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It's a funny sight, the two of them in the middle of the road, one lanky and tall and covered in mud, the other small and hunched and clapping its hands. The Man in the Yellow Hat wipes his face, his dirtied coat shifting just enough to reveal a sweat soaked T-shirt underneath. He leans against the car, a totaled honda, and waves his Yellow Hat for the upteenth time. He's coal dark eyes and a pointy nose, dark hair combed just enough to not look strange. But he is strange. If he's not, then there wouldn't be a chimpanzee crawling over his leg.
George nuzzles the Man in the Yellow Hat, all love and joy, and blissful ignorance. Because the crash is George's fault. George is the one that followed the blip in the sky (now they know it's a silver balloon) from the Big Apple down to Hollywood. He's hitched trucks and bikes, the Man in the Yellow Hat never far behind. Until the Man in the Yellow Hat had caught him, swept the baby chimp into his arms, and said, "George! Time to go home!"
He'd put George into the passenger's seat and buckled his belt. And when they passed the Golden Gate, George had hooted in excitement, and in that excitement, rolled down the window, pressed eject, and flung himself out. Then they'd careened and been left at the end of the bridge, covered in mud and bumps and bruises. Californians aren't exactly hospitable and the Man in the Yellow Hat's been honked at too many times to count. So tired, he sits with George in his arms, waiting for a ride to take them home or at least to a hot shower.
"You okay?"
George looks up first, and there's a man pulled up. The sunglasses go down. The man steps out, curly hair and a handsome, sad smile. The Man in the Yellow Hat sees him too, after George pushes his chin up, and the other man whistles.
"Is that yours?" he says, pointing at George, and the little chimp beams, sickening sweet.
Protectively, the Man in the Yellow Hat holds George close. "Yeah. I've had George for a while. A handful, but my handful."
The handsome man chuckles, like he knows those words. "I've got one at home. Could use some tips."
It's the last thing the Man in the Yellow Hat expects to hear. The man extends a hand and George stretches to clasp his small fingers over it, pure delight.
"Will Rodman," the man, now Will, says.
"A pleasure," the Man in the Yellow Hat says back.
The Man in the Yellow Hat and Will chat into the night, like men do, and Will hasn't had guests in years. They also talk to Will's father, a nice man with pretty fingers and white hair, but George is asleep by then. He's out by the time the Man in the Yellow Hat washes him and bundles him in a clean, soft towel. Then he's on the Man in the Yellow Hat's chest, being bumped up and down with the rhythm of the man's breaths. George has sweet dreams, his favorite kind, even if there's a strange thumping in the roof.
In the morning, George learns that thumping has a name. Caesar. Caesar, a king.
Caesar, the name floats in George's mind, and he needs to know more. So when Caesar finally comes down from the up-upstairs, George runs to him like a long lost friend. And it's lightning. George stops to gape, something not-quite there churning in his chest; when he sees green, green eyes, swirled gold and deep and almost sad, George knows. He wants-
"George wants to play," the Man in the Yellow Hat says reassuringly to Will's ape, Caesar now curled on Will's lap, unsure if he should go to George or not.
Does George want to play? George wants something.
George wants?
Play? the other chimp signs. And Will nods, sweet lips coaxing: George is just like you. Caesar looks to George, again with his sea green eyes, and George is lost; as for Caesar, kneel down, kneel down and wonder. Then it's Caesar tugging George along with little pant hoots, and George is still so struck until Caesar takes him up to the up-up stairs. And then he's just curious again. It's a room of toys, scattered boxes and flipped game boards, stuffed to the brim with far more than the Man in the Yellow Hat's ever allotted George.
But jealousy is not George. He's happy that there's so much to play with, and he thinks Caesar must be happy here, and that makes George happy. Downstairs, the men talk on, but it's no concern of the chimps. They tumble over Caesar's bed, a little hard and too bouncy for George, and Caesar tries to sign. He tries to tell George so many things- asks him where he's from, why yellow?, if his father makes him play chess too, but George only giggles.
George can't understand. Only Will and Charles, and sometimes Caroline, because that's Caesar's world. Then what's George's world? Caesar wants to know, but George can't say because George doesn't know. They jump on the bed. Then George swings over the little jungle gym Will's built, eager to touch everything in sight. He leaps over to the window and presses a nose to the glass, blowing raspberries at the man across.
Behind him, Caesar copies. But he can't see the appeal. George gets bored and comes back. He picks up a crayon and scribbles on the floor, circles and circles of green. Like Caesar's eyes. Then he goes for yellow, like the Yellow Hat and loops the crayon until it cracks. Then it's too much and he goes for Caesar. They topple with a thump that everyone must have heard, and roll, hooting and almost laughing. George lies over Caesar, fur warm and solid underneath. And he draws a sharp breath, but he doesn't dare peep.
George can't remember any other monkeys. Or chimps. Or apes. Maybe because he's never liked them much, even if he should. He balls his hands into fists and keeps them on the ground. He drinks in the other chimp's scent and the sprinkle of amber, feeling himself fall, struck into you, you, you. Caesar peeks at him, those eyes waiting- waiting for? But George doesn't move. So Caesar digs his fingers into George's fur, roaming gently and smoothing brown tangles. George is kindness, fun, and a spot of yellow.
But then the Man in the Yellow Hat calls out, "George!"
And Caesar's world is Will, Charles, and Caroline.
"We're leaving, right now," the Man in the Yellow Hat says, cheeks sickly, George's small hand in his, "we can't stay there. Will... Will's not a bad man, but he's not good, and you need to know this, George. People like that do things wrong and don't say sorry."
George turns around as they walk down the sidewalk, Will's house behind. He sees Will on the porch, a can of beer in his hand, looking cool and tired. Then George looks up and sees Caesar in the window, nose pressed to its glass, fingers tapping like he wants George to stay. And George isn't curious about them anymore because now he knows why Caesar's green is colored sad.
The Man in the Yellow Hat has left George the world, and Caesar has a gilded cage. He's stuck in there, with Will. Soon the Man in the Yellow Hat will tell him, tell him about how Will's love comes at a price, and how Caesar's paid it before he was even born. It makes the Man in the Yellow Hat sad, what Will's been doing with Caesar, and that makes George sad.
Except what Caesar sees from his window is not sadness; he sees George and the Man in the Yellow Hat leave, a spot of bright yellow beneath the trees, and he sees pity. George pities him. Then his green turns cold, and Caesar crawls away. And George hops to see him, but Caesar's no more. But life goes on for Curious George and the Man in the Yellow Hat. George never forgets the green, but he stops thinking of Caesar long before.
Until the Man in the Yellow Hat turns on the TV years later, and George is lying on the couch, twice the size he was before and still small as can be. Will's face comes up, and so does Charles, looking so much older and sadder. He's scared and wrinkled white. Except what the news really shows is Caesar. George gapes as he stares into that screeching face, not a trace of calm in Caesar's narrowed eyes. The Man in the Yellow Hat isn't surprised, not at all.
And beside him, George sinks into the couch, afternoon shadow falling over them. Shivering, he bares his fangs. As for Caesar, George only wonders.
It's mere days after Caesar sees Will Rodman for the last time, pulling him close and whispering a final promise- "Caesar is home"- a parting, a wish, that the flu sweeps the nation. It starts small, like a cold among children, with one or two in a sea of many; people sneezing and coughing, snot and tears and bits of blood. At first, it's an oddity, an inconvenient sick day for many. There are comic sketches on TV about it ("Honey, the kids are sick again!" "Oh, what else is new?"). Schools stop and children rejoice on their yellow buses home. For some, it's a much needed rest. For others, it's never waking up.
But it doesn't stop- the virus reaps through, plowing over everything in its way. And for the first time, the world panics. From Paris to Tokyo, Milan to Cairo. And it keeps going, and going, and going. Like a carousel of sirens and the promise of a bloody death.
For George, nothing happens all at once. The baker catches it first, this flu. And then the policeman. And then the lady in the elevator. Then professor Wiseman. Everyone's sneezing around him, tired, sad, like they're not them anymore. And somewhere in between, the Man in the Yellow Hat sees Will Rodman on TV? George sees Caesar? It's pure chaos on screen, destructive, a dumpster fire of man and ape. And he's never been more curious to know what happens next.
"Get rid of that thing!" is what the Man in the Yellow Hat hears for weeks on end. And George can only snuggle against one yellow sleeve, unsure, unsure.
George is one of them, the apes that started everything. But the Man in the Yellow Hat knows who really started the flu, and he knows it all comes back to people. People. People used to be kind, this George remembers. They used to smile at him, laugh with him, they were his friends. But he's lost so many friends now. And those left, they don't want to be his friend. And every time they glare at the Man in the Yellow Hat, when they try to knock his hat off in the street, when they try to throw rocks at George's back, it hurts.
George wants to know why. But the Man in the Yellow Hat doesn't let him out anymore. "Not safe," the man would say, stroking his head.
But it's okay because George has the Man in the Yellow Hat. George holds him when he cries, when the professor leaves them too. And then the Man in the Yellow Hat coughs, red dripping from his nose. When it happens to the Man in the Yellow Hat, everything stops for George. It all stops and halts, and for the first time, his sun sets. The Man in the Yellow Hat goes pale, his dark eyes bloodshot, his lips purple. He's agony and death, and George's only friend.
I love you, I love you, I love you, is what George wants to say, but he can only nuzzle the Man in the Yellow Hat, even without the hat because the man can only lie in bed now. And when it's just them, George doesn't care about anyone else anymore. He thinks back to the first time the Man in the Yellow Hat holds him in his arms, the first time he sees the city, falling off a tree and being caught by a yellow coat, being hugged when he has a stomachache, kisses on the nose, and that funny lovely voice going, "George!"
This is how the Man in the Yellow Hat dies, his head bare, coughing and rasping last words that nobody hears, his hand in George's. He tells George to be safe, to be good, and almost says, "I love you."
George doesn't leave the Man in the Yellow Hat until two days later, when his world starts spinning again. In the euphoria of grief, something changes inside him, pulling that undying curiosity back out. He's going to leave. George has nothing here, but he knows he has something there. So George kisses the man on the nose one last time, takes what remains of the yellow hat, and tucks it over his head.
He's gone in a day, making his way through the ruins of New York City, a single spot of yellow.
George treks across half the country to find Caesar. This is what he knows. He lives on scraps and memories and bits of knowledge as he paces the empty highways and crawls the barbed woods. Something in the air tells him things are different, for both of them. George can't put his finger on it, but he knows- feelings, things, everything he's never thought about plague his brain. Things he's never understood, they all make sense.
And he swears that he might have seen a speck of green in his own brown eyes.
It's years after Will Rodman and all that follows, when it starts raining over California. It's never rained so much before. The remains of civilization desperately work for their carbons and fumes, and their efforts go up in flames. The pollution turns skies grey and weather cold. And soon the woods are unrecognizable, with their thick dark leaves and wet showers, when once upon a time, they'd been specked with sunlight.
Caesar's tall, proud, sad. A new broken dignity in his eyes, masked with white bone paint and little red marks, when he stumbles over that bush. He holds the spear, hoots behind him.
"Intruder!" they sign, rough, violent, jumping to fight. Caesar looks to Koba's scarred scowl. Then Rocket's pursed lips. And Maurice, silent. They're waiting, and in the years between his awkward start and what happened after, he's used to this waiting. A cruel worship. Caesar looks down.
Huddled in the bear trap, he sees a mangy figure, fur tangled and shivering. Wide-eyed, scared- and something else. His heart skips a beat. On the newcomer's head, a spot of yellow, a hat muddied and grey, little rips and tears all over. And that face, Caesar realizes he's never forgotten. So he lets the spear down.
"George?" he says, the word guttural, low, and soft all the same.
It hits him like a freight train. George. As hypnotic as those green eyes. George. And curious George can't help but wonder, how? That voice was Caesar's. Not a hoot or pant- a voice, a word- he speaks. It jars George every time. And even after all these years, he still crumples at the sight of Caesar. He's grown, and George wonders if he has too- or maybe George has gotten smaller?
Caesar's clan takes him in. The orangutan teaches him to sign, and George is fast- he's always been fast, but this is new to him. He's learned before, but this is different- he knows now. The rest of them don't care too much for him; he's dumb, they'd tell Caesar, the past. The past? Is George the past? He doesn't know. He doesn't know how long it's been, how old he is. Caesar is different now, a king, what he's always been, and George, George supposes he's also what he's always meant to be, at Caesar's feet, gazing up.
But Caesar never leaves his side. He lets George stay in his makeshift hut, keeps him near when he hunts, picks his fleas. And he lets George keep the hat. The popping yellow calms him; it's a relic of the past, Caesar knows, but a past he and George share, of a time only they can know. George is a tether and reluctant as he is, Caesar loves him all the same. For George, it's a miracle, to be here with him once more. And now he can understand, he can sign, talk to Caesar.
This is their world now, and for a while, after all that time of grief and nobody, it's the happiest George has ever been.
When summer comes, he catches fireflies and blows them over Caesar's head. In their hunts, he crawls over rocks and cheers when the apes catch their goal. In winter, George sticks to Caesar's back, fur against fur as they tangle for warmth. There's sitting by the campfire and watching the gorillas argue. There's eating apples with Maurice and seeing Rocket try to tame his son. There's fishing with Blue Eyes. There's holding the baby chimps. But George's favorite is the time right after dusk, when Caesar goes for a walk in the woods. He lets George come along, and it's just them.
("Are you alright?") Caesar likes to ask as he signs.
("George likes it here.")
("We like you here too.")
Maybe it's what Caesar's always wanted to say. Maybe he's always wanted this too. George doesn't ask. He sees Caesar draw in the dirt once, a stick tracing the outline of his old window. And George blows a raspberry at him. Caesar almost laughs, and it makes George want to laugh. Then he takes off the hat and puts it on Caesar's head, angling it down just enough to cover one eye. George laughs.
That's George at his happiest. And at his saddest, he sits by a tree and watches the chimp named Cornelia rear her second son. She's kind to him, and that must be where this clenching guilt comes from. Because Caesar is hers, and when George sees them, with their sons, and their embraces, and soft little whispers, he can't help but wonder- did he miss his chance too long ago? His chance for what? When he lies by Caesar's side in the evening, the ape leader's arms around his wife, from winter to summer. He wonders, could it have been me?
Cornelia is gentle, wise, graceful, not like George. George knows he's small, clumsy, too eager to try and not afraid enough to fail. He's the one who fell into their bear trap twice, who let that hut of sticks topple over Luca, who almost set fire to the whole camp. He can't hunt and he can't fight; all he really does is play, he knows, so then why does Caesar keep him there?
He knows the ape named Koba wonders too. He thinks of Koba when he's scared, clutching the yellow hat, pretending the man is there. Koba stares at him when he's with Caesar and sometimes when he's not, a glare that says, "leave." Koba's scars and cruelty, sadder than anyone George has ever seen, angrier. And one night, after a mistake too many, Koba drags him by the collar and pins him to a tree.
"George useless!" he'd snarled, "why keep you!?"
And George had tried to run, but Koba's strong.
"And this!" Koba had grabbed the hat, sunk his teeth into its edge, "human thing, is George human or ape!?"
"Koba, let go!"
Caesar. And seething, Koba had no choice. George remembers the final glare, almost a promise of murder as Koba left. Then there was Caesar, by his side and holding him as George shook and maybe cried. Why keep you. But George is not dumb- he knows Koba wanted to ask, "why Caesar keep you?" Because now George knows, Koba sees him the way he sees Cornelia.
("You want him too.") George signs the next time he sees Koba.
And for a while, Koba doesn't bother him again.
George tries to contribute to the clan; he owes them that much. And the gears in his brain turn again, much like they did in childhood, when idea would crawl over idea, but it all makes sense now and he can understand it all. The little inventions work first, swings for the children, arrows for their hunts. It makes Caesar proud, and that's enough for George. Then he wonders what they can do with the spears, if they build a cannon and harpoon from above. This in mind, George climbs the tallest tree, and sticks a spear in branch after branch.
But he thinks too much, and George slips. Fur scrapes bark and in a yelp, he's down. And down, it's warm, soft, firm. Caesar catches him and they topple together. And it all goes wrong. Blue Eyes runs to them first, then Koba, and Luca.
Dizzy, George looks into sky blue eyes, sad like the father but not quite the same.
("Alright?") the young chimp asks, and George nods. Then he turns and Koba's hooting, loud. Caesar sits up with a sharp gasp. The spear's come down too, and it's left a slice in Caesar's hip, red and raw, almost like Blue Eyes' scars. George feels his eyes go wide. That's blood he sees, and he's next to Caesar in an instant, panting and panting. Caesar bleeds? He bleeds? It shouldn't shock George, but it does; red seeps black and the smaller chimp blanches, thinking back to Will's sudden words- George is just like you. Caesar's just like him, all of them.
"Go!" Koba growls, shoving George aside.
And George does.
It's much later in the day when Blue Eyes finds him and tells him ("father's fine, he asks for you") that George returns, head bowed under the yellow hat. The wound taped with leaves, Caesar sees him and his green eyes smile.
"Not your fault," the chimp says, genuine, "stay."
So George does. But he's sorry, so so sorry. He never wanted to hurt Caesar, would never think of such a thing. But he doesn't see forgiveness in those eyes, because Caesar never saw any blame. And then, George learns something new- he doesn't want Caesar for his burning eyes, doesn't want his low soft voice, not his handsome shape, not for whatever connects him the Man in the Yellow Hat. He wants him because he's kind.
George is in awe because Caesar's kind, not just nice. Because despite everything and how sad he is, Caesar is kind and wise, and George never wants to leave him again.
But that doesn't stop Koba from throttling George in the night, near choking him as he rasps, "You hurt Caesar again," And that lone glare, "I hurt George worse."
If things were different, maybe it would be George saying that to Koba and not the other way around. But the thing about George is that he's kind like Caesar, and Koba isn't.
Koba's the one that hurts Caesar next. Badly. Very badly, as much as George is concerned. He's never liked Koba, but he knows the rest of them did, Caesar especially. Because Koba was broken and Caesar wasn't quite broken, and he thought he could save Koba. But Caesar's like the rest of them, and now George realizes, maybe too proud, maybe he did think himself as high and mighty as the rest of them did. And like that, he couldn't save Koba. Nobody could.
But Koba hurt himself most and now he's gone. But it's not just the bullet hole left in Caesar's shoulder. It's the war that follows, and the apes that leave, and all the doubt and anger, and death, and everything Caesar never wanted. And for George, it feels like Caesar never stops bleeding.
The chimp is different after that- more silent, but George knows Caesar's always been silent- less proud, guilty, dazed. He's slower, weaker; cracked. It's barely noticeable, but for George, so obvious it pulls his chest. It reminds him of the Man in the Yellow Hat and his final days, the yellow hat off his head. The man's not the same without his hat. And Caesar's not the same since the war. He's withdrawn, and George can only be George.
("Caesar fine?") George would ask, and he knows the answer is "no" but Caesar smiles and says "yes" anyway.
Then he leans forward, a bloodied stitch tearing ever slightly along his shoulder, and lifts the brim of George's yellow hat. Green, and George is lost.
Caesar never talks to George about the war or his plans after. He still looks at the fireflies with him. He likes to sit and watch George climb the high trees, because George still looks young. When the rest of them start to grey, George stays dark, not a wrinkle in sight. Caesar hunches more, feels his limb ache. And in the dead of night, his shoulder still throbs. Especially before the rains, and somehow George knows.
George knows Caesar's always been like everyone else. He hurts and scars and aches. And he pretends he's all fine. Which isn't fine for George. Maybe he'd never wanted to worship at Caesar's feet- maybe he was wrong. George thinks, sometimes he'd like to hold Caesar the way that yellow coat held him, and keep Caesar from falling apart more. Because Caesar's crumpling, and the only thing George can do is what he's always done.
George makes him laugh. So George trips over twigs and sticks honey on his head. And when the bees chase them away, Rocket- his head all swollen- hoots at them for three days straight, but Caesar smiles and that's enough for George.
George never wanted Cornelia or Blue Eyes gone. But now they are. And Cornelius is in Lake's arms; Caesar's fury and vengeance, tragedy rolled in one. ("Like him") Maurice signs to George, like Koba. Because Caesar wasn't quite so broken and now they wonder if he already is. Caesar's cried enough; George can see it in the dark hollows under his eyes, the deepness of his brow, the wrinkles and fading fur. He looks nothing like the chimp back in Will Rodman's home, and still the same; his green used to be sad, and now, George sees death.
But this isn't like saying goodbye to Will, or the Man in the Yellow Hat. A flu took them away. A man took Cornelia and Blue Eyes, and so many more. The Colonel, a man George has never seen. And still, George remembers- humans used to be kind. This, he can't forget and somewhere deep down, Caesar can't either.
"George," Caesar tells him, high on his horse, and low all the same, "stay here with Lake."
His voice has changed over time, but it's only now that George notices. It's smoother, cooler, a little more human. But that's the thing- it's cold, and Caesar's never been that cold. So George knows he can't stay. The smaller chimp clutches his hat and hops on the horse instead. Some apes can't help laughing, but George doesn't care. He grapples with Caesar when the leader tries to buck him off. It's the closest thing they've ever had to a fight.
In the end, Caesar throws him off and George lands with a hard thud. Caesar follows, punches him once, George tasting blood and bruise. Then Caesar rolls off, twitching and trembling. And they stare. George lies there and looks at him- go, and I'll follow, George isn't Koba. Caesar pulls him up, gentle like he used to be. George doesn't hold his palm up; George has never done that.
Then they're on the road, Maurice, Rocket, and Luca right behind. George sits behind Caesar, hidden by his yellow hat, nose a little swollen as he digs himself in Caesar's back.
It's miles of silence and stretching time before Caesar says, "I'm sorry, George."
("Bad Ape is like George") Rocket jokes, and he's not half wrong.
The elder chimp really does act like George, right down to the wool hat. But George is braver, or maybe Caesar's biased. He doesn't know anymore. "I don't know," is a phrase Caesar's become quite fond of. It's a waking nightmare he's found himself in, and some ugly part of him doesn't want respite. The pain keeps him going; fear and anger and that primordial lust for blood. In some way he's never considered, it feels good.
And to his horror, Caesar wonders if Koba once felt the same way.
Then who is Caesar? If he's Koba? He doesn't want to think on this as they cross snow and miles more. But behind him, Maurice stays Maurice. And George stays George. He doesn't think on the girl with blonde hair. Something shines in her, something that reminds him of all he's lost. He's still trying not to think when they pass what remains of the beach. It's a strange area they're in, a bank where the snow doesn't touch.
They set camp in a cramped cave, Rocket snoring as soon as he can. Luca holds the girl, and Bad Ape's all too happy to help. Maurice goes scouting, and when the sun sets, George follows Caesar towards the sea. The other chimp's standing on thin ice, glaring or staring at reflections of pink clouds- it's hard to tell if Caesar glares now. George can't make him laugh anymore so the chimp does the next best thing. He comes up from behind and puts his arms around Caesar's waist.
"George, not now," Caesar says, weary. But he doesn't move away.
("No, Caesar now.") George signs.
Then they're in the sand, pushing and pushing, and it's what they've both wanted from so long ago in Will's attic. Not like this, George thinks. But this is the way it happens, and he doesn't stop. He clings to Caesar, gingerly hooting into the other chimp's ear; he ruffles Caesar's fur with gentle strokes and prods his nose. Caesar pulls George to his chest, and his breath is on George's cheek. They turn and roll in the sand, feeling the grains between paws.
Once, a long time ago, Caesar sits on the beach, cradled in Will's lap. Will's nose is burnt pink and his sunglasses gleam. Caroline laughs next to them, sunscreen smothered over her shoulders. And Charles sips from a can of coke. There's sand between all their feet, and pictures are snapped of Will and Caesar. It smells like barbecued meat and sea salt; the sound of rolling waves and salty winds. Caesar grins because it's all so new.
And all he knows is that he's loved and happy.
And for a moment now, Caesar's loved and happy. He lets George kiss him and press against. They tumble some more, pretending the sun is warm and the sand's not cold. It's warm between them and that's enough. Caesar kisses back, almost snapping down on George's lip. George doesn't mind. He's his and he's his, and that's enough.
"Friends having fun?" Bad Ape pipes in. And the moment's ruined.
George thinks back to that moment on the beach many more times. Caesar never mentions it again; he lets the pleasure come and leave, but for George, something lingers and he wants it back. But that time's gone. It's only snow and blood that's left. Because after all their efforts to keep Caesar strong, he falls anyway. But Caesar's happy now at least, not so broken, and his green lights up.
George doesn't like to think about what happened in the Colonel's camp, and he's glad he didn't see what Bad Ape saw. But it's enough just looking at Caesar now, even though they're safe and the humans are gone. Gone? George wonders if they are. They used to be kind, he thinks, maybe they can be again? Cornelius sits in front of Caesar, and George behind, and the horse moves on. All the horses and all the apes. Except Luca's gone, and that still aches.
But George can't help but see the rise and fall of Caesar's rib cage, how slow and heaved. Even under his dark fur, George can see the streaks of blood and dirtied wounds. When Caesar turns around, it's a split lip and bleeding gash. George tries to smile at him, but it's hard; Caesar's pale, a little gaunter, like he's almost dead. Caesar doesn't feel weak; he's stronger than he's been in a long time and the ape leader smiles. It's enough for George.
And then, much later, when George is holding Nova's hand and watching Cornelius scamper, he hears Rocket screech. Maurice is crying, and Caesar's in his arms, a little too still, and a little too hurt.
"What of Caesar?" is something everyone asks but Caesar. This, George knows. It's always been this way.
Caesar's too weak to say anything more, and as he lies against Maurice with half-lidded eyes, looks to George and nods. There's a smile in his green eyes, sad and broken, but hopeful in its gaze. George clutches his hand and presses it to his own chest, only now seeing the blood clumped in Caesar's side, a dark puncture ripped into skin. It still bleeds, and George hates it.
Maybe it's supposed to be this way, George thinks. Caesar's selfless and sad and just kind, so it's just like him to do this; he'd rather take all this pain than let a drop touch them. But even Caesar's body can't take this much hurt. And they all know it's over here.
George feels the last of Caesar's warmth, trying to remember that day by the beach. He thinks of the color of crayons and Caesar's face in the window, and the first time he saw those eyes. Caesar doesn't wake up. But George doesn't move. George stays until the end, through all the shouts and pants and sobs. And he wipes that little trickle of salt from Caesar's tired eye, slipped shut and cold.
Caesar looks asleep, a trace of a smile on his mouth, and George runs a thumb over his lips. Caesar never wakes up. Kneel down and wonder. Because at the end of it all, George is still in awe at all that was Caesar and struck with his beautiful green. And maybe, George thinks, that's enough for him. After everything, it comes back to this and George wants it no other way. To be by Caesar's side is enough.
Later, Rocket asks him what he wants to do. George had been Caesar's favorite, and nobody really knew why. For many, George is a troublemaker, clumsy and popping, and better off without them. In the end, Maurice asks- really asks- him, "Why George stay?"
And George, eyes round and bright, in his dirty hat yellower than Nova's hair, signs back, "Why George stay?" The little chimp grins. "George stays, to make Caesar happy."
"Caesar happy." And he points at himself, thumping his small chest and its graying hairs, "George happy."
George happy, comes out like a croak, barely strung together and a far cry from Caesar's voice. But it feels good to say and it's a simple truth; Caesar had no use for George, and George knew this from the start. George kept Caesar happy, and that itself was enough to keep George happy.
That said, George takes the hat from his head. It's much paler now, worn and used, and a little ripped. Then he puts it on Nova's head, because the hat's meant for a human, and George can't see anyone kinder than the human standing before him. He thinks about leaving then, maybe going back to New York and joining his man without his hat, but this is Caesar's clan. And that's enough for George to stay.
"George stay," Maurice says, understanding.
It's a poignant sight, the two of them in a crowd of apes, one orange and large and covered in grief, the other small and hunched and all grown up.