Chapter Text
As a rule, George was never surprised when he found himself sat on Brighton beach.
He could usually see it coming, his head getting too loud: too many thoughts and not enough outlets.
The beach was his escape- of course he would end up there. Besides, it wasn’t at all unique to him – everyone knows that Brighton is the population of London’s favourite weekend destination.
But on the following Friday night when George found himself sat on the cold blocks of concrete that made up the sea wall, he very much was surprised. It had only been a week since he was last here, why did he feel so drawn to the beach so soon?
George had always been proud to know that his coping mechanisms were adequate enough that only in the direst of circumstances did he have to visit more than once a month. At this rate he’d visit 5 times in May alone!
He didn’t even know what was up with him at the moment too, and that always makes things harder, when your head is so grey and fuzzy that the world around you starts to tune out.
But that’s not the issue, it’s the symptom, a symptom that makes it a lot harder to ever work out what to do next.
George didn’t have any other ideas though, so he sighed and looked down at his feet.
It was nice to zoom in on the details sometimes, he thought, observing the way his shoes looked different in the shadows as he kicked them against the wall in the soft evening light.
The promenade was getting busier too, he observed, as spring was beginning to, well, spring. It was 8pm yet the soft light of the sunset was still very much omnipresent.
It wasn’t too bad, George thought, all things considered. Sometimes it was nice to be able perceive the world, and for the world to perceive him.
Behind him, the murmur of conversations had been continuing all evening but most of them low and quiet – families on weekend getaways. The partiers stuck closer to town. Occasionally a loud voice would stick out over the hubbub, teenagers falling off skateboards, a group of middle-aged women drunk on wine, some surfer bros boasting to each other. You know the sort.
But just as the sun was setting, George heard a familiar sharp, bright voice ring out around him followed by bubbling laughter.
I know that voice, George thought.
Then – I know that voice, shit!
George whipped his head around discreetly. Well, he tried to be discreet at least (it wasn’t very discreet at all, but luckily for George he makes up for it in plenty of other areas of discreetness).
And sure enough, about 50m away down the promenade, a group of five was strolling along, headed by a fluff of blonde hair that was almost glowing in the evening sun. The hair belonged to none other than Tommyinnit of course.
George glanced around him frantically, trying to figure out a way to hide whilst they walked past without being spotted.
And look- it wasn’t as if he didn’t like Tommy per se, because he did like Tommy! Tommy, who had never been anything less than absolutely lovely to George. It was just, the child could talk. If talking was a sport, Tommy would be Eliud Chipchoge. He just goes and goes and goes.
Plus, George didn’t really know the other 3. He’d never met James before, and only briefly interacted with Joe and Ash, Wilbur’s bandmates.
George had come here for some therapeutic ocean watching, not suffering stilted conversations with people who know each other better than they know you, but feel obliged to involve you in. Yeah, no thanks.
But alas, Brighton pier was not designed with antisocial people trying to hide from acquaintances in mind. The drop to the sand was barely 3ft, he’d probably be more noticeable trying to move at this point.
Plus, looking to his right, the group was rapidly approaching. In fact, they were so close that he could even make out the details of Tommy’s animated tale about an awkward shopping experience from that morning.
George supposed that he would just have to pray that he would blend in enough to seem like the average beach dweller on a Friday night, and that his fancy North Face jacket wouldn’t give him away. Brighton was a town full of hipsters anyway, wasn’t it?
Luck was not in George’s favour however, and the group seemed to stop just behind him. Tommy was tying his shoelace, or something like that.
George could feel his heart beating in his chest, it was stupid, he knew, but he couldn’t help it.
He had got it into his head a long time ago that these Brighton trips were for him only, and the idea of him having to break out of his own little world just couldn’t find a place in his mind.
A few seconds passed, and George could feel an inquisitive gaze on the back of his head. Curious, but knowing. It felt like Wilbur’s gaze, and peeking behind him, George’s suspicions were confirmed.
George’s eyes met Wilbur’s, and he was comforted to find that they were a soft, warm brown matching the evening around them. If they had that mischievous glint that sometimes seemed to reside there permanently, George knew that his cover would be over immediately. But the eyes that met his own were calm with just a twinge of whimsicality.
George watched as Wilbur’s eyes squinted towards him, eyebrows raised and head tilted slightly to the side in a silent question.
Before making any semblance of a response, George broke the gaze for a second to look at the rest of the party, but all the attention was still on Tommy. None of them were paying any mind to Wilbur’s wayward gaze.
George looked back to Wilbur, and shook his head.
It wasn’t the best signal, George would admit. He probably wouldn’t understand what he meant if he was Wilbur. Hell, he barely understood what he was trying to say himself.
But nevertheless, Wilbur seemed to get some semblance of the message he was trying to get across. A slight frown had made its way over his features. It was contemplative and this time it was his chocolate eyes that broke the stare.
Taking it as a cue, George took a deep breath and turned back to the sea. Almost involuntarily, he noticed that his legs were swinging gently, his feet kicking against the sea wall.
He didn’t have anything else to say.
He didn’t even know how to say that he didn’t have anything to say.
But, in one last moment of inquisition he turned back around to find Wilbur’s foggy gaze still dancing on his shoulders.
He met his eyes, trying to get across his silent plea to leave him alone, or at the very least to save him the group socialisation. Wilbur’s eyebrows furrowed once again, replying with a short nod.
Whatever he had understood the first time it didn’t quite matter, because at the very least this time he had understood that George wanted to be left alone. That was all George himself knew anyway.
And then George looked away again.
Wilbur’s gaze felt like it was burning him, like sun on a vampire. It was almost as if he was shrivelling to ashes, but more in the way that all the extra useless fronts that George found himself putting up were withering away.
George didn’t like it.
He could hear the group start talking about things other than Tommy’s shoelaces again, yet Wilbur’s stare still hovered over him. It irritated George, he was cutting it far too close. He seemed like he understood to leave George alone, yet why was he continuing to bring attention towards him?
George couldn’t take it, and scuttled forwards onto the sand, making himself as small as he could with his back pressed to the wall. He just hoped that his black hair would fade into the shadows of the ocean if anyone decided to follow Wilbur’s gaze.
And luckily, it seemed to work.
As far as he could make out, Tommy had noticed Wilbur’s spacey regard, and asked him loudly what on earth he was looking at. Wilbur certainly made up the shittiest excuse, but they all laughed and nobody seemed to press him further as they continued down the promenade.
Nevertheless, he could still feel the pressing weight of a stare over his head, even after the voices had faded away.
Damn Wilbur Soot and his incessant curiosity.