kittygeorgie
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“George,” John says, and there's something in his voice that makes George's pulse quicken. Not kindness, exactly. Not approval either, but attention, at least. John's looking at him properly now, not through him, and George feels himself lean into it without meaning to.
Then John tilts his head, and the smirk comes back.
“Have you any idea what we play?”
The question lands like a slap. George's face goes hot, and for a second he can't breathe properly. This isn’t dismissal, and George doesn’t really know what it is but he knows it's worse than that. It's John telling him he doesn't belong, that he doesn't understand what they're doing, that his song is so far off the mark it's laughable. And John's standing there waiting for an answer, eyebrows raised, like he genuinely wants to know if George has a clue.