulnerability. A pause. Dilated pupils - focused on a mark on your thigh. Watching - his brow furrow. 

“You’re one of my best friends. It sounds soppy as shit but - I really, I need you there, babe.” 

Deep brown - flickering up, and it’s a rush of breath resembling, “Come with me?”

You stare, gauging for a few seconds. Bringing a near burnt out spliff to your lips, eyes holding his. On an exhale you nod with a shrug. “Alright, mate. I’m in.”

Warmth floods - when a smile that almost splits his face breaks out. Voice wavering, excitement, disbelievement. “Yeah? You’ll do it? You’ll come with me? With the band?”

An amused sound - nodding telling him yes again. Almost pouncing on you at that, a bone shattering hug, one arm tight around your waist. Built on giggles and messy short sloppy kisses that begin to get more heated. 

It’s sudden - a charring heat at your ribs, enticing rasped squeals, screams in shock more than pain, George pulling back in mild confusion. Until - you let out a shout of, “you just bloody burned me with the fucking spliff, you fucking twat.”

Envy - spiraling through him, his veins. George. An allusion of spite, bitterness.

Matty, Penelope.  

Pessimistic - a hopeless overtone. Realisation - he doesn’t think he’ll ever have that. Them.

A pub - a booth, the two of them wrapped up in the corner. Encased in their own little bubble, filtering out the mindless banter surrounding them. He can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away - and they don’t notice, oblivious.

Penelope, effervescent - talking, animated. Hands - constantly on some part of him, constantly touching. Dipping under his shirt, idly playing with buttons, fingers twirling curls that spring loose from the hair tie holding them back, fingers tapping along his thigh.

Matty, a look of endearment, fondness - gaze flickering between her eyes, her lips. Lips - curving, an amused grin, eyebrows quirking at whatever she’s said. Fingers - absentmindedly playing with the hem of her dress. Glitter - glinting, shimmering - whenever he tilts his head, light catching. Glitter. His hair, sporadic across his face, and then his nails. Something George hadn’t asked about when they emerged from their room this morning. Somewhat happy Penelope hadn’t reached him with the glitter as well.

A laugh, familiar - George, ears perking. Eyes - shifting. Lia. Laughing - Adam. Disquietude - his stomach, still not quite sure where he stands with her, after last night. In fact - he was surprised she had even shown up at all. Coachella. Arriving with Penelope - and he thinks it was more her influence than a genuine desire to come. Considering how they left things the last time he was home.

They’re in a strange place - one where George doesn’t even know if they’re actually still together. And each time the topic comes up - a promised fight. He doesn’t know what’s going on. Because - he loves her, fuck does he love her, but he’s losing her. But it’s not enough. Day by day. He doesn’t understand, can’t comprehend why. Why they couldn’t be like them.

Gaze - flickering back, Matty, Penelope. Closer. Her fingers, his mouth. Tracing over his lips, before he takes them in. Sucking - lopsided smirk.

Another laugh - eyes flickering. Lia, Adam. And George finds himself becoming mildly vexed, grip tightening, his beer.

The fight - last night, hotel room. Everything was fine at first - a good vibe, slightly buzzed. And they had been laughing, mocking - Penelope and Matty, their rooms conjoined, thin walls. Pleasurable sounds - shrieks mixed with low groans of ecstasy. Familiar - and he knew that she was just as accustomed to overhearing Matty and Penelope’s escapades as he was. Finding humour in the situation. Red vines, beer - vacuous conversation, playful kisses, touches. And for a while it felt like it used to - familiar, content. Until he self-sabotaged, bringing up festival season, how she should come. Detachment.

Penelope - draining the end of her drink. Ice - sucking, Matty - fingers weaving through her hair, drawing her closer. Tongue - tracing her lips, chaste kisses, teeth - catching her tongue, quiet chuckles. Pulling away - Matty chewing, ice.

Numb - her eyes hardening when he’s not quick enough to bite his tongue, comparing her to Penelope, again. Asking her why she couldn’t be there, when Penelope always was. Why she couldn’t be more like her. Penelope adored festival season, tagging along with them for most of it. Tension - thick, the air. George - knowing he’s being unfair, but he knows - it’s coming to the end. Him and Lia. There was a change - cold, numb. They both knew. Yet - they didn’t want to let go, history. And he had expected her to shut off, turn away from him, but she instead she kissed him. A desperate, searching kind of kiss. Anguished.

Now - his eyes catching hers, a smile, although it’s hesitant, tentative. Not like them.

Penelope - a black biro, doodling on his bare knee, ripped jeans. Teeth - playfully nipping at his arm, draped lazily across her shoulder, when he says something that George can only assume is salacious type of remark. Earning her a sharp tug, her ponytail. Enticing - giggles, huffs.

A dull ache - brooding, thoughts clouded. Downing his own drink, and he can feel her gaze on him. One he can’t bring himself to meet, because it hurts. Futile, nonsensical - to compare his relationship to theirs. Because Matty and Penelope had been defying the odds for years, inextricably linked. And he supposes connections that strong were few and inbetween. Near unfathomable to anyone else. And it had taken him awhile, but George gets it now. All or Nothing.

Unprecedented, unconditional. No matter how long it had taken them to fully settle, commit to each other - it was always there, it was always Matty and Penelope, Penelope and Matty. Nothing made sense otherwise, there was no equilibrium.  But - it’s intangible, untouchable. It shouldn’t be real. Everything about them is exaggerated, hyperbolic, theatrical. How does anyone last, survive in a relationship that intense, that consuming.

All or Nothing - Matty used to think that was idyllic expression, over romanticizing his own relationship - when they were teenagers. George thinks its cheap, cliche.

Envy.

Idle thoughts - if they hadn’t been so scared to let go, would they even still be together? Is it love, or possessiveness that actually keeps them together.

Spite.

A shift - beside him, a familiar scent, perfume he’d recognise anywhere. Amelia.

And he hasn’t realised he’d been drumming his fingers along his thighs, until her fingers lace through his. Brown eyes - meeting his, but again it’s a cautious look, timid.

And they never used to be like this, treading lightly around each other, and he hates it. But he can’t fix it.

George wakes the next morning, a monotonous buzzing. Annoyance. 

It’s raining. The flat cold. Buzzing. Annoyance.

A groan - a dull ache. His head. Mouth dry - sandpaper. Buzzing. Annoyance. 

Fingers - reaching, Penelope’s phone. Squinting - four missed calls. Her boyfriend. Annoyance.

Disjointed guitar chords - living room, quiet noises in form of laughs, low murmurs. Annoyance. 

Dragging - himself from the bed, phone in hand, wrapping the duvet around himself because the flat is always so fucking cold and he doesn’t even know why he bothers staying with Matty anymore. Annoyance. 

Couch - Matty, Penelope sat in his lap, guitar, fingers guiding hers over strings. Low murmurs with few chuckles between. Lingering kisses - her jaw, back of her neck. Small affections. Annoyance. 

And what possibly annoys him the most is how content she looks in his arms, happy, utterly untroubled. As if nothing in the previous twenty-four hours had even happened at all. 

Unnoticed - until he all but throws her phone on the couch. Two sets of eyes flickering up. “Your boyfriend’s looking for you.” 

Admittedly - it comes out a lot harsher than he had intended. Rancorous, cold.

Blue - indigo that had been alight when she glanced up, now dull. A mumbled ‘oh’ and she’s gone. Bedroom - phone. Matty - eyes following George, a glower. A look George matches - couch, beside him, cereal. And he feels a bit guilty. 

“Why’re you being such a dick to her?” 

Scoffing - George. “I’m not.”

A sigh - Matty, shifting the guitar off his lap. Scooting closer, wrapping an end of the duvet around himself, and George flinches when cold skin brushes against his. 

“Listen, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to be a dick about things, I just - I worry about her, y’know? I know you didn’t fuck her - you don’t have the balls to for one thing, you’d come your pants at the thought of that.” - a softer tone, endearing, playful opposed to the menacing accusations of last night. Jab - his ribs, head - his shoulder. 

George - glancing down, an eyeroll - but Matty continues, rambling. “I worry about you too - being alone with her. It’s not about the sex, it’s more,” a pause, exasperated sound, “Penelope’s fucked in the head.” 

“So am I,” adding, an afterthought, “I’m a proper mess, ‘cause of her. She’s a lot to handle, G. I don’t want you getting too involved, yeah?”

And George thinks it’s a bit too late for that, but he’s more focused on his cereal, and Matty’s lighting a cigarette. George knowing - he needs something new to occupy his thoughts, hands, now that Penelope was gone. 

“Just stick to being her mate - she needs that. I see what’s going on, you’re blurring lines and I know you want more but listen to me George, that would be... pernicious, on both halves.”

And all George hears is - “She’s mine.” - Matty’s spewing him a load of bullshit. 

“I know she shags about - but that’s just her, that’s just how she deals with things, with me. And I suppose... I don’t really mind, not in the way I should, because these other blokes don’t mean anything to her, y’know? But I do - she loves me, I know she does.” 

All George hears is desperation, loose threads of insecurity. He does mind, he wants her. All or Nothing. 

“That’s why it hurts - to think about her and you. She likes you - if she fucked you it would mean something to her. There’s a connection. And there’s always been this weird sexual tension between you two - you know what I’m on about. There’s all sexual vibes, mixed feelings going on there, it’s inevitable. But you and P - you’ve always been an equivocal matter, innit?”

Again - “she’s mine.”

But - he asks about Nicholas. 

Matty smirks, another cigarette. 

“M’not worried about him - he’s leaving.” 

News to George, questioning. Matty - an impatient sigh. Apparently George is interrupting his musings and this is an unimportant, trivial topic. Jaunty - hand wave, dismissal. 

“He’s going to Thailand, no Japan - no Thailand, fuck I don’t know, some film thing. Anyway - she’s not really all that bothered about it.” 

So - all she’s left with is him. And it occurs to George that’s why Matty is trying to talk him down, away from her, the idea he could ever have anything with her. Because - soon she’ll be his, and George could potentially be a thorn in the situation, a flaw in his plans. 

George goes back to his cereal. He doesn’t really care anymore. Penelope. Matty. She deserves better. He deserves better. They’re not right for each other. Pernicious. 

“I love her.” - muffled mumbles, his skin. “But I don’t think it’s enough, for her.”

And there’s an over dramatized sigh, and George suddenly feels like he’s in some cheesy romance movie. 

“Are you fucking high?” - a grumble, mild amusement. George. 

Matty - scoffing, disbelieving, a shove, his side. “No, George - I’m not fucking high, shut up. I’ve just poured my fucking heart out to you and you -”

He trails off -George’s chuckles, Penelope reappearing. Hesitating for a second, eyes flickering between them. Unsure. A spark of tension - brief. diminishing once George lifts up the duvet, an invitation for her to join them. 

Indigo - glittering, settling herself in his lap, duvet wrapping around her, Matty’s hisses when cold feet press against his skin. Something she finds entertainment in, keeping it up despite Matty’s protests. Playful bickering. 

They’re still in the van. 

Penelope’s whining - cold. Something that causes a twinge of worry - George, because her skin, clammy, strands of hair matted to her forehead. Slurring, swaying. 

The tequlia is gone, so is the weed. Mostly thanks to Penelope - George thinks, he’s far more sober than she is. Or maybe they were even, at equal level. Until she pulled out - white powder. 

Everything became much more serious in that second - at least to George, sobering him a bit, she was still laughing. Offering him some - while she cut lines on the book from earlier. He refused, in his hazy state managing to choke out that she shouldn’t. She laughed - again, void of any emotion. A mechanical sound. 

Telling him he was no fun. Familiar - he’s heard her say the same to Matty. 

But he’s not Matty, and there’s a lot of things he’d do for Penelope. But - not that, not again. 

He doesn’t like cocaine. Of course - he’s tried it, once or twice, but he hasn’t lost anything to it. The first high was good, the second time around it was horrid, leaving him sick. Enough so to turn him off it altogether. 

Watching her - his mouth dry, tongue heavy. He had almost snatched the book away. He had wanted to. Fingers itching. 

Now - she’s kissing him again. Despite the fact they didn’t get very far earlier, him losing it merely minutes after she started, spilling across her fingers, knuckles. But - he’s not into it anymore, her mouth is bitter - opposed to sweet, how she had tasted earlier. And he doesn’t think he can do this. 

He wants Matty. 

A near sigh of relief when she mumbles against his lips, asking him to take her home. Although there’s confusion on his part - not knowing where she meant at this stage. Lately - she drifted from place to place. But before he can ask she’s whispering - “Matty, I need to - can you take me to him, please G?” - an underlying hint of desperation. 

Nodding - trying his best to clear his thoughts, pushing back frustrations. Because of course - of course she wanted Matty. Despite everything he’s done, said. She didn’t care. She still wanted him. And it evokes something in George - anger? Envy?

After everything he’s done for her - she still chooses him. Always. All or Nothing. 

He feels sick - but he nods, a soft sigh of - “yeah, alright, Pen.”

A content sound against his chest - leaning heavily against him, hands under his shirt, fingers tracing patterns across skin, absentmindedly. A hum, “thanks, G.”

And he doesn’t try to move, wanting to hold on for just a bit longer. Lips - pressing kisses to her head, hair. Inhaling. Telling her it’s no problem. 

Shaking her head, trembles, her voice, “I meant thanks for everything - for today, it was the best birthday I’ve had in awhile, thank you.”

And her confession saddens him quite a bit. She’s falling asleep against him. And he feels guilty, selfish. 

Kicking - open the door of his and Matty’s shared flat. Carrying Penelope, her face burrowed into his chest, fingers gripping, soft snores.  

It’s nearing four in the morning. Matty’s still up, and Ross is there. Matty all but leaping up off the couch when George bursts in. Eyes - flickering over him, hardening once he spots Penelope in his arms. And George shushes him before he can say anything, heading to the bedroom - Penelope. 

Cold - a glare. Matty. When George reemerges from the bedroom. Ross’ eyes shifting between them - wary. Trying to edge his way to the door - before Matty tells him to sit back down. 

His eyes not lifting from George - drawing a sound of exasperation. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Matty’s shit. Tired. Only letting out a ‘mate, don’t’ while he crosses the room.

But - there’s an all too familiar glint in his eye, one George knows means he isn’t planning to let it go, let him be. 

Smirking, a drawl - “Enjoy fucking my girl, G? Shit, I’m surprised it took you this fucking long - surprised she lasted this long,” a pause - cigarette, before his eyes flicker to Ross, “didn’t take her that long to let you into her knickers, did it?”

Ross - shifting, an eye roll, telling him to fuck off, but George interrupts, “Shut up - we didn’t do anything, alright? Leave it.” - his temper rising, but he’s too exhausted. 

But of course, Matty continues, and when he calls her a whore is when George has enough, voice raising unwillingly. “Don’t fucking - you have no right to - for fuck sake, Matty - it was her birthday, and do you know how she spent the morning? Listening to you give some other fucking girl head. She was here, she was right fucking there, Matty - I found her crying her fucking eyes out on the floor - and the really fucking pathetic part about it is she still fucking loves you, she asked me to take her back to you and you don’t deserve that, you don’t give a shit about her.”

George doesn’t miss how his smirk falters, slips - shock registering for a minute. Something that’s quickly replaced - anger, resentment.

“I fucking love her, more than you two pricks - don’t try fucking preach to me George. I know you fancy her, so does he,” - head jerking towards Ross, eyes alight, wild. “And you can both fuck her, like fucking her - but neither of you know how to deal with her once that’s done. Neither of you want to deal with her once you get off - you brought her here because of that, it proves it. You act like you care about her, like you’re some fucking saviour to her - but you’re not,” a chuckle, and he’s toe to toe with George now, Ross pushing his way between them, “you’re not - you couldn’t even deal with her for a day, try a week. So don’t tell me I don’t give a fuck about her when I’m the only one who does. You fucking -” 

Ross - cutting him off, elbowing both of them, nodding towards the bedroom door. Both of their heads snapping up. Penelope. 

Stood in the doorway, still fully dressed minus her shoes.George didn’t feel it was right, taking off her clothes. Hair tousled, makeup a complete wreck now, pale skin.Hand rubbing - her eyes. Her nose - trailing red. Blood. 

Ross - a mumbled ‘shit’, Matty freezing for a second, and George instinctively approaches with a ‘fuck, P are you alright?”

But his stomach, heart sinks when she calls out a name. One that’s not his, a hoarse sound, “Matty?” 

A rush - George almost missing Matty flitting past him, and he’s by her side before George can comprehend what’s even happened, before he can even blink. A look of concern, masked with quiet reassurances, soft kisses to her skin, wiping away the blood with his shirtsleeve, and her fingers grip onto him. 

And they seem to be encased in their own little bubble - focus purely on each other. Matty - whispering, soothing. Ressurances. Penelope - face tucking into his neck, fingers clutching his shirt, trembling.

Slow - pulling away, ushering her to the bathroom with hushed mutterings about getting her cleaned up. Not missing the opportunity to send George another glare as they pass. A hint, glimmer of smugness. His. 

yeaaah. eh - i think that was just bad grammar, what I meant was that when she said Matty’s name George perceived it as his own name - in his head. 

The abrupt ending is basically ripped from, or an ode to - The Rules of Attraction. 

November.

It’s Thursday. Midday. 

Penelope’s birthday. Eighteen. 

And the last thing George expects to find when he enters his and Matty’s shared flat - is Penelope crying on the floor.  

Or at least he thinks she’s crying. Shoulders hunched - silent trembles. Slumped against the wall outside his and Matty’s shared room. Unspeakable noises - the other side of the door.  Sharp mewls resembling Matty’s name. 

Silently cursing under his breath - recalling the girl Matty had brought home last night. But it’s not as if either of them had expected Penelope to show up, not after the argument her and Matty had had yesterday. And George wonders for a second - how she had even gotten into the flat. Recalling - Matty giving her a key a few weeks back. 

Uneasiness - stomach churning. Approaching - calling out her name quietly. Penelope - glancing up, startled. Blue - sparkling, shiny. Evident tears - but she’s mumbling curses, frantically rubbing at her eyes. Smearing makeup - just a little bit.  

He stays quiet - a look of pity, a break in the noises before it’s followed by a loud exclamation of Matty’s name. And her eyes dart away from his. A shudder.

Reaching out - a hand, she hesitates before taking it, tentatively. Letting him pull her up from the floor. Still avoiding his eyes. All too quickly ushering her out of the flat. Sniffles - her head down, avoiding. And George thinks she’s embarrassed that  he found her in that state, or that he caught her listening. Although she doesn’t try to pull away as he leads her down the front steps, fingers only lacing through his, a tight grip. Neither of them speaking a word. 

McDonald’s - mostly because George was starved. Penelope saying she wasn’t hungry, chips and a chocolate sundae, an afterthought. And she still hasn’t loosened her grip on his hand. Until - he’s sitting across from her. 

Torn - half amused, half disgusted - watching Penelope dip a chip into the sundae before bringing it to her lips. His own mouth agape - chicken nugget midair. Eyes - catching his, a hint of a smirk, dipping another chip into the ice cream, chocolate syrup, shoving it past his lips before he gets the chance to protest. Tentative - chewing slowly. Surprise - it’s actually not that bad. 

Penelope - a smile, coy - “Good?”

His nose scrunches, considering - “S’abit weird.”

A little laugh, shrugging - picking up another chip. “I suppose, it’s kind of like salted caramel, shouldn’t really go together but it does.”

And George can only make an affirmative sound in return, watching her lips wrapping around the straw of his drink, a frivolous wink, and it strikes him that he shouldn’t be all  that surprised. Penelope had more than handful of bizarre eating habits - the girl puts peanut butter on basically everything she eats, recalling earlier in the week when she had mixed it into mashed potatoes. Which was definitely worse than the chip/sundae situation - at least to George. Matty hadn’t thought it was all that bad. 

Silence resuming - unusual. For Penelope. She never really shut up, loud. Telling him she was going to the bathroom - returning a few minutes later, and he tries to focus on his food, striving to ignore how dilated her pupils have suddenly become, blown out. Sniffles that ensue every few minutes. Disquietude. 

Cold - air, fingers. Laughter - swirling, the air. Her mood - lifting since McDonald’s, dragging him through a park - feeding ducks, tying - knotting some kind of daisy type flowers through his hair. And George didn’t have the heart to refuse, the smile curving her lips. 

Now - arm draped lazily across her shoulders, wandering through town. Fingers - hooking into the pockets of his jacket, pulling him into a charity shop. Browsing - a rather ripped oversized denim jacket, a vinyl - The Cure, thrusting a copy of Bret Easton Ellis’ The Rules of Attraction into his arms as he passes, mumbling something about it being fitting right now. 

And while George trails behind her, reading the back of the book - quirking a brow, a questioning look - she shrugs, typical. “Nobody likes who they’re supposed to like right now,” is all she offers as an explanation. Mirroring - shrugging, insisting he’ll pay for the stuff, a birthday present. Along with the promise of weed, later. Teeth - tugging at metal, eyes alight. 

And her eye makeup is still slightly smudged - but he finds himself liking the look in an arcade, neon lights illuminating, her. He’s lost big on the slot machines, Penelope winning twenty quid. Which she bets against him on a game of air hockey - and he’s never realised just how competitive she is. Declaring it was best out of three when George won the first round, and of course he lets her win the rest.. The sounds of triumph, wide grins. Carefree, radiant. Arms wrapping around his waist - attempting to drag him back through laughs when he mockingly huffs that he’s had enough, leaving, once she won the last  game. Whines - wanting a game of pool, insisting that he had to, her birthday.

Idle thoughts - he thinks this is the longest he’s ever spent with her without getting high, drunk. And he prefers it this way. 

Cold air - fingers threading through his again. Ice. 

Starting to lose light - evening. And he’s asking her what now, a near mischievous grin, fingers pulling keys from her coat pocket. Matty’s van. 

Weed - cold air, blankets. Moonlight, a torch. The field she had brought him to merely weeks ago. 

The roof of the van. Matty’s bong they found in the back, weed George supplied, finding more in the glove compartment. A cake, chocolate, peanut butter. George managing to squish eighteen candles on top - along with a rather abstract version of Happy Birthday, leaving Penelope in a fit of giggles. Or that could have been caused by the weed, or maybe both. 

Matty - hasn’t been mentioned. But - numerous missed calls, texts, gone ignored. 

Back of the van - 10cc, I’m Not in Love, faintly soundtracking. A spliff being passed between them, as well as tequila. A buzz building, smoke clouding her eyes. Matty’s found his place in the conversation. Penelope asking who the girl in his room was - and George shrugs, truthful, he didn’t know, ‘just some bird he pulled last night’ is all he gives. And her eyes - shiny, glittering again. 

“I could hear him giving her head,” admittance, through another hit, smoke curling, voice thick, “before you got there.” 

George - a loss for words, because he hated that she had to hear any of it, and he hated Matty for fucking the girl again, for bringing her home in the first place. Muttering out an apology, and for once he’s not trying to defend Matty’s actions. He loved him, but he could be a right dick about things. 

She only shrugs, again. 

Sudden - something that was expected, something that was building. But - still shock on George’s behalf. Her lips - fervid against his. And he doesn’t care anymore, her and Matty. He gives in. Despite the fact - he’s not the one she wants. She’s the one he wants. And nobody likes who they’re supposed to like. Ever. 

Because all he can feel - is her. Heat, too hot. Her lips, her skin. Burning - setting him alight. Tasting - chocolate, tequlia, smoke. Tongues messy, lips harsh. Soft sounds - echoing into his mouth, shivers. Her shirt gone, bare skin, fingers gripping. Lust - desire, clouding, buzzing, his heart thrumming. Thoughts hazy - her. Fingers - his chest, stomach, working on his jeans. A moan - her name. Lips - open mouthed kisses down his neck, teeth grazing, marking. Matty - she sighs his name, when George’s fingers, between her thighs. But - it’s his, in his head. 

George thought some fresh air would help sober him up. 

It didn’t. Only making his head reel worse.

Bitter, frost tinted - November. But despite the cold, numbness, the feeling that his fingers are about to fall off, he waits for her outside. Although he has no coat and he’s fresh out of fags. Cursing himself. A record time that night. 

And he still couldn’t understand it - Penelope. When it had all started. When he had started comparing every other girl to her. It wasn’t normal. She was his friend. And he thinks he may be in love with her, just a little bit. Or maybe not, but he craves her. Uncontrollable. And he’s got off more often than not thinking about her. Invasive. The thought of their bodies, hot skin, intertwined. The burning imagine of himself fucking her - and thanks to her and Matty’s not so quiet escapades, he knows exactly how she sounds. How her voice cracks, raises a pitch higher when she mewls out Matty’s name. Ingrained.  Often - he replaces Matty’s name with his own, imagining how she’d cry out for him. And usually that’s enough to push over the edge. 

Matty’s overheard him - once, twice, maybe more. Once he had walked in, unsuspecting, only to witness George frantically repeating Penelope’s name under his breath. And for the rest of the night he had been subjected to Matty’s knowing glare, a glint in his eye paired with a half sadistic smirk. 

And he thinks Matty enjoyed it - knowing that George wanted her, his girl. Because - it gave him some ounce of power, control, something he never had with Penelope. Penelope had a boyfriend - and in some aspects, Matty was the George in that dynamic. Inflicting what he felt on George. 

And George thinks that’s why he didn’t stop Penelope - merely weeks ago, Halloween. Penelope had plopped herself in his lap, sharing the bong. That wasn’t anything unusual. Innocent. But - her outfit, some barely there costume that had George’s stomach knotting, thoughts clouding. Her - innocent touches, wiggling further into him each time Ross made her laugh. An action that only made George pray she couldn’t feel what she was doing to him. 

Matty had watched - George catching his eye when he had looked around the room in search of a distraction. The same dangerous glint, menacing smirk. Manipulative. 

Finally pulling her from his lap - and George had not so subtly rushed to the bathroom.  Matty - eyes following.  Picturing, fantasising - having her up against the door, bending her over the sink, that fucking skirt. Fucking Penelope. 

But he doesn’t want her, not in the way Matty wants her. Despite what Matty thinks. 

His head’s just a bit of a mess. And he’s too wrecked to think about it anymore. 

Time lapsing - and he can’t tell how long it’s been when he hears an all too familiar voice calling his name. Penelope. Eyes - focusing, approaching, black Converse, red pajama bottoms, Home Alone themed - ones Matty often laughed at, because she wasn’t typically a pajama type person, a grey paint splattered hoodie, that George is pretty certain had been his at some point.

Curls - some sort of messy updo, a look of concern, crouching in front of him.  

Streetlamps, car lights - flickering over pale skin. Warmth - hot air, fogging the windows, enticing George to draw patterns. Radio - a John Mayer CD, Penelope humming, singing along. Quietly. Fingers tapping. 

And there’s an odd sort of ambiance. Content - somewhat. A comfortable silence between the two of them, the tequila she had given him definitely helping on George’s part. She hadn’t pried, or asked what had happened. Sensing his uneasiness. Only asking where he wanted to go. Not back to Matty. So she kept driving - and George didn’t mind. Content. 

That is until his attention drifts to the song, the lyrics, and he suddenly feels as if the radio is in cahoots with his conscience.

‘I don’t trust myself with loving you..’

‘Who do you love, me or the thought of me..’ 

And Penelope singing along under her breath, enunciating each word isn’t exactly helping matters. 

Snapping - turning down the volume, muting. Penelope - shooting him a glance, quirking a brow. 

“I don’t like that one,” he mumbles out in form of an excuse, another gulp of tequila. 

She shrugs, choosing not to pursue. Silence. Heavier than before. A shift. George’s grip tightening on the bottle, cursing himself. Again. 

Eventually - stillness. From what George can see, they’re parked in the middle of a field. Deserted. Vaguely familiar. The edge of town, twenty minutes away. Headlights - flicking off, leaving the engine on for the heat, hot air. Dark. Before she switches on the overhead light. Pulling the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands. 

Tired - and George begins to feel guilty for dragging her out to collect him, then refusing to go home. Silence - fingers reaching for the bottle. 

“Why here?” - asking, passing the tequila. Mildly confused. Undoing seatbelts. 

Another shrug, sipping, blue flickering over him. “Habit, I suppose.” - mumbling, tequila. And George supposes the liquor is also a habit. 

“More a vice,” - she adds, a smile. 

“Matty.” - George, and it’s a confirmation more than it is a question. Of course it was Matty. It had to be Matty. He was the only person she had habits with, or vices. Traditions, either way. 

A nod - faint smile, eyes distant, musing quietly. “Back a few years ago, when I moved back here - this is where I met him again. It was Halloween.” 

Something that’s a distant memory to George. 

“We come out here loads, with the van and… “ - another shrug, leaving George to assume the rest, chasing the rest of the sentence with another sip of tequila, passing it back to him. “It used to be different - we used to take my mum’s car, she never knew - she’d go mental,” and George is almost captivated by the way her lips twitch, the small ever present smile when she talks about Matty. 

Continuing, voice lowering slightly - “And we’d just sit here and talk for ages, about Nicholas.” 

Recognition - Nicholas, her boyfriend. His car - the one they were currently sitting in. And from the handful of times George has met him, he seems alright. Except for the fact it was always Nicholas, never Nick, which George still thinks is a bit pretentious. Which led George to mockingly call Matty and Pen by their full names when he was around. And for some reason Matty had become sort of mates with him, which George always thinks is a bit weird, considering he’s also shagging Penelope. And is quite in love with her on top of that. 

But then again, the whole topic of Matty and Penelope gives him a headache, so he tends not to think about it. Incomprehensible. 

She’s stopped talking now, picking at her nails. And George is drinking most of the tequila. Curiosity, alcohol - combining. Gauging, only half slurring - “Why are you with him?”

 Glancing up - a look of confusion, asking what he meant. Turned to face him now, feet, his thigh. 

“Why are you with him when you have Matty?” - and it’s odd, the seriousness in his voice, because him and Penelope were never serious, they didn’t have sincere conversations. They got high together, a lot, often resulting in ridiculous outcomes. And it’s sudden - while she’s absentmindedly chewing on a sleeve of her hoodie, that George realises he doesn’t really know the girl at all. Not properly. Something that he finds depresses him quite a bit.

And she shrugs. Again. “I don’t have Matty.” - simple, and afterthought, a sigh, “well I do but he’s not - “ watching as she struggles for a minute before settling on, “mine.”

Incredulous, almost spluttering tequila, a chuckle. “He’s very much yours, babe. Fuck, do you - “

Sudden, a hiss, cutting him off, her eyes darkening, “He likes to fuck me, that’s all, George.”

A pause, then a softer sound, eyes shifting down - “said so himself.” 

George blinks. Taking longer to process what she’s just said. Tequila. 

A groan, because trust Matty to shoot himself in the foot, over and over. George doesn’t think he’ll ever learn, not with her. Matty was hers, and everyone around him knew it. Obvious. An obvious choice. 

All he can do is mumble something unintelligible about what a dick Matty is.

Penelope nods - blue, fixing on him again. Confession - “I do love him though.”

George - a dumbfounded expression, repeating the same question from the start. Why was she with Nicholas then?

“Because I love Matty,” - is her apparent intelligible answer. Intensifying George’s already rapidly growing headache.

“So,” - slurring, striving to make sense of it, but his head is spinning. “You’re fucking Nicholas… because you love Matty?”

She hesitates, before nodding. George groans. 

Indecipherable. And he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He doesn’t get it, sober or not. He doesn’t think he ever will. 

Silence - sharing a cigarette she found in her jumper pocket. Tequila nearing an end. Mostly drank by George. 

“Pen, do you like me?”

An unanticipated question, but he needs to know. Because he’s beyond pissed and is close to spilling everything. 

A chuckle, an amused sound. Fingers - reaching, ruffling through his hair. A gesture of affection. 

“Of course I like you, G.”

But it’s not what he meant, and of course she wouldn’t like him in the way he meant and he suddenly feels this is all very trivial. But it’s happening before he can stop himself. Spilling, blurting out the nights events. 

“Julia’s pissed with me,” - he begins, and she hums in responses, eyes flickering over him. “’cause… because she was giving me head and I said your name.”

A slurred rush, he’s too far gone to care about what she’d think, and for a second he doesn’t really know why he’s said it. Why he’s told her.  An air of desperation surrounding it all. 

Quiet - his eyes shifting back to hers. Blue - wide, a look of mild shock, innocence. He realises that he hates it when she does that, because Penelope is anything but innocent. 

Perplexed. 

Hushed - “George, I don’t - why would you.. Shit, is this about earlier?”

Referring back to when he had walked in on her changing. A groan - shaking his head, before nodding seconds later. Because he’s honestly confused. It was and it wasn’t about earlier. Pent up feelings - but she had been on his mind because of that incident.

And it’s quiet again. George - cursing himself, and he wishes there were more tequila. 

Quiet, timid - and George thinks she has a sudden revelation, eyes alight. “Do.. do you like me?

Understanding - the meaning of his earlier question. And all he finds himself capable of doing is nodding. Because he does, like her, at least he thinks he does. 

A shaky siigh in response, nodding along with him. A muffled ‘okay’. 

Blue, indigo - captivating him, her teeth tugging at metal, her lip. Tension - new. Before he can full comprehend, she’s leaning in closer to him. Eyes flickering down to his lips, forehead resting against his. And - before he can ask, her lips are on his. 

Hesitant - soft pecks, until his brain kicks back in, coaxing a response. Friction - the metal ring. Slow - her hand, his thigh, tentative. Unspeakable sounds building in his throat, and his mind goes blank when her tongue meets his. More metal. Soft sounds echoing into his mouth. Fingers tangling in his hair. She tastes faintly of tequila and mints and cigarettes. And soon his lungs are burning, his head pounding worse than before. But he doesn’t want to stop. Hands - under her hoodie, warmth, bare skin. Building - lips more urgent, tongues, sloppy. Heartbeat jagged, thrumming. Uneven breaths. 

She pulls away first, breathless sounds. Sitting back in her seat. His fingers swiping across his mouth, lips stinging, swollen. And he’s even more confused than he had started out with. Because it was nice, she was a good kisser. But - he didn’t feel anything. Not anything that he had expected to feel. Perplexed. 

And he thinks when she wordlessly switches back on the headlights, beginning to drive again, that that had been her whole motive behind it. The kiss. To prove to them both that there was nothing. 

Silence - but it’s somewhat comfortable again. And she’s asking if he has weed on him, driving back.