Chapter Text
(Harry’s POV)
By the time George sat him down on one of the benches in the changing rooms, a safe space because everyone was still out celebrating the success of the match, Harry wanted to combust: out of embarrassment for falling apart, out of guilt for ruining George’s day in the way that he had done, and out the sheer terror he felt when he realised he couldn’t breathe.
Breathlessness still lingered in his lungs, lodging firmly in his throat, yet the presence of George made it a little easier to bear.
Admittedly he was still a little out of it, his limbs all weak and jittery, his blood still roaring in his ears like a wildfire, however he could exist now without his words being trapped in the confines of his body, without a sick feeling rising like an everchanging tide in his stomach.
He made short work of removing the prosthesis, of pulling off the socks one by one and the silicone sleeve with a quiet hiss of pain: red spots began to seep through the bandages. Despite that, the muscle memory of taking everything off helped to settle Harry’s nerves, helped to ground him, even if his hands still shook.
He slid his pink ‘Uncle Harry’ band back over his arm, letting it settle once again beside his bracelet – his two most prized possessions.
And George waited patiently by Harry’s side the entire time, not making him talk, just being present, and once Harry had removed what needed to be removed, George offered him his water bottle.
‘You should drink something,’ the man said softly. ‘It’ll help.’
Harry wordlessly took it and swallowed a few mouthfuls, the cool water wetting his dry mouth and soothing his throat that burned with suppressed emotion.
‘Thank you,’ Harry mumbled, setting the bottle down. A shudder tore through him, a shudder so violent Harry had to close his eyes for a few seconds while it had its way with him.
I hate this.
I hate that I have such a visceral reaction.
But I hate that no one noticed.
Only George.
‘Can I touch you?’ George asked, keeping his distance. ‘Can I change your bandages?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah.’
At the confirmation, George shuffled closer and began to unravel said bandages, the white bandages that were now spotted red with blood, and cleaned the little cuts with alcohol wipes Harry kept in his bag (amongst other emergency supplies). His touch was soft, it was gentle, a daisy in full bloom – yet Harry still jumped at the contact. His fingers clenched around the bench in an attempt to distract himself from the minute pain, from the memory of people touching me while I was out of it, while I was unable to fight back.
‘It’s just you and me,’ George said quietly, his actions slow and methodical, tender, the ocean lazily lapping the shore. ‘There’s no one else here.’
‘I know,’ Harry said shakily. ‘But I still…’ He trailed off, the familiar taste of bile burning the back of his throat. He swallowed sharply.
George paused for a moment and glanced up at Harry, his doe eyes open and honest. ‘It’s okay, Harry,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’
I can’t believe George saw me have a panic attack. I can’t believe I had a panic attack in the first place. I haven’t had one that bad in years.
Not since –
‘I think we need to get you a new spare prosthesis,’ George said, changing the subject, working once more on Harry’s stump. ‘It hurt, didn’t it?’
‘My residual limb is smaller than it was when I first got it fitted… it was too big,’ Harry explained weakly, grateful for the distraction. ‘For whatever reason I didn’t think I’d need a spare bladed one.’
‘We’ll make an appointment for a new fitting,’ George promised, wrapping Harry’s stump and securing the bandages with a safety pin. ‘We’ll get you some new ones. Lots of new ones. Just in case.’
We.
We’ll make an appointment.
We.
Harry smiled at the implication of George’s words, fond blooming in the spaces between his ribs like flowers.
George smiled back – until it fell, slowly, his face turning serious. ‘Out there,’ he said. ‘That was a panic attack, wasn’t it?’
Harry pretended his heart was beating a mile a minute, fear ricocheting from side to side inside his chest. ‘Yeah.’
‘Do you get them often?’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I haven’t had one that bad in years, not since…’
Not since the parties.
Not since the raves.
Not since people used to touch me.
Not since –
Harry shuddered again, his skin crawling, and he lost himself, lost himself in the memory of shooting up on Ket, lost himself in the icy feeling that rushed through his veins, lost himself in the foggy haze that followed.
Lost in the memories of people touching me when I couldn’t fight back.
George, initially crouched in front of Harry, moved so he was sat on the bench beside him, making sure to keep space between them, and for that Harry was grateful. ‘Are you ready to talk about it?’
‘I honestly don’t know if I can,’ Harry admitted quietly. ‘I’ve never talked about it with anyone before. I don’t… I don’t think anyone ever really questioned it. Or noticed.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw George bristle, saw him stiffen like a statue… until he let out a heavy breath and relaxed. ‘I’m here,’ George offered. Simple. Effective. ‘I’m here and I care.’
Harry allowed himself five minutes.
He allowed himself five minutes of silence to figure out his thoughts, to place them into some semblance of order, to organise them in such a way that, when he said them out loud, they’d make sense to whoever was with him.
So that they make sense for George. He’s a smart man, but not everyone can understand what I’m trying to say when I keep talking in circles.
It was disjointed and awkward at first, trying to vocalise his thoughts that he’d kept hidden for so long, however the more he talked the stronger his voice became.
George let him talk without interrupting him, let him get everything out of his system.
Harry had never been surer of his conclusion that he was in love with George Clarke.
‘Back when I was younger, when I was shooting up on Ket every night and attending raves for days at a time, people… people used to touch me. People would squeeze my arse, my nipples through my shirt, palm my dick through my trousers and squeeze it, you know? They’d grip the back of my neck. They’d scratch their fingernails into my thighs, my arms… and I would always be too out of it, too numb, to fight them off.’
Harry shuddered. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Sometimes, at those parties, lots of people would touch him at the same time, multiple pairs of hands and many multitudes of fingers burning into his skin simultaneously; often there was no escape from it. Now, whenever people touched him (his friends, his family, for example), Harry froze, suddenly lost in the memories of touches in the dark, fingers digging in too deep, so hard they left bruises behind when Harry woke up the next morning, unsure of where he was and who he’d been with, until he snapped out of it and shook it off, focusing back into the conversation at hand.
I honestly don’t understand how no one has noticed it.
I should be angry, right? I should hate people for not noticing.
…
So why do I only feel relief that no one else has clocked it?
‘I’d wake up, on someone’s sofa, on the floor, on the street… I’d wake up with hickeys down my neck with no memory of how they got there. I’d just remember hot breath on my neck, on my face, hands pulling my hair back, fingers on my body, teeth grazing my skin…’
Harry shuddered again, feeling like a thousand tiny spiders were crawling all over him.
‘There was one time I remember vividly,’ Harry whispered. ‘Someone followed me into the bathroom. An older man. He came up behind me, wrapped his arms around me, started kissing and biting at my neck, and pressed his cock against me. He… he started moving, started making these… sounds. I felt him get harder, and harder, until he…’ Hary broke off. ‘I was never, I was never raped, at least I don’t think I was, I don’t remember, and I feel like I would, you know? But people used to get off on me. People used me. People used my body.’
An infinitesimal part of Harry believed that he had been. Raped. Used. An infinitesimal part of Harry believed that people had forced themselves upon him while he laid there, unresponsive, but he wasn’t sure. How could he, when he didn’t remember?
But that didn’t mean it didn’t happen… and that was the most terrifying part.
He was back in the bathroom, as high as a kite, watching the walls breathe, when suddenly someone was pressing up against him. He struggled, but his limbs felt like lead and he felt like he was moving through water.
The man had simply laughed, bit at the back of Harry’s neck, hot breath fanning across Harry’s skin, and pinned him to the wall.
‘And sometimes, people used my hands.’ Harry wrenched his eyes open, staring down at his hands, his hands that shook, his hands which had history, his hands which had been tainted. I don’t understand why anyone would want to hold them. ‘I’d be out of it, and people would put my fingers in their mouth while they did… stuff. Or they’d put my hands down their trousers.’ He flexed his hands once. Twice. ‘And when I showed up to Sidemen shoots – the rare time that I actually made the effort to show myself – I was mocked for being covered in hickeys, for being a bit distant.’ Harry’s hands shook in anger. ‘They laughed at me, George. I love them dearly, but they…’
George was angry, the angriest Harry had ever seen him, like the ocean slowly receding in preparation for a tidal wave, like tremors in the ground in anticipation for an Earthquake.
The man didn’t say anything for a while, and Harry was frightened, fear brewing in his stomach.
This is it, isn’t it? This is the part where George leaves.
This is the point of no return.
I’ve fucked it.
Honestly, Harry wouldn’t blame him… but his whole world would go up in flames if that happened.
George made a noise then, something low and primal at the base of his throat. ‘You might not class it as sexual assault, Harry, but touching in that way is still assault,’ George said calmly. ‘You were sexually assaulted. Continuously. For years.’
‘It wasn’t that bad, George,’ Harry said tiredly. ‘It’s just…’
‘But it was!’ his friend implored. ‘It was that bad. All the touches… they were nonconsensual. People took advantage of you. And your friends…’
And your friends let it happen.
I think that’s what George is trying to say.
‘They didn’t know,’ Harry whispered. ‘No one did.’
‘That’s not an excuse,’ George said. ‘They should have noticed. They should have seen the signs.’
With his mind spinning, shame and hatred dispelling the air in his lungs, Harry hung his head for the second time.
How can anyone want me now?
How can anyone want me knowing what happened?
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, okay?’ George said firmly, surely, but the wobble in his voice was unmistakable. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘It was – I chose to get high! I chose to put myself in those situations because I didn’t want to be me.’
‘Maybe, but you didn’t ask those people to touch you. They helped themselves. They saw a vulnerable person and they pounced.’
Every day Harry remembered the hands and the nails and the lips and the teeth and the hot, sour breath – he just didn’t remember who they belonged to, a sea of blurry faces flickering just out of sight, mocking him from the shadows.
A sea blurry faces who had haunted his dreams for far too long, who haunted his everyday life and affected, well, everything.
‘That’s why I can’t stand people touching me when I’m not expecting it. It makes me remember. I think I’m back there again and…’ Harry paused, debating on taking a chance. Fuck it. ‘It was one of the multitude of reasons for my overdose. I-I-I mean, it was an accidental overdose, but it didn’t help, you know? I just… I just wanted to forget.’ His voice cracked. ‘I just wanted to forget,’ he finished with a broken whisper.
George, as sweet as ever, simply asked: ‘Can I hold your hand?’
Confused, Harry turned his hand so his palm faced upwards, his fingers curled up slightly, but the action sent him back, lost in yet another memory.
Hands and laughter led Harry down a hallway, through a door, and into a smoky room where the laughter intensified tenfold. Another crack den, Harry noted groggily.
He was laid down on a sofa, totally listless, his world spinning in circles, while people took what they wanted from him: touching him, kissing him, his neck and his lips, groping him when his trousers were pulled down, his shirt ripped from his body. Someone held his palm out and curled his fingers while another someone slid their dick across it. Someone mounted him and dry humped his leg with guttural moans that sparked warning bells in Harry’s jumbled mind.
‘Let’s loosen you up a bit, shall we?’ a woman purred into his ear, giggling.
A needle slid into Harry’s arm. Everything whited out until the touches and the sensations muted.
But Harry could still feel it. He could feel everything.
He just no longer had the ability to move, his tongue fusing to the roof of his mouth, his eyes constantly rolling up into his skull.
A crash from down the hallway ripped Harry from the memory and he flinched, tugging his hand back to his chest while George sat beside him, watching him, waiting for him.
‘I’m sorry, I…’
It was a particular experience he still found to be hazy, unsure of his account of events. It was a memory Harry would never share… too ashamed, too terrified, to say out loud, because with every day that passed, Harry remembered something else from that night, words, a touch, a feeling, and every time it threw Harry further into the pit of despair that threatened to drown him.
What happened to me that night?
What did they make me do?
What else can’t I remember?
‘You never need to apologise, Harry,’ George said. ‘You never have to apologise ever again. For anything.’
‘I don’t want to be treated like glass,’ Harry said, almost begging but not letting himself fall that low. ‘Please don’t treat me like glass.’
‘I’m treating you how you deserve to be treated,’ George said, his voice soft and soothing, like it was enveloping Harry in a warm hug. ‘And you deserve to be treated with love and compassion. You… you deserve to be treated like royalty.’
Desperately, Harry looked into George’s doe eyes, searching: he saw nothing but honesty and love, adoration and patience. There was nothing bad there, nothing threatening, nothing that sent those warning bells ringing in the back of Harry’s head.
It was… it was George.
Slowly Harry held out his hand again, trying his best to ignore how it trembled like a leaf, pretending that he didn’t want to yank it back to his chest again.
George reached out tentatively, allowing Harry the time to pull away if he so desired, but when Harry held his ground, George slid his hand atop Harry’s, interlocked their fingers, and squeezed.
Harry turned his head away and let out a sharp breath, the air whistling through his teeth.
‘You’re okay,’ George said. ‘It’s just me. It’s just George.’
Why?
Why does he want to hold my hand after what I’ve just told him?
‘I want you to promise me something, Harry.’
Harry allowed himself a few seconds before he lifted his head. He met George’s determined gaze. ‘What?’
‘I want you to tell me when you don’t want to be touched. I want you to tell me when you need space, and I want you to tell me when you aren’t comfortable with something. I want you to tell whoever it is you’re with that you aren’t comfortable with something.’
‘George –‘
‘No, Harry. I’m serious,’ George said. ‘I need you to promise me that you’ll say something. I need you to promise me that you won’t bury your head in the sand any longer.’
God, Harry had never been so in love before, and it was actually sort of embarrassing.
He’d do anything for George Clarke, he realised.
He’d bottle stardust if George asked it of him
That’s what George is. He’s the physical embodiment of stardust.
He’s the brightest star I’ve ever seen.
‘I promise,’ Harry said. He pressed his forehead against George’s and shut his eyes, breathing. ‘I promise I’ll say something. I… I swear it.’
They were so close that Harry could feel George’s warm breath brush against his lips. Again. A caress of air.
For once, the proximity, the warm breath across his face, didn’t make his skin crawl, didn’t make his skin twist with anxiety, with fear.
Because he knew it was George, and he knew George would never hurt him.
I could kiss him right now.
It would be so easy to kiss him.
George shifted slightly. Their noses brushed together. A warm hand cupped Harry’s cheek. ‘Thank you, Harry. And thank you for telling me that. About your past.’
‘You’re the first person I’ve told,’ Harry said, his cheeks flushing. ‘You’re the only one who knows.’
George already knows that, you idiot. You told him that earlier.
Horrid doubt filled Harry, a doubt so dark and dirty that Harry floundered like a fish out of water. He sprung back and wrenched his hand from George’s.
Alarm blasted across George’s face. ‘Harry –‘
‘Why are you doing this?’ Harry exploded, panic clawing at his throat. ‘You don’t have to do this – why are you doing this?’
Something flickered in George’s eyes, something Harry didn’t understand… something that, apparently, George did.
‘Because I want to,’ George told him. ‘I’ll always want to.’
‘Why? Why do you want to do this? Most people would have run when they learned about the drugs, when they learned about my aversion to touch, when they learned how fucking… fucking dirty I am.’ A shudder tore through Harry’s body. ‘Why have you stayed for so long?’ Harry’s voice cracked, and to his horror tears began to burn in his eyes. ‘Why are you still here?’
And George simply smiled, a reassuring expression on his beautiful face. ‘Can I take your hand again?’
Harry nodded.
George reached for Harry’s hand once more, and when Harry didn’t flinch away, he interlocked their fingers again and squeezed: this time, Harry felt the ring on George’s finger, felt it burn like all-fire against his skin.
‘Because… because I’m in love with you,’ George said fiercely.
Harry’s heart skipped a beat, his mouth falling open in shock. A single tear rolled down his cheek, the shock of what George said freezing the rest of them in place.
Warmth flooded Harry’s veins, and for once, Harry didn’t liken it to the rush of drugs.
It was a rush of love.
‘I’m sorry it took so long to say it,’ George continued. ‘I wanted to tell you last year, but I didn’t think it was the right time, not while you were recovering and moving on with your life, and then when I did pluck up the courage to say something we were always interrupted.’ He laughed. He took a deep breath. ‘Watching you take back control of your life in the way you have over this last year… I liked you before, but I’ve fallen for you, Harry. I’ve well and truly fallen in love with you.’
He’s in love with me.
George Clarke is in love with me.
George flushed, his eyes shining. ‘I can’t imagine my life without you. Not anymore. You… you are my life.’
George loves me.
Fucking hell, George loves me back.
‘I don’t expect you to return my feelings, okay? I just didn’t want to hide anything from you. I just wanted to get it out in the open… I just, I just wanted you to know.’
I can’t believe it.
He really, truly loves me?
‘And you’re not dirty,’ George said, suddenly. ‘You’re the farthest thing from dirty. Nothing about you is dirty.’
And for the first time in years, Harry believed it.
‘I love you too, George,’ Harry said breathlessly, his frozen tears thawing out and rolling down his cheeks in waves. ‘I love you too.’
A smile lifted the corners of George’s lips, a smile so blinding Harry believed it was a gift from heaven, from the angels watching from above.
Harry couldn’t stop himself from grinning back, couldn’t tear himself away from George’s face. They inched closer until Harry pressed his forehead against George’s again. He shut his eyes.
He breathed.
A quiet knock on the changing room door startled them both.
Harry jumped back, his heart jolting, and turned to see Simon hovering in the doorway, smiling softly, his eyes flickering to where George and Harry held hands, at their closeness.
He recognised the fond look on Simon’s face and relaxed somewhat.
George brushed his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. He relaxed further.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Simon apologised. ‘We’re handing out the medals soon – we need everyone back on the pitch.’
‘Okay,’ Harry said, extracting one of his hands from George’s and running it across his face, brushing away the stray tears that slowly tricked down his cheeks.
Simon frowned, freezing in the doorway. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Harry said. ‘Just needed to talk about something that’s hard to talk about it.’
And Simon smiled for a second time. ‘Understood. I’ll see you out there, yeah?’
‘We won’t be long,’ George said.
The older Sideman left, his quiet footfalls echoing down the corridor.
Harry let out a long sigh, leaning against George.
‘Alright?’ George asked.
‘I think so.’
‘He cares about you,’ George said, a strange intonation to his voice. ‘They all do.’
‘Yeah, they do,’ Harry said. ‘They might have their moments, but they care about me. They want what’s best for me.’
Even if they didn’t notice.
Even if they don’t know.
‘And what is best for you?’ George asked, a smirk playing on his lips.
‘Supposedly you,’ Harry mused out loud, grinning to himself. ‘That’s what everyone’s been telling me, anyway.’
Wordlessly, George took Harry’s face in his hands and kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his forehead, his nose. ‘I love you,’ George whispered. ‘I love you so much. More than I can possibly fathom.’
Harry, still internally shocked by George’s admission, felt his cheeks heat up. His stomach twisted with warmth, with love. ‘You’re such a romantic, you,’ Harry said. His palms began to sweat. ‘But I think you missed a spot.’
A playfulness bloomed in George’s doe eyes. ‘I missed a spot, did I?’
‘Yeah,’ Harry said, breathless. He shut his eyes and before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed his lips against George’s in a kiss.
It made Harry’s toes curl, made his fingers twitch and twist into the hem of George’s football jersey, unconsciously tugging him closer.
Their lips moved against each other, lazy and languid, soft and tender.
One of George’s hands slipped down Harry’s face to settled at the juncture of his neck, pressing lightly, while the other wound up into Harry’s hair, his fingers scratching lightly at his scalp.
Harry let out a contented sigh against George’s lips.
George did the same.
Eventually they broke apart and stared once more into each others eyes, sitting in a bubble, bathing in their love, smiling.
George let his hands fall. He let his eyes close. He pressed his forehead against Harry’s in that gentle way of his, a tender headbutt.
It was quickly becoming one of Harry’s favourite quirks of George’s: the forehead touching, the forehead kissing.
A particularly loud roar echoed down the tunnel, reaching the changing rooms. A series of chants quickly followed.
‘I suppose we should get back out there,’ Harry said forlornly. He didn’t want this moment with George to end.
‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ George whispered.
After untangling his fingers from George’s football Jersey, Harry leaned away and reached for his spare prosthesis – his fingertips has just made contact when he hesitated, pulling back.
I don’t want to put it back on.
It hurts.
‘Don’t even try,’ George ordered gently. He stood up and helped Harry stand. ‘Hop on,’ George said, turning around and squatting a little. ‘I’ll give you a piggyback. Like Greece.’
‘I’m not four years old,’ Harry joked, but he did as he was told. He hopped onto George’s back, George’s hands clasping around Harry’s thighs to hold him in place.
And Harry had never felt safer.
He draped his arms loosely around George’s neck, resting his chin on George’s shoulder, relishing in the warmth of the other man.
My boyfriend.
Is he my boyfriend now?
‘You’re lucky I’m strong,’ George joked. He started walking out of the changing rooms and down the absurdly long corridor to the pitch. The crowd roared when they emerged from its depths. Harry waved at the cameras once more, laughing, happiness rolling off of him in waves.
He suddenly remembered what George had told them while out on the trail last year, the trail where Harry had lost his leg. ‘I love you,’ Harry said, his lips brushing the shell of George’s ear. ‘As your biggest fan in the whole entire world, I love you.’
George Clarke flushed red on the big screen for the entire stadium, for the entire world, to see.
Harry didn’t care if people managed to lipread what he’d said. He didn’t care anymore.
Nothing, and no one, was going to take George away from him. Never.
With his flush still lingering, George carried Harry over to where the rest of the Sidemen FC had gathered. Harry hopped down and cuddled against George’s side while the second-place medals were handed out to the YouTube Allstars. George, bless his soul, simply slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders, helping to keep him steady while he balanced on one leg, but also to protect me. To keep me safe. To keep everyone else away if they suddenly got too close.
‘Thank you for being here today,’ Harry suddenly said, amidst the chaos. ‘Thank you for looking out for me. Thank you for being there when I needed you.’
‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,’ George told him. He pressed his lips to the side of Harry’s head and lingered there before he pulled away. ‘I’m with you all the way, remember? No matter where all the way leads.’
Harry’s blood burned with love, a love so intense he thought it would burn away his entire existence. He was reminded of the silver bracelet on his wrist, warmed by Harry’s skin.
Ethan and JJ whistled in their direction. The others around them shared knowing looks, grinning, and when Harry met Freezy’s questioning gaze, Harry nodded, leaning his head on George’s shoulder.
Across the way, Freezy threw his hands in the air and Harry swore he heard Freezy yell, ‘fucking finally!’
Then it was time to lift the trophy.
Sidemen FC moved out onto the field once more, JJ leading the way, hollering all the while.
George let go of Harry and braced himself.
‘You sure you can take my weight again?’ Harry asked, his hands resting on George’s broad shoulders.
‘I’ll take it a thousand times over,’ George said, like he hadn’t just said the most earth-shattering thing in the whole entire world.
Harry hopped up and held on, and George carried him over for the trophy lift, slotting them in the gap between Ethan and Josh
‘You okay, Harry?’ Josh asked, squeezing Harry’s hip affectionately.
Harry was proud to admit he didn’t flinch. ‘Never better,’ Harry confirmed, attacking Josh with his bandaged stump, giggling while Josh batted playfully at it.
The older man burst out into uncontrollable laughter. ‘Put it away, you mong!’
George and Ethan laughed at their antics, and Harry felt the vibrations of George’s laughter through his ribcage.
I love him.
I love him with everything I have.
The countdown begun, Sidemen FC began to murmur, and when the countdown ended they roared. JJ lifted the trophy. Fireworks exploded all around them, shooting up into the November sky.
The stadium roared with energy, and Harry had never been more content.
Things changed. Life was fluid.
Harry Lewis was proud to be exactly that.