Work Text:
The camera focuses in back on George, and even though it’s Jack’s vlog, George is once again the star. Well, at least in Wilbur’s humble opinion. The ceiling lights that do nobody justice, ever, illuminate George’s soft features as he grins. And George is – he’s smiling a lot, it’s infectious, it makes Wilbur’s heart jump every time his eyes get the privilege of gazing upon such a wide grin. Jack complains in the background but Wilbur’s mind is white noise as George looks at him from the screen of the phone.
He’s just – he’s just so pretty, isn’t he?
It’s become a running joke. Or, it was, at first, just a joke. Pretty boy, pretty privilege, pretty dark eyes, not a thought behind them. But the longer the bit goes on, the longer the joke is running in their various friend groups, the more it makes Wilbur squirm because he keeps dodging the truth. And the truth is that George isn’t just pretty, he’s gorgeous. And then the joke always escalates, too.
Because Wilbur leans into it. Jack, featherbrained and lacking oxygen as he is, says let’s tag-team George and his mind screeches in alarm as his gut clenches. He fixes the situation, he does, but he goes right back into it with his own stupid mouth. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
The slip of baby can be easily corrected and George’s eyebrow quirks as he does but he’s in too deep now, he’s committed to the bit. So like the idiot that he is, he says I’ll be gentle and brings the other in for a hug which George scoffs at but obliges.
He’s in content mode and the only other part of his brain that works is the one he uses for observing fascinating occurrences. Like George in the gym as he becomes more unhinged the longer they stay there. They joke about it, of course they do, they’ve never seen him do much of anything outside of these vlogs that their younger friends coerce them into.
Jack goes to skip rope and Wilbur’s first instinct is to ask George about his football days because it’s fascinating. George always seems a little awkward, in his opinion. His movements tend to be loose and uncontrolled, his hands flopping around like he’s still streaming and he needs you to subscribe. Not to mention the way he falls – Wilbur will never get over the water park vlog.
Jack gets into the camera’s metaphorical face, tugging the attention away from George and Wilbur hopes the other doesn’t get too angry with him for how much screen time George has in comparison to everyone else. But the camera loves him, and the artistic side of Wilbur, the one that cares about cinematography, just wants to put him front and center every time. It’s an urge stronger than him.
There’s mischief in his eyes when he zooms in on him and that’s when you can usually tell that George is having a good time. Wilbur smiles to himself as they outfit him with boxing gloves.
With Jack behind the camera Wilbur gets to be on screen too and George now wants to punch him in the face.
Is it appropriate to just allow him to do so? He wants to say yes, anything, do whatever you want because he’s almost entranced by that look in the other’s dark, dark eyes. But he knows he has to put up a token protest so he does. And yet he still ends up letting the shorter tap him on the jaw, pretending to get knocked out.
George reads off the wall, enunciating his words like he’s doing in intro for the video and Wilbur can’t resist having the camera on him. His mind feels hazy, maybe he’s coming down with something. He hopes it’s not the elephant in the room virus. His mind wanders again as he films George. The shorter blinks at him, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
“You have such dark eyes,” He says, like an idiot, but it’s fine because he almost said beautiful instead. And George smiles, good natured and wholesome, mouth curling at the corners and Wilbur wants to – no.
Jack gets his nose bloodied and they call it a day. To be fair, for a 15-year-old, his brother’s terrifying.
“You guys heading home?” Jack asks, wiping his forehead with a towel, careful not to get blood on the white terrycloth.
“Mm,” He hums, fiddling with his phone, not really contributing to whatever’s happening around them because his mind’s still whirring and he just needs to do something to get George out of there.
“I want to go get food.” George demands in a whine, “I’m hungry.” A great big pout on his face that Wilbur tries valiantly to ignore.
“Damn, sucks to be you!” Jack laughs, “Sorry, though, can’t. We’re going to meet up with some friends so we have to get going.” The shorter points to his brother with his thumb and Wilbur thinks they should maybe get Jack’s nose checked out somewhere because it looks like it might bruise.
“Wil,” George turns to face him solely now, the full impact of his pout hitting Wilbur dead-on, making him weak.
He freezes, eyes widening, pretending like his entire being isn’t finely attuned to George’s existence, like he hasn’t been thinking about him far too much in the last couple of weeks, months even – ever since they became better friends. He feels skeevy.
“What?” He asks, looking down into George’s dark eyes as the other talks at him more than to him because his brain just isn’t absorbing information.
“Take me to get Nando’s.” The shorter huffs, puffing out his cheeks.
He’s so pretty, and for what? The man play’s Minecraft for a living. It’s unfair.
He checks the time. “Sure, um, is there one near?”
“Don’t know.” The shorter shrugs, not even bothering with pulling out his phone.
Wilbur sighs, he opens up Google Maps and gets to work. If George wants Nando’s, he’ll get his fuckin’ Nando’s even if it’s the last thing he does.
They visit 5 separate Nando’s.
By the time they’ve found one that is open, they’ve walked for an hour and could have gotten a table at the first one that had a queue outside. But no. By the third one George had decided that they were doing this for real and so they kept walking and indeed, they did find one that was open.
Once they’ve settled down and ordered their food, Wilbur gets the break he needs. He leans back in his seat and takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment.
“You okay?” George questions, a little quieter, more sedate now that he’s more tired and the adrenaline from the gym is fading slowly.
“Considering the marathon we just walked, I’m surprisingly okay.” He chuckles weakly and George grins at him.
“Thank you, Wil, nobody else is as dedicated as you are.” The other croons and Wilbur fights down a blush at the measly compliment.
“Dogged, more like.” He amends and George shakes his head.
“Only sometimes.” The other’s smile doesn’t drop even when Wilbur sees the mischief leave his eyes. Instead, it is replaced by an unreadable look and it’s not like Wilbur’s an expert but he’d like to think that he can read George some of the time.
“Today was fun, maybe I should try actually going to the gym.” George hums, tapping his fingers against the table.
“Oh? You gonna get swole George? You don’t need the muscles.” He laughs as George sticks his tongue out at him.
“Maybe I am. What’ll you then, Wilbur? Won’t be able to manhandle me so easily.” The shorter huffs and Wilbur pauses for a moment.
He gulps; ah, that. Yes, he does rather enjoy the fact that George is so… compact. He’s obviously of average height but by his own nature, George, much like the majority of their friends, is tiny in comparison. It’s cute. It’s cute that they don’t fit in the frame together when they're both standing. It’s cute that George’s head nestles against his chest when they hug. It’s just – it’s just cute, end of story.
“Aw, you don’t like it?” He gripes, pretending to be hurt to cover up the very warm feeling the other’s presence is giving him.
“No,” George pouts again, pretending to be serious but his eyes are squinted at the corners like he’s holding back another blinding grin. God, he’s beautiful.
“Alright then, I’ll stop.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he won’t go through withdrawal if it ever actually happened.
“Why’d you say my eyes were dark earlier?” George suddenly asks, completely unprompted, as the server brings their food.
He winces mentally, smiling at the poor girl who’s eyeing them curiously now. He pulls out his phone on reflex, snapping a photo of George who’s got a fry on his fork. He grins, completely forgetting the question the other had posed as he posted the photo to his Instagram story. And because he knows the fans will like it, he captions it cute date. It’s painful as it is funny.
“Wilbur,” George snaps and he looks up with a smile, grinning at the other as the other points his phone at him. George hums, satisfied and does the same as Wilbur had done, posting the photo to his own story.
“Answer the question, please.” George croons again, not looking at him.
He takes his time observing George. This light is warmer than the one at the gym. It gives the other’s skin a healthy glow, makes him look like a figure in a renaissance painting. The sweep of his eyelashes as he blinks, the curls of his dark hair and the corners of his mouth that speaks such nonsense sometimes, it’s all completely enchanting. Wilbur’s mesmerized by him and his visage, he’s utterly fucking dumbfounded. Because when it comes down to it, George is like an art piece which Wilbur knows the name but not the meaning of. He’s an art piece that Wilbur had put on a pedestal in his mind; he’s a painting, a statue, a mural, that deserves to be showcased and shown off with pride and to be coveted by everyone else. Wilbur’s raised him up into the heavens with all the other angels for doing the bare minimum and he knows it. He’s painfully aware that this is not who George is, that he’s just a guy who’s pretty, that he’s Wil’s friend and nothing more.
“Well, they’re dark brown, aren’t they?” He smiles, a little strained now.
“Oh, like that.” George chews on his food thoughtfully. “You spent a lot of time filming me today. I hope Jack has enough footage of him for his video.”
He cringes at himself, teeth grinding together in alarm. So George had noticed. Time to lie through his teeth.
“Not a lot of content to be filmed at a gym. It was either you or Jack’s scrawny arse embarrassing himself trying to lift weights, innit?” He feels bad throwing Jack under the bus like that but it’s – it’s whatever. Jack’s not here to defend himself anyway. “Plus, the fans like seeing you up close and personal.”
“That’s true.” George hums, seemingly satisfied by the answers he’d been given.
Wilbur finally remembers to act like a normal fucking person and takes the first bite of his ‘burger’. It’s good. Nando’s was first a bit of a meme but he’s come to really like it recently. Then again, it might just be the company he’s keeping.
“You’re spacing out more than usual today.” George starts again, squinting at Wilbur in question.
How do you tell your friend you can’t stop thinking about how effortlessly beautiful they look?
“Lots on my mind, mate.” He smiles gently and George’s face eases from its frown.
“Stressed?”
“Always,” He chews on his food deliberately, hoping the other takes his admission as the lighthearted joke it’s failed to come across as. “But nothing in particular. Just… it’s been nice hanging out with you, Gogs. I’m glad.”
“Aw,” George croons. “I’m glad, too. It’s been fun. I’ve had fun with all the vlogs and stuff.”
“Good to see you outside, touching grass and whatnot.” He winks and George looks away, biting his lip to keep his grin down. It’s a peculiar expression, one that he doesn’t get to elicit from the other often. George is pretty numb to flirtations and advances of any kind – and it makes sense. With how all of his friends act, with the running pretty boy joke that’s run away all the way to America, it’s no wonder, too. Not to mention the whole thing with Dream that’s always been a nagging thorn in the back of his mind (enough for him to ally himself with the fans in their suspicions). So yes, George is pretty immune to flirting – which, in turn, often makes Wilbur feel safe enough to go overboard with it and face no repercussions for his simpery.
“Well, I don’t know about touching grass. But it’s exciting doing new things with the people you like. It’s good for our health, too, or whatever.” George pokes around his plate with his fork, looking intently at it.
For some inexplicable reason, Wilbur is struck down by a sense of awkwardness. Nerves manifest in his gut immediately and his palms start sweating. It’s not that warm in the restaurant and there’s nothing that should be causing him anxiety and yet. He looks down at his phone and sees a message from Jack. He opens it and reads it very carefully.
If you wanted to go on a date with Gogy, you could have ditched us faster ;))
He stares at the stupid message. It’s dumb. It’s lame. Jack could have made a better joke. Could have made a joke. But no. There’s no joke to be seen.
There’s no joke because this feels like a date. Out of all of their outings, this feels most like an actual date. From George’s soft words, the sweet smiles and avoidance of eye contact, to Wilbur’s head being in a constant state of panic, it feels like a first date. Oh, fucking hell.
Could have joined us if u asked nicely, he texts back because he has nothing else witty to say.
Oh no im not third-wheeling
Bye
He grits his teeth. This is not good. He needs to pull himself back from the mindset of Date With George because he’s going to slip and say something incredibly incriminating otherwise.
“You alright? You’ve been weird today.” George asks and Wilbur nods.
“As I said, lots on my mind.” He repeats but it doesn’t seem George is willing to let it go this time.
“Must be something important.” George challenges.
And it is. How could it not be? When it’s George on his mind and George is so important. His presence in Wilbur’s mind undeniable, inevitable, unavoidable. And Wilbur would be hard pressed to say he’s complaining. He wants to deny all the thought’s he’s had over the past month. He wants to ignore that he’s wondered about how soft the other’s skin is and how easily he’ll bruise, how he’d keen if Wilbur attached his mouth to his pale neck. That he’d thought about slow mornings together, that he imagined cooking him breakfast and making dinner together. That he thought about how much comfort George’s silent presence and scattered mind bring him. It’s pathetic, he’s pathetic.
“Oh, you know, just you.” He teases, hoping it comes across as a joke rather than a confession.
“Pretty important then,” George concludes with a self-satisfied grin almost as if he’s read Wilbur’s panicked thoughts.
“Of course,” His voice dips a register without his permission and George tilts his head, curious.
A slow grin spreads across the other’s face, it holds an almost sly tinge to it. “You know how to treat a boy like he’s special, huh?”
Wilbur’s entire existence screeches to a halt at the words, they’re a taunt. He’s sure of it. There’s nothing else that he could interpret them as. George is – George is flirting back? Surely, not.
There’s only one way to find out. He takes a sip of his drink and hopes he can play this off as a bit if it goes wrong.
“Oh, you’d know it, wouldn’t you?” He quips back, relaxing his shoulders, putting on his most charming smile. “I do always treat you well.”
George hums, swirling his glass, making the ice in it clink against the edges. “You do. I always feel special when I’m with you. It’s nice.”
“Only the best for the best, darling.” He croons, leaning forward slightly, fascinated as a blush spreads across George’s cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. That’s something special, innit?
“That’s cheesy.” George grumbles.
“Sometimes the classics are good, aren’t they? We don’t read classic literature for nothing.” He points out, feeling a bit thrown off by the atmosphere shifting between them but prepared to roll with it.
“You don’t read books,” George scoffs and Wilbur has to laugh.
“Hypothetically, if I were to, I’d read the classics first.” He amends and George hums. “Then I’d read poetry. I’d read the sweetest words exchanged between lovers and the darkest descriptions of the strongest of feelings.” He’s bullshitting and George knows he is, but it’s fun. He likes flowery language.
“Why poetry? Isn’t it boring?” George sets his glass down on the table.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
He reaches across the table and takes George’s hand in his. His own palm almost dwarfs George’s and it makes him unreasonably happy.
“So that I can compare them to you. All that beauty contained in lines of text, romance and tragedy, and none of them would compare properly. Those old cunts could describe the most beautiful woman, the most splendid sunrise and sunset, the sweetest of fruits, and none of it would hold a candle to you.” He says solemnly, voice quiet enough to imitate a private moment despite them being in public, to press forward a sense of intimacy.
George’s eyes are wide and his cheeks are proper red now, his mouth slightly parted. He looks stunned and he looks gorgeous. Wilbur reaches out and runs the thumb of his free hand down his cheek and under his chin, nudging it up. George’s teeth clamp shut and he’s still terrifyingly silent.
You’ve gone and fucked it, Wilbur, he berates himself mentally as he leans back, done with his one-man show.
“Wil,” George swallows audibly, tone near-silent as he speaks. “This doesn’t feel like a bit anymore.”
“Was it ever?” He sighs and pulls his hand away. Or, well, tries to but George grips his wrist before he can slump back into his seat. “George,” He warns, feeling drained suddenly, not used to all of this emotional vulnerability.
“No, Wilbur. Answers, now.” George demands, spindly fingers digging into his skin. He wonders if the other will grip hard enough to bruise. He’d possibly even like it if they did.
“Do you want it to be? Do you want it to be a bit? We could walk away tonight with everything as it was, just say the word.” He offers the other an out, an easy option. He half hopes the other takes it.
“And if I don’t?”
He sucks in a sharp breath. “That’s up to you to decide.”
George rushes up out of his chair and leans across the table. He plants a very gentle and chaste kiss onto Wilbur’s mouth before pulling away. It’s – if he were a poet he’d say it was like the first drops of rain kissing freshly blossomed cherry petals, like the first rays of light breaking the horizon, the first daisies blooming in spring. But he’s not a poet. So it’s nice. He likes it, very much so. And the blush on George’s cheeks is nice, too. Pretty.
The other’s looking away as Wilbur ruminates on his own downfall.
“Is that a swerve into the not-a-bit lane, or?” He grins as George huffs, arms crossing over his chest.
“What do you think, you idiot?”
“Oh, I thought we’ve established I only think about you.” He laughs as George’s mouth forms the mighty pout again.
“You’re impossible.”
“Sorry, love.”
But he’s not sorry, not really. He wishes he had his phone out for another photo so he could capture the expression on George’s face and immortalize it. Because the camera loves George but maybe Wilbur does, too.