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George threw himself onto the bed and tried to ignore the feeling of the rushing train beneath him. He reached towards the window above him, trying to shut the curtain. But he failed miserably, so instead, he just burrowed himself under the covers, willing sleep to overtake him.
He awoke later to Paul lightly pushing his shoulder. George tried to groan and turn away, but the man just chuckled softly and forced George onto his back. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was strong and intentional, so George conceded.
“Hey, mate,” Paul whispered. “Feeling any better?” George didn’t answer- he didn’t want to. If he said he was well, Paul would leave, which would hurt more than the alternative. But the alternative, admitting the truth and saying he still felt awful, would make Paul stay, which would somehow be more torturous, George felt.
Paul smiled softly at George’s lack of response as if he somehow understood. He handed George a glass of water and motioned toward the bed. “Can I sit?” He asked. The sick boy nodded and tucked his feet beneath himself to make room.
Paul groaned a little as he sat down, and George giggled. “You’re such an old man,” he mumbled, taking a sip of water to hide how red his cheeks got in the other man’s presence. Paul feigned offense, shooting off a comment about disrespecting your elders or biting the hand that feeds you or something. George never could pay attention when Paul looked at him with those soft, delicate eyes.
Suddenly, George realized that Paul had stopped talking. Instead, he was now just… looking at him. And George was looking back. He could’ve sworn he saw Paul glance down at his lips, could’ve sworn his eyes were darker than normal. Their bodies were so close that George could feel Paul’s body heat radiate.
“I love you,” George whispered, staring softly at the other man. He barely even realized it had fallen out of his mouth until Paul’s eyes widened and he jumped off the bed. He twisted around, fear washing over his face. George, meanwhile, found himself going numbingly cold and fiery hot all at once. Then, thankfully, Paul relaxed.
But he didn’t stop there. He didn’t kiss back; he didn’t caress George’s face. He didn’t even stare quietly. No, Paul instead chose to open his ugly, chapped lips and laugh. He didn’t breathe it or giggle it, he cackled it, almost mocking George.
George’s body surged with fury, but he didn’t speak. Paul did though (when didn’t he?), and out he grinned, “Christ! Lord, Hazza, I thought you were serious for a second!” George feigned a smile, but tears pricked in his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t resist.” At least he wasn’t lying. Paul let out a breath and put his hands on his waist, looking out the window. “Bastard,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m going back to my room, alright? Tell me if you need anything.”
“Sure,” George said, grinning. But as soon as Paul left, his body shook, and he started to sob violently. His brain raced with insults, some directed towards Paul, some towards himself. He threw the glass of water at the wall in a moment of anger until the tears overcame him again, and he shrank back down into the bed. He threw the blankets over himself, opening his eyes in the darkness. Slowly, Paul filled his mind, but for once, they were not visions of the two in love but also of George getting revenge. He knew he had to, he just had to figure out how.