Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cream clouds are nestled into place upon the horizon when George and Arthur arrive at their campsite, sweaty and exhausted. The deep pink of the sunset is hidden behind them. George watches in awe as the sun’s weakening rays attempt to break through the clouds but somewhat fail to do so, casting a soft glow up around the edges of them instead, a warmth which spills out across the sky like blushing honey. It’s some of the most ridiculously beautiful shit George has ever seen in his life. He could cry. It’s outrageous. 

“Mate,” Arthur breathes at his side, and then he’s silent again.

“Yeah,” George agrees.

They haven’t even put their backpacks down. Haven’t chosen a spot to pitch their tents. They’ve both been standing on the far edge of the trail which overlooks the valley below them, transfixed, for the past five minutes. Not a word shared between them until just now. Awestruck, because neither of them believe in God but He appears to be winding His fingers through the clouds before their very eyes, weaving an ethereal web of colour and light.

Hiking has always been one of George’s favourite activities in the world. A moment like this only solidifies that.

“Should we take a photo so Chris and Bach believe us when we tell them?” Arthur asks.

“Probably,” George replies, but doesn’t move to grab his phone. He looks over at Arthur. His friend’s skin is golden, cheeks rosy from the exertion of their hike and the slight bite of the evening air, and he’s beaming from ear to ear.

Then, suddenly, Arthur’s smile drops and his eyes glint. He looks at George. “Oh, the camera!”

Arthur then throws his bag from his shoulders and begins rifling through a side pocket for the reusable film camera they’d brought. Allegedly, it is better to capture beautiful things in a way that feels more authentic than just snapping a picture on an iPhone. It had been Isaac’s proposition, so Liv’s idea and also Liv’s camera, but since he and Chris were only available to join on the weekend and not the Friday on which George and Arthur had planned to begin their hike, Isaac had entrusted Arthur with said camera for the first twenty-four hours. A questionable decision to make, considering the camera is presently giving Arthur a hard time as he attempts to wind the film.

George gives it a second, just so he can watch the struggle and laugh quietly to himself, but Arthur looks genuinely frustrated, so he sticks his hand out. “Give it. I’ll do it.”

Arthur groans but relents, accepting defeat. George takes the camera, focuses it on Arthur’s now frowning face, and snaps a photo. A grin works its way across Arthur’s mouth. He quirks an eyebrow. “Stop, George.”

George giggles, winds the camera and snaps again.

“You’re wasting film on me,” Arthur laughs. He reaches out to try and grab it back but George leaps out of the way and snaps yet another picture, this one likely blurry and unfocused, but he’d take a thousand more shit photos if it earned him more of Arthur’s laughter.

“You moron. You’re literally missing the sunset. It’s not going to look as insane in, like, five minutes.”

“This is such a shame.” George takes another photo. Arthur lunges for him. This time George is not quick enough and Arthur is successful in snatching the camera back. He fiddles with it, turning it over in his hands. “Influencers are all the same these days,” George huffs, sarcasm ripe in his tone. “Just live in the moment, man. Candidly. You don’t need to document everything.”

Arthur dutifully ignores him but George watches his lip twitch in amusement as he raises the viewfinder to his eye and angles the lens towards the skyline.

“Wow. It’s somehow gotten even better, George, look. Oh my goodness. The colours are mental. These photos aren’t going to do it justice at all.”

For a brief but terrifying moment there on the edge of a mountain beneath an extraordinary sunset, where the air is crisp and clear and George feels lighter than he’s felt for months, he finds that he can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from the side of Arthur’s face.

When he thinks of the reason why, something sinks a little in his stomach, and aches. He wills it deep down where it belongs, to hopefully never surface.

And then he turns back to the clouds.

Later, they set up their tents.

Arthur’s is tiny, meant for one person, easy to put up by himself. George’s is a bit bigger, a gift from his parents, and just as easy to put up, but Arthur insists on helping him anyway.

It isn’t really an official campsite, where they’ve chosen, but it’s a flat enough grassy area and there’s no one else about. George picks a spot by a tree, a few feet from Arthur’s tent, and begins connecting tent poles.

Arthur grabs the tent itself and shakes it out. Almost immediately, George hears a great tearing sound and the snap of a branch. Arthur gasps. Looks absolutely horrified, mouth hanging ajar, expression guilty as hell. 

George bursts out into uncontrollable laughter. 

“George. I am so, so sorry. Oh my goodness. It snagged on the tree. This is new, isn’t it? I’m so sorry. Shit.”

George wants to reassure him that it’s fine, but he can’t seem to stop giggling. 

He couldn’t care less about the tent. He can buy a new one when he gets back. The mortified look on Arthur’s face is priceless. Definitely worth it.

“George seriously, stop laughing.”

George can’t stop laughing.

Arthur chews on his bottom lip. A smile breaks through despite his attempt at solemnity. Then a chuckle. And then they’re both laughing hysterically, the broken tent abandoned at their feet. 

George grabs Arthur’s arm to steady himself, leaning into him. “Of course you rip my tent on the first night into a three day hike,” he giggles.

“I’m genuinely so sorry,” Arthur says through more laughter, but he doesn’t sound very sorry anymore. 

The sky is a deep grey. More clouds have rolled overhead, concealing the stars and the rising moon. It’s not quite dark yet, but the cloud cover is making everything dimmer.

“I need a drink,” Arthur gasps, hands on his knees to catch his breath as the laughter finally trickles off. “Effective immediately.”

George snorts. “You have a drink then. I’m going to finish putting up my tent so I actually have somewhere to sleep tonight.”

“You can just sleep in my tent, you know?” Arthur says, already heading back over to where his backpack is, kneeling down to rifle through it.

“Yeah, no chance, mate,” George replies, because that sounds like it could be the worst idea in the world, judging by how small Arthur’s tent is, and for so many additional reasons that George would rather ignore completely than begin to unpack ever. “I’m sure I’ll live. It’s not that huge of a tear.”

Arthur gestures to the sky, where the clouds are growing darker, dense and foreboding. “Unless it rains.”

George scoffs and waves a dismissive hand. “It won’t rain.”

It does rain. It pours, actually, and the rip in George’s tent just so happens to be exactly above his head. It’s a slow drip at first, as it soaks into the sheer tent cover and leaks gradually through the Arthur-inflicted hole, but then the drip becomes torrential, and George simply can’t roll over and put up with it any longer.

When he emerges from his tent at around midnight, damp and still relatively tipsy, the air smells fresh and clean. Earthy in that way it does when it rains in the countryside. There’s a word for it, that smell, but George can’t quite put his finger on it. It’s such a welcome change from London’s stuffy smog that he can’t even find it in himself to be upset about being a tad wet. Using his phone as a torch and his sleeping bag as a makeshift umbrella, backpack hoisted up on one shoulder, he ambles towards Arthur’s tent.

Arthur is crawling out into the rain before George has even reached him. He grins at George through the darkness, wonky and still slightly guilty, illuminated only by George’s phone light.

“I knew you’d try and put up with it. I was going to come and tell you you’re an idiot and force you to sleep with me.”

George snorts despite the nerves that flutter in his stomach at the thought of sharing any amount of personal space with Arthur. The unintentional double entendre doesn’t help.

“You don’t have to force me, poppet, you can just ask.”

Arthur smacks him on the shoulder when they’re close enough to touch, and George laughs it off like he laughs off most things that make him uncomfortable, and follows Arthur into his tent.

“You’re a bit wet,” Arthur complains when they’re lying shoulder-to-shoulder. There’s really not much room in here. George can hear both their breathing as if they’re the only two people in the universe. Up here in the mountains, they just might be.

“Can’t help it when I’m around you, darling.”

George internally cringes at himself but Arthur lets out a huff of amusement.

“Gross. I’ll kick you out into the rain.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t. You love me too much.”

Arthur sighs dramatically, rolls over so his chin is pressed to George’s shoulder. George’s traitorous heart skips a beat. He can feel Arthur’s breath against his neck, warm and intimate.

“I do love you, Georgie. But I’d love you so much more if you’d be quiet so I can get some sleep.”

George slaps a hand to his heart, feigning offence.

“Ouch. That’s rich coming from a chronic yapper.” 

But Arthur doesn’t reply, instead flinging his arm out over George’s stomach and shifting even closer. It’s a shock to George’s system, the sudden contact, and he tries not to jolt and make a big thing of it. Arthur touches him a lot, in general, in life. They’ve been this close countless times, by choice, not because they have to be. They’ve shared George’s queen-sized bed before, drunk after a night out, but this just feels different. Less room to breathe, unable to move without touching in some way. It’s private. Like if George’s roommates were around, he’d feel the need to hide it from them. It shouldn’t be like that. It’s not as if they have much of a choice here. The tent is only big enough to fit a single mattress, after all.

But the arm around George, a solid and warm weight, Arthur’s fingers winding into his t-shirt…

It might all be too much. It might be the end of him.

“What’s the word for the smell of rain?” George rushes out, quiet but quick, something to stifle his thoughts before they overwhelm him.

“Petrichor,” Arthur responds without missing a beat, his voice low but not quite a whisper. “It’s the word they use to describe the scent of rain falling onto dry soil. That’s why it doesn’t smell the same in the city. Why London is so miserable when it rains. It’s lovely out here, though. Makes me miss Jersey.”

George hums, low and thoughtful. His head feels light, all floaty, like it’s filled with helium. “Yeah. Petrichor, that’s it.”

Then they’re both silent again.

George’s arm is going numb where Arthur is leaning on it. He slips it up and behind Arthur’s shoulders instead, pulling him further into his side. If he’s going to suffer like this all night, he may as well suffer comfortably. He watches Arthur’s head rise and fall with the movement of his chest until he feels motion-sick and has to squeeze his eyes shut.

Fleetingly, George wishes he didn’t have lungs, or a heart, or that none of those organs were so damn loud beneath layers of flesh and skin. Maybe then there wouldn’t be the terrifying possibility of Arthur hearing through his ribcage all the feelings that he isn’t yet ready to share.

Morning comes and George can’t recall ever having fallen asleep.

He knows he had to have drifted off at some point, or else he’d be feeling a lot more like death. He also would have never consciously allowed himself to shift into the position he now finds himself in.

Somehow, he’s wound up on his side, Arthur’s back pressed to his stomach, like they’re spooning.

Well. Not like they’re spooning; they are spooning.

George tries to move back and away but forgets he’s in a tent the size of a small bathtub, so he only succeeds in jostling Arthur violently as his shoulder rebounds off the canvas wall. Arthur stirs. To George’s alarm, he presses back against him, and George is sporting the most inconvenient morning wood of his life – he’s only human – so he twists around onto his back like he’s been electrocuted, horrified, and closes his eyes. Maybe, if he pretends to still be asleep, Arthur won’t think he’s a freak and never want to speak to him again. Maybe, if the universe favours him this morning and Arthur wakes in a forgiving mood, he won’t be labelled a sex offender for the rest of his life by his best mate.

“Morning,” George hears from beside him, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Arthur yawns. George feels him stretch his arms above his head. “Shitting hell, my back might be broken. Did you sleep okay?”

Since Arthur hasn’t brought it up, he either didn’t notice the position they were in, or he’s faking ignorance. George prays it is the former, but he’ll go along with it either way. 

“Well, I’m not pushing forty-seven, so I personally feel young and spritely,” George says rather flatly. There’s no use in pretending he’s not awake. Arthur is speaking directly to him, like he knows.

“Uncalled for. It’s eight A.M. No mean jokes before ten.”

“You set me up for that one, that’s your own fault.” 

George’s hands are shaking. Marginally traumatised and still petrified that Arthur will notice something off about this whole situation, if he hasn’t already, he sits up.

“Touché,” Arthur says, watching him. George tries not to stare back. He fails. His gaze lingers on Arthur’s hair, dark and unruly, and his puffy eyes, cheeks still pink from sleep and the heat of the inside of this goddamn tent, which is surprisingly well-insulated for what it is. Arthur clocks his stare and smiles at him. His eyes look like they’re all the way closed. His face looks like it’s glowing. It’s adoring, radiant. George feels sick with the realisation that he can’t be the only one Arthur has looked at like this, although it’s nicer to imagine that it’s a smile reserved only for him.

Now that he thinks about it, actually, it is far too hot in here. George looks away, reaches out to unzip the tent. He needs to escape. He also needs to take a piss. That’s a decent excuse for such an abrupt departure, he reasons with himself.

“It’s not raining anymore,” he announces as he emerges out onto the grass. It’s wet underfoot. George had removed his soggy socks after trekking the short distance to Arthur’s tent last night. His bare feet squelch against the soil. He grimaces at the feeling. “Weather actually looks nice, to be fair.”

“Really?” Arthur calls.

“Mh hm, big time.”

Arthur pokes his head out of the tent opening. “We should pack up and get going, then.”

George tries not to make eye contact. He toes at the ground. “Yeah, just let me go have a wee.”

“I’m not stopping you. Don’t need to announce it.”

He’s joking, clearly, but George still blushes as he walks away.

When he returns from behind the nearby trees, Arthur is dressed for the day and standing next to his tent, looking out at the same view they’d both admired yesterday. And it’s not any less stunning. The sun’s rays are gentle, as it’s still quite early, and the sky is mostly blue, save for a couple of white wisps of cloud. The visibility is great; George thinks he could see for miles if he tried, but for now his eyes are drawn to what is in the foreground.

It appears to George that Arthur has attempted to fix his hair – with a comb or with his fingers, it is unclear which – but the few strands that still fly out haphazardly are glowing, lit up by the sunshine. Like a soft, golden halo above his head. Arthur’s back is to him, so George allows himself a moment to stare without judgement.

“We should take some more photos with the film camera,” Arthur says out of nowhere, and George starts, not expecting his presence to be detected from so far away.

“You took about eighty-three of the sunset last night,” he replies, strolling over to stand beside Arthur.

“I only took five, and you wasted three on me,” Arthur rectifies. “And it was absolutely worth it. Bach will be proud of us.”

George scoffs good-naturedly. “Whatever you say, man.”

Despite the lightness of the conversation, fear simmers in his veins, creeps up his spine and winds around his neck; the silent killer. He’d rather the photos he took of Arthur never see the light of day, if he can help it, but he knows that isn’t possible, because they’re on Isaac’s camera, so Isaac will see them when he or Liv gets them developed, and then, by extension, everyone else will see them when they are inevitably shared around. 

It’s not that Isaac will be mad at George for wasting film, or that anyone will think they’re bad photos. He’s just afraid they might give too much away. Like when he aimed the lens and pressed the button, it was no longer just a photograph. It was a snapshot in time; a perspective of Arthur through George’s eyes. Raw and personal.

And George knows he’s overthinking it, but the anxiety of being exposed aches in his bones all the same.

Chapter Text

Just as planned, at around five that afternoon, George and Arthur meet up with Chris and Isaac at the campsite adjacent to an entry point to the trail they’re on.

Isaac waves at them as they approach. He looks like he’s doing most of the heavy lifting, holding a shopping bag in one hand which undoubtedly contains alcohol or food of some description. Chris grins and skips up to them, making Arthur laugh, and throws himself at him, oversized backpack and all, almost toppling Arthur right over into the dirt.

Arthur shouts and staggers in place, but he regains his balance, clutching at Chris’ legs, which he wraps around Arthur’s hips. 

“You moron, what are you doing?” Arthur shrieks.

“Beady-eyed twat,” Chris says in response, slightly out of breath from the physical exertion of climbing Arthur like a tree. George watches them and feels guilty for the pang of jealousy in his chest. It’s senseless, he knows. There’s nothing to even be jealous about. Even if there was, George wouldn’t have the right to be. 

“Are you drunk already?” Arthur asks.

Chris cackles, which is answer enough, and Arthur puts him down. In spite of how he appears with all his awkward, lanky limbs, Arthur is surprisingly strong. Chris might be pocket-sized but he isn’t all that light. George knows, from personal experience. 

That stupid thought helps ease some of the jealousy. George is just as touchy with Chris, if not more than Arthur is. They live together, after all. 

George shakes his head, partly to express his faux-disapproval of Arthur and Chris’ exchange, but perhaps mostly to shake some sense back into himself.

“That is fucked up, I’m going home,” Isaac announces, in solidarity.

“Don’t you dare leave,” Arthur says, and he comes over to Isaac, throws an arm around his shoulders. “Bach, I missed you more than Chris.”

“What the fuck?” Chris snaps.

Isaac sighs. “All right, I’ll stay, if you insist.”

George snorts. He offers a hand out to Isaac to take the shopping bag.

“Can I help?”

“You worry about yourself, princess,” Isaac replies in a deep, vaguely northern accent, hoisting the bag up onto his shoulder and using his spare arm to peel Arthur off him. “Sorry about the state he’s in,” he adds, cocking his head towards Chris, who shoots him a look of great indignation. “We were at the pub before we got here.”

“You pregamed hiking?” George says, incredulous.

“We aren’t technically hiking until tomorrow morning,” Chris defends.

“Did you get me the meal deal I asked you for?” Arthur asks Isaac, effectively changing the subject.

Isaac winks at him. “I have enough food to feed a family of ten in this bag. And enough alcohol to take out a small village, I fear.”

George, Arthur and Chris all laugh, and they start to make their way towards camp together.

The campsite they’re staying at tonight is borderline luxurious compared to George and Arthur’s waterlogged patch of grass they’d shared the night prior. This one actually has a small bathroom with showers only a short walk away. 

They all have a lukewarm beer or two then get to work setting up camp. Almost immediately after pitching their own two tents, Isaac and Arthur make the collective and almost eerily telepathic decision to go and shower at the same time, leaving George and Chris alone.

“So you don’t have a tent then?” Chris asks in passing. George is helping him with his tent – it is, ironically, the largest and most complicated to assemble of the bunch. George politely holds back on the onslaught of height-related puns that he has formulated over the past few minutes.

“Not anymore,” he scoffs in response. “Arthur murdered it.”

“So you slept in his tent last night?”

“Yeah,” George says, keeping his gaze firmly to the tent pole he’s pretending to be struggling with.

Chris doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds too long. George looks up. He meets Chris’ eye. Chris is giving him this look, one that makes George feel the compelling urge to curl up and die, like a slug in salt or something equally as pathetic.

“What?” he snaps.

“Nothing,” Chris replies, voice bordering on high-pitched, meaning it’s definitely not nothing. “Mine’s huge, is all, so you’ll probably be more comfortable staying in with me tonight.”

“Oh. Yeah. True.” 

It's the most logical solution. It also sounds like the worst idea ever. Unfortunately, George’s brain when it’s focused on Arthur is anything but logical. Which is, like, at least ninety percent of the time as of late.

Chris hums. Keeps staring at George for a second too long, then finally looks away. George’s lungs release all the air they’d been keeping hostage against his will.

“If you like him like that, you should just tell him.”

George drops the poles he’d just managed to join and they spring apart, bounce off the grass and clatter against each other.

“What the fuck?”

Chris shrugs, still looking away. “I’m just saying.”

George’s heart races. “That’s so weird, mate.” 

“What’s weird? That I know? He hasn’t said anything to me, for the record.”

“No,” George says, exasperated, and marginally terrified. “It’s weird that you’d even say something like that, because it isn’t true, and I don’t know where you’re even pulling it from, to be honest.”

“Oh. Well. Sorry.” Chris doesn’t look very sorry. In fact, there is a twinkle in his eye which is far too mischievous and smug for George’s liking, like somehow this conversation has confirmed something for him, but it is the exact opposite of what George is intending to convey. Like maybe George was too defensive, and maybe Chris is more observant than he seems. “I must have read the situation wrong, then.” 

George shrugs, backing down a bit. Chris doesn’t seem bothered by what he’s implying. In fact, it feels oddly like he’s encouraging it. Like he wants it to happen. Like he approves.

This is all so weird. George regrets everything he has ever said or done that has led to this moment in time.

“You must have,” George says quietly. Chris is looking at him now like he feels guilty for bringing it up, but also a bit like George is an idiot for denying it. And maybe he is an idiot. Maybe he’s being dramatic and it really isn’t that big of a deal, and he should just talk about it with his best mate instead of continuing to let it eat him alive.

A soft gust of wind carries with it a chill that cools George’s heated cheeks. He breathes it in deep. Exhales. Then says, “I mean. Is it really that obvious? Like, did you figure it out yourself?”

Chris’ eyebrows fly up, like he hadn’t been expecting that. Like he wants to shout and make a big thing of it all but he’s holding back for George’s sake. “Honestly, with the way you look at him, I’m surprised everyone else hasn’t, too. I’m surprised Arthur hasn’t.”

George sniffs. “He really hasn’t said anything to you?”

“No.” Chris winces a bit. “Sorry, mate.”

It’s as if he feels sorry for George. As if George would rather have heard that Arthur is secretly in love with him, too. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, that Arthur doesn’t feel the same. George has never expected anything from Arthur. The fact that George’s feelings are so obvious and Arthur still hasn’t shied away is more than George could ever ask for.

The faint sound of laughter drifts closer from afar. George leans down to retrieve the abandoned poles at his feet. They’re almost done with the tent. George feels stressed, but like a significant burden has been lifted. He feels ten pounds lighter now that he has somebody to help him carry it.

“Don’t say anything?” he asks quietly.

Chris shoots him a lopsided smile. “Of course not.”

Isaac and Arthur reach them, both freshly showered. Isaac makes a beeline for the alcohol bag. Arthur makes a beeline for George.

“Woah, Chris, are you overcompensating for something?” he teases, sliding a casual arm around George’s waist and gesturing to Chris’ tent with the other. George freezes up instantly. Chris looks like he’s holding in a shit with the sheer amount of concentration that he seems to be putting into not reacting to this exchange. George wants to hit him over the head with something hard.

“Penis size and tent size actually have a strong positive correlation,” Chris gets out, pinning down the last corner of the tent cover. Arthur giggles at that. George feels his ribs flex against his side.

“Shall we do a shot to celebrate?” Isaac suggests, brandishing a bottle of Southern Comfort in the air like it’s a trophy.

“Celebrate what?” Chris asks.

Isaac stares across at Arthur. Arthur shrugs, staring back. Then he turns to look up at George. His hair is wet and messy. He smells like sandalwood soap and Head & Shoulders 2-in-1.

“Me and George surviving the night, I guess.”

George has no idea why that is worthy of celebration, but neither Isaac nor Chris seem to have an issue with it. Isaac free-pours the shots into four paper cups and they raise them together in a circle.

George’s “cheers” gets stuck in his throat. The liqueur burns going down.

They get reasonably battered. Or, as battered as they can effectively get with only limited access to alcohol. George has always been a heavy-weight, but after several more shots and a six-pack of beers to himself, his head feels all floaty, like his mind is drifting somewhere far above everyone else’s. Like it isn’t his own anymore.

Isaac and George are the only ones left awake by the end of the night, cross-legged on a picnic blanket by the campfire they built earlier. Arthur and Chris both called it quits half an hour ago and retreated into their respective tents to sleep.

George is drawing patterns into the dirt with a stick. He stares into the embers of the dwindling fire. The intense orange burns spots across his vision. It makes him feel even more detached from his body, like now his eyes aren’t his own, either. It hurts a bit but he doesn’t look away.

They have plenty of kindling left to keep it fuelled but neither of them are feeding it. They’re watching it slowly die out instead. It’s peaceful. The air smells like vague memories of childhood; musky and wooden. George can taste smoke on the roof of his mouth. It’s suffocating in the gentlest way.

“You act so different with him. Why?”

Isaac’s voice startles George out of hypnosis. He blinks a couple of times, shakes his head, and frowns.

“Who?”

Isaac doesn’t even give him an answer. He just keeps on talking. George wishes he would stop. But also maybe not.

“When Liv and I started dating in high school, all our mates were confused when we made it official because they thought we’d already been together for months.” 

He lets out a small laugh, as if it’s a fond memory. George wants to act confused, like he isn’t sure why this is relevant, but he also knows Isaac isn’t an idiot. He isn’t sincere unless he has a good reason for it and he doesn’t bring things up in such a genuine tone unless they’re important. So George keeps his big mouth shut, for once.

“I don’t really believe in fate or soulmates or all that,” Isaac continues. George watches his finger curl around a loose thread from his hoodie sleeve. Warm firelight licks long shadows across his face.  “But there are some people in the world whose souls are just so inherently linked that everyone around them can see the connection. Even if they don’t notice it themselves, at first. If they think they’re not on the same page. Maybe they’re just missing each other. It’s like… like Neptune, I guess.”

George is overwhelmed already. Isaac isn’t done, though, so he doesn’t interject yet.

“It’s the only planet you can’t see with the naked eye,” Isaac muses. “Everyone else has already realised they need to look through a telescope, so it’s easy for them, but you and Arthur are a bit slow. You’re both squinting so hard, but you still can’t see what’s technically right in front of you.”

George still finds himself taken aback every time Isaac says something sincere and intelligent because, like George, he tends to take the piss ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s easy to forget that he’s one of the smartest people George knows, and he can read a room well, so he knows precisely when to switch on and have a real, insightful conversation.

“I think I’m looking through the bloody telescope or whatever, mate. Have been for about a year now.” George’s voice sounds foreign even to his own ears. He tucks his hands into his armpits, retreating into himself. He’s never felt so exposed without opening up at all. He’s never felt so thoroughly and accurately analysed.

“Maybe Arthur has, too,” Isaac suggests. “Why don’t you actually talk to him about it? Have you tried that?”

“No,” George breathes.

“Do you trust me when I say I know it won’t go badly?”

“Hm. I don’t know.”

They’re both silent for a little while, staring at the stars. All the stars they can see, at least. There’s probably at least a billion in all directions that are hidden, too far away, like Neptune. George recalls the time Arthur had told him that many of the stars you see in the sky are actually a cluster of them, born from the same cosmic gas cloud. Of course, George had made fun of him for being a nerd at the time. Secretly, he finds it fascinating how smart Arthur is; all the things he just knows off the top of his head that wouldn’t even cross George’s mind as a possibility. He makes George feel dumb, sometimes, just like Isaac does. But it’s a satisfying kind of dumb. George is happy to be the dumb one if it means he gets to learn something new about animals or chess or the universe every so often. 

Isaac shifts, claps George on the back, and stands up. George jumps a bit. He had somewhat forgotten he was a living, functioning human. He feels weird now. Like he was up in the air, content there, and now he’s been forced to come back down. He has to ground himself. The hand on his back helps a little.

“I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to come with if you need.” Then Isaac says a little louder, “Arthur’s tent is actually smaller than Chris’ penis, I'm afraid.”

There comes a muffled, outraged shout from Chris’ tent. “Strong positive correlation!”

George and Isaac both burst into quiet laughter. It makes George feel better. Braver. Lighter.

“I’ll be all right, I think.” He smiles at Isaac. Isaac smiles back. “Thank you.” 

He means it with his whole chest.

It takes George a solid five minutes of contemplation before he builds the courage to actually reach out and unzip Arthur’s tent. He crawls inside. Arthur is sitting there cross-legged, staring at the canvas wall.

“Sorry if I woke you,” George whispers.

“You didn’t,” Arthur replies, at a normal volume. Then, “You okay?”

George opens and closes his mouth a few times, a bit like a fish. “Uh, why?”

“The tents are thin,” Arthur says softly.

George’s stomach feels like jelly. He groans and buries his head in his hands, because it’s all he can do. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised Arthur heard everything. He could have used his critical thinking skills and considered that possibility much earlier.

“Sorry. I don’t– Fuck.” He tries again. “We can–”

“It’s all right.”

Arthur is smiling. George realises that now, when he actually takes a second to calm the hell down and open his eyes. It’s dark, but Arthur is smiling. He looks really happy, actually. He doesn’t seem weirded out. Or distant. Or angry. George urges his heart to beat normally, since right now it doesn’t seem capable of distinguishing between being confronted about his feelings and being hunted down by a pack of wolves.

“I don’t really believe in soulmates either,” Arthur says. “But I always thought you and I were connected in some way. We fell into orbit so easily. I’ve never had that with anyone else. It made me think that maybe I was wrong about soulmates. Or maybe they weren’t quite what I expected them to be. I don’t know.”

Nerd, George wants to say, but he doesn’t know how not to say it fondly.

“I didn’t really orbit anything before I met you,” Arthur admits. “I was like a stray asteroid, or something. A bit of space junk, when everyone else around me were planets, over in their own solar systems, doing their own thing. But then you… well, it’s just basic science, you know. Kepler’s laws.”

“Yeah, just basic science,” George breathes, sarcastic and incredulous.

“Shush. You came in like the Sun with your huge, dumb head that has a gravitational pull of its own, and I got caught. I feel like half the time I’m just moving, existing around you, because that’s all I know how to do. I’m so stuck, George. I’m stuck orbiting you. You’re always at my centre. You’re my sun. Does that make sense?”

George is almost speechless. Almost. Never entirely.

“That is single-handedly the nerdiest analogy anyone has ever made in documented history,” he announces, trying his hardest not to sound choked-up.

Arthur laughs softly. “Hey, Bach said something about Neptune. I can’t let the astrophysicist one-up me with the space metaphors.”

“Yes. That’s literally exactly what you should do. That would make the most sense, logically. He has a degree in it, Arthur. And what are you? Poundland Elle Woods?”

There’s a joke opportunity there in ‘Poundland’, just begging to be taken advantage of, but Arthur merely shakes his head and cranes his neck so their faces are closer together. His breath smells like peppermint. There’s a smile shining in his eyes. He’s looking at George like he’s the most captivating thing in the universe. “Elle Woods is a feminist icon who went on to have a very successful career as a lawyer, as a matter of fact, so I will consider that accusation to be the most honourable of compliments.”

“It wasn’t not a compliment,” George rambles. His head has gone all fuzzy again. “It’s just that you aren’t an astrophysicist, so–”

“Shut up, George,” Arthur deadpans, his eyes still sparkling, then he leans all the way in and kisses him.

George shouldn’t be as shocked as he is, because everything had been leading up to this, it wasn’t like it was unexpected. But it’s groundbreaking nonetheless. His brain turns to mush, body melting into it.

Arthur pulls George closer by his hips, licks across his bottom lip, kisses him like he has something to prove. Like he’s been waiting to do this for ages. George smiles into it, he can’t help it, then Arthur pulls back slightly to laugh, breathy and bright.

“I can’t believe this.”

“What?” 

Their foreheads are pressed together.

“I can’t believe you feel the same.”

George’s heart jumps. “I thought it was obvious.”

“If it was obvious, I wouldn’t have waited so long to make a move.”

“We have a lot of lost time to catch up on, then,” George says, like the sap that he is, and he kisses him again.

“I’m happy for you guys but the tents are thin,” Chris shouts, and George and Arthur spring apart as if electrocuted.

“Sorry, mate,” George calls back, then slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter, eyes wide and trained on Arthur, who isn’t even trying to hide his own amusement as he clutches George’s arms and giggles. 

George is happy. He’s so bloody happy. He’s giddy with it.

When Liv gets the photos developed from her camera, George only finds out because she texts him the pictures of Arthur from the first night of their hike.

Mrs Bach

thought you might want these ones

George opens them one by one, swiping between them, grinning down at his phone.

In all of them but the first one, Arthur’s face is split wide open with a smile, like he’s the physical embodiment of all things bright and warm. His hair is ruffled and fluffy, a bit sweaty from their hike, but somehow still soft-looking. As George swipes, Arthur’s face gets closer to the camera. The last photo is more or less a blur, Arthur’s outstretched hand taking up half the frame, his eyes slits with the intensity of his grin. George’s cheeks begin to ache. He has to put his phone down for a second to catch his breath.

When he has somewhat recovered, he downloads the photos to his camera roll, saves the blurry one as his lock-screen wallpaper. Takes a screenshot of it and sends it to Arthur.

Me

dead wife core

should i put a b&w filter

A few moments later, his phone buzzes.

El Wood 🍆

Cringe as hell

The message is followed by a GIF of a beaming cartoon Earth spinning happily around a larger, grinning Sun*. It’s probably the cringiest thing George has ever seen in his life. It makes him so unbelievably happy.

He shakes his head, another smile carving itself deep across his face. It feels like something he can’t fight off this time, like it might be engraved there forever. On his lips, into his heart. Permanently, as long as Arthur is permanent, too.

And, yeah, George would be pretty okay with that.

*(the GIF in question)