k i n a ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

DEAR LORD, WHEN I GET TO HEAVEN...

...PLEASE LET ME BRING MY MAN

kina. she. british. kashmiri. multi. ukyt. chrismd. arctic monkeys. emh. the inbetweeners. fnd. the boys. supernatural. creepypasta. one direction. live laugh love men who yearn. chrismd’s love. willne’s girl. evan myers. nerds. aspiring writer. northener. student. did i mention i love chrismd?

⤷ ゛@ masterlist. ˎˊ˗

TWO: NEW NORMAL

one: banger begins masterlist

A/N: quick little notice… okay so these next 5 chapters of this fic are gonna be quite fast paced cause i wrote em a year ago and didn’t really know where i was going with this, i have some idea of it now but… i’m not gonna make any promises. ANYWHO, im currently working on chapter 7 of this series, which is hopefully written a lot better, hope you enjoy!

Aurora Brooks

It’s funny how quickly things can change. One minute, George Clarke is just the annoying git who throws crisps at me in seminars, and the next, he’s the person I’m spending most of my time with, wandering the streets of Bristol, laughing over stupid shit and pretending we’re not both a bit broken. After that evening by the river, where we spilled our guts about my ex, Tom, and his nan’s passing, something shifted. It wasn’t like we suddenly became best mates or anything dramatic, but the banter that used to be all sharp edges started to feel… softer. Like we’d seen each other’s cracks and decided not to poke at them too hard.

We started hanging out more, almost by accident. After uni, instead of going our separate ways, me to my flat to mope, him to wherever he went to film his daft YouTube videos or TikToks, we’d just… keep talking. We’d leave the lecture hall, still taking the piss out of each other’s notes or the lecturer’s dodgy PowerPoint, and then we’d be halfway across campus before either of us realised we weren’t heading anywhere specific. “Fancy a coffee?” he’d say, jerking his thumb toward the little café near the library, and I’d shrug, “Only if you’re payin’, you cheap bastard.” He’d roll his eyes, but he’d always end up getting my flat white, muttering about how I was “milking his student loan dry.”

It became a thing. Coffee turned into matcha when I admitted I was trying to cut back on caffeine, which George found hilarious. “Matcha? What, you a proper hipster now?” he’d say, sipping his Red Bull like it was his lifeblood. “Next you’ll be wearin’ dungarees and bangin’ on about mindfulness.” I’d fire back, “At least I’m not a walking advert for an energy drink, mate. You’re one can away from vibratin’ through the floor.”

Regardless, he’d order me my matcha anyway, and we’d sit in that café, the one with the mismatched chairs and the barista who always looked stoned, talking about nothing and everything, uni, his YouTube channel, my obsession with true crime podcasts, the time he tried to cook a roast and nearly set his flat on fire.

Sometimes we’d skip the café and just walk. Bristol’s got this way of feeling alive in the late afternoon, all graffiti-covered walls and buskers playing off-key covers. We’d wander through Stokes Croft, past the murals and the hipster bars, or down to the harbourside, where the water reflected the sunset like it was showing off. George would ramble about his latest video idea, “I’m thinkin’ a blind taste test, but with proper rank stuff, like Marmite and custard”, and I’d take the piss, saying his channel was “one bad video away from being demonetised for crimes against humanity.” He’d laugh, loud and bright, and I’d find myself laughing too, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water.

Other times, we’d end up at a restaurant, usually some cheap spot where the portions were massive and the service was questionable. There was this one curry place we went to at least three times in a fortnight, where the waiter knew our order by heart, lamb bhuna for me, chicken tikka masala for George, extra peshwari naan for both of us. “You’re gonna bankrupt me with all this naan,” he’d say, tearing off a piece and dipping it in his sauce. “Worth it, though,” I’d reply, smirking, “you’re only eatin’ this well ‘cause I’m here to class up your life.” He’d snort, but he’d always split the last naan with me, even when he was pretending to be stingy.

It wasn’t like we planned it. It just happened. Uni would end for the day, and instead of going home to wallow in my post-breakup misery, I’d be with George, arguing over whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it does, and he’s wrong) or trying to outdo each other with impressions of our lecturers. It was easy, in a way I hadn’t expected. George was still a twat, don’t get me wrong, he’d still chuck a pen at me in class and call it “target practice”, but he was my twat, in a weird, undefined way. We didn’t talk about that night by the river again, not directly, but it was there, like a quiet agreement that we’d look out for each other.

—————————

Uni wrapped up for the term, and I was dreading the empty weeks ahead. No lectures to distract me, no assignments to bury myself in, just me and my thoughts, which were still a bit too Tom-heavy for my liking. So when George texted me one afternoon, a simple “Fancy a few drinks at mine tonight? Lads are comin’ over,” I didn’t even hesitate. “Only if you’ve got something better than that shite IPA you drink,” I replied, and he sent back a middle finger emoji followed by, “Bring your own then, you snob.”

His flat was exactly what I’d expected, chaotic, a bit grimy, and unmistakably George. The living room had a mismatched sofa and armchair, a coffee table covered in empty cans and a half-eaten pizza, and a TV that looked like it’d been nicked from a charity shop. There were fairy lights strung along one wall, which he swore were “ironic,” and a PlayStation 4 that was probably his most prized possession. When I walked in, George was in the kitchen, wrestling with a bottle opener, his hair a mess like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Alright, you made it,” he said, grinning as he finally got the bottle open, foam spilling over his hand. “Fuckin’ hell, this beer’s got a mind of its own. Want one?”

“Nah, I’ll stick to wine,” I said, holding up the cheap bottle of red I’d brought. “Not all of us have the palate of a uni fresher.”

“Oi, this is premium stuff,” he said, waving his IPA like it was a fine vintage. “You’re just too posh for your own good.”

Before I could fire back, the door buzzer went off, and in came Chris and Arthur Hill, both of them carrying enough booze to stock a small pub. Chris immediately launched into a story about a disastrous Sidemen shoot he’d just been on, something about JJ spilling something on a rented camera. “Mate, it was absolute shambles,” he said, flopping onto the sofa and cracking open a beer. “I’m never workin’ with that lot again… until they call me back.”

Arthur, quieter but just as sharp, was already rummaging through George’s fridge. “You got anything edible in here, mate, or is it just fucking Red Bull?” he said, holding up a questionable yogurt pot.

“Piss off, Finchy, I’m a gourmet chef,” George shot back, tossing a bag of crisps at him. “Eat that and shut up.”

The night was loud from the start. We drank, we laughed, we played a drinking game that Chris insisted was “a classic,” but which mostly involved him making up rules to screw everyone else over. George was in his element, taking the piss out of all of us: Chris for his “fancy footy skills that don’t work in real life,” Arthur for his “sad boy music that makes everyone want to jump off a bridge,” and me for my “obsession with shit wine.” I gave as good as I got, calling George a “walking meme with no filter” and mocking his attempts to DJ with a Spotify playlist.

“Mate, this playlist is a crime,” I said, scrolling through his phone while he tried to wrestle it back. “Blink-182 and Daft Punk? What are you, 12?”

“It’s iconic, you uncultured swine,” he said, snatching his phone and queuing up “Fat Lip” just to spite me. “This is art. You wouldn’t get it.”

Arthur and Chris cackled, and we kept going, the room filled with the kind of easy, messy chaos that only comes when everyone’s a bit pissed. We swapped stories about uni, Chris’s disastrous attempt at a group project, Arthur’s gig where he forgot his own lyrics, my habit of falling asleep in the library and waking up with pen on my face. George, of course, had a million stories, each one more ridiculous than the last, like the time he tried to prank his flatmate by hiding all his socks, only to find out they were already in the wash.

As the night wore on, the energy mellowed. Chris started yawning, claiming he had an early shoot, and Arthur was half-asleep on the armchair, his beer dangling precariously from his hand. “Right, lads, I’m out,” Chris said, standing and stretching. “Thanks for the drinks, George. Don’t let this one burn your flat down,” he added, nodding at me with a grin.

“Fuck off, Dixon,” I said, tossing a cushion at him. Arthur mumbled something incoherent, gave George a lazy fist bump, and they both stumbled out, leaving the flat quiet except for the hum of the TV and George’s playlist still going in the background.

A few moments later, I glanced at my phone, it’s nearly 1 a.m. “Shit, I should head out too,” I said, standing and grabbing my coat from the pile on the floor. My head was buzzing from the wine, but I was steady enough to make it home.

George, who’d been sprawled on the sofa, sat up suddenly, his expression shifting. “Hang on,” he said, his voice softer, almost hesitant. “Don’t go yet. I… I don’t really wanna be alone tonight.”

I froze, my coat half-on, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his tone. George wasn’t the type to admit stuff like that. He was all bravado and banter, always the loudest in the room. “You alright?” I asked, my voice careful.

He shrugged, looking at the floor, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his T-shirt. “Yeah, just… not feelin’ it, you know? Don’t wanna talk about it, just… stay, yeah?”

I didn’t push. I knew that look, that quiet ache he was trying to hide. I’d felt it too, after Tom. So I nodded, dropping my coat back onto the pile. “Alright, fine. But only if we can watch something decent, not your shitty music videos.”

He grinned, the tension easing. “Deal. What’s your poison, then?”

“10 Things I Hate About You,” I said without missing a beat. “Proper classic. None of this modern Netflix rom-com bollocks.”

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re predictable,” he said, but he was already pulling up the film on his TV, grabbing a couple of blankets from the armchair. We settled onto the sofa, him on one end, me on the other, the opening credits rolling as Heath Ledger’s face filled the screen. I tucked my legs under me, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, and for a while, we just watched, the familiar dialogue filling the quiet.

I don’t know when I fell asleep. One minute, Kat was ranting about the patriarchy, and the next, I was out, my head lolling against the armrest. I woke up briefly when I felt myself being lifted, George’s arms surprisingly steady as he carried me to his bed. “You’re not sleepin’ on the sofa like a hobo,” he muttered, his voice soft but teasing. I was too groggy to argue, letting him tuck me under the covers before he disappeared back to the living room. I drifted off again, the faint scent of his detergent on the pillow lulling me into a deeper sleep.

—————————

I woke to the sound of running water, the morning light filtering through George’s curtains. My head was fuzzy, but not hungover, just that heavy, warm feeling you get from sleeping somewhere new. I stretched, blinking at the unfamiliar room, clothes strewn across the floor, a football in the corner, a half-empty Red Bull on the nightstand. Then the bathroom door opened, and George walked in, a towel slung low around his waist, his hair wet and dripping onto his shoulders.

I froze, my brain short-circuiting. George was… fit. I mean, I’d always known he was tall and lanky, but I hadn’t noticed the way his shoulders were broad, the way his chest had a quiet strength to it, the way the towel clung to his hips. Water droplets trailed down his skin, catching the light, and I felt my face heat up, my heart doing a weird flip in my chest. This wasn’t just George, the annoying twat who threw pens at me. This was… different. He was different.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said, oblivious to my internal meltdown, rummaging through his wardrobe for a shirt. “You snore like a fuckin’ chainsaw, you know that?”

“Piss off,” I mumbled, pulling the covers up to hide my flush, but my voice was shaky, and I couldn’t stop staring. When had he gone from being just George to… this? I sat up, trying to act normal, but my mind was racing. Maybe I’d been blind this whole time, or maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was that night by the river, but something had shifted, and I couldn’t unsee it.

“I’m grabbin’ a shower,” I said, bolting out of bed and practically sprinting to the bathroom, desperate to clear my head. The hot water helped, but not much. I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes when I came out, my hair damp, my thoughts a mess. George was in the kitchen, already flipping pancakes, his usual chaotic energy back in full force.

“Thought I’d treat you to my culinary genius,” he said, waving a spatula. “Don’t say I never do nothin’ for ya.”

“Burnin’ pre-made pancakes isn’t culinary genius, mate,” I said, sliding into a chair, trying to act like I hadn’t just had a full-on crisis over him in a towel. We ate, bantering as usual, me taking the piss out of his cooking, him mocking my “picky” taste in food, but every time he grinned, I felt that same flip in my chest, and it was starting to scare me.

—————————

We went to the gym, followed some random set a girl on tiktok did, and ended up back at George’s that afternoon, sprawled on his sofa with FIFA loaded up on his PS4. I was weirdly good at it, which drove him mental, guess those years losing against my brothers were useful. “You’re cheating, you have to be,” he said after I scored my second goal, my Liverpool side demolishing his Sunderland side.

“Mate, I’m just better than you,” I said, grinning as I leaned forward, my fingers flying over the controller. “Maybe stop pickin’ a shit team, yeah?”

“Shit team? Sunderland is a legacy!” he said, but he was laughing, his eyes bright with that competitive spark. I beat him again, and he threw his controller onto the sofa, claiming he was “takin’ it easy” on me. “Don’t wanna crush your fragile ego, love.”

“Fragile? I’m wipin’ the floor with you, mate,” I said, starting a third game. We were back to our usual banter, trading insults with every pass and tackle, him calling me a “button-mashing gremlin,” me telling him he played “like a drunk toddler.” It was comfortable, familiar, until it wasn’t.

Halfway through the game, I scored again, and George decided he’d had enough. “Right, fuck this,” he said, tossing his controller aside and lunging at me. His hands found my waist, tickling me mercilessly, and I shrieked, dropping my controller as I fell back onto the sofa, laughing so hard I could barely breathe. “You little cheat!” he said, his fingers relentless, his grin wide and wicked.

“Stop—fuckin’—stop!” I gasped, trying to swat him away, but he was stronger than he looked, pinning me down as he kept tickling. I was a mess, tears streaming from laughing, my stomach aching, and then he slowed down, his hands still on my waist, his body hovering over mine. Our laughter faded, our breaths slowing, and suddenly the room felt too small, too warm. His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I noticed how green they were, flecked with gold, soft in a way I’d never seen before.

We stayed like that for what felt like forever, maybe twenty seconds, just staring, the air thick with something I couldn’t name. His hands were still on my waist, warm through my shirt, and I could feel his breath, close enough to stir my hair. He leaned in, slow, tentative, his eyes searching mine for permission, and my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. I wanted it, I wanted him, but the weight of it hit me like a train. This was George, my annoying, banter-loving not-quite-friend, and if this went wrong, I’d lose whatever we’d built, this fragile thing that had become my lifeline.

“I—I need to go,” I blurted, my voice shaky as I pushed at his chest, panic rising. He pulled back immediately, sitting up, his expression unreadable but soft, like he understood.

“Yeah, alright,” he said quietly, standing and running a hand through his hair. “You good?”

“Yeah, just… late, you know,” I lied, grabbing my bag and avoiding his eyes. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

coming soon… masterlist

series:

• 10 things i can’t say

➛ the banter begins

➛ chris dixon

➛ will lenney

➛ stephen lawson