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George wakes up to 'SAPNAP' trending on twitter. It's two pm. It's too fucking early for this shit. His eyesight is still bleary with sleep, grit scratching at his eyes as he scrubs at them with his knuckles, trying to clear his vision, hoping he just misread it. It's still there, fullcaps screaming at him. He shouldn't click. He really shouldn't click. It's two pm and he just woke up and he's tired and thirsty and hungry and today could've been a good day.
Today could've been good. Today could still be good, if he just ignores it, if he doesn’t click on it.
He clicks.
The top tweet is a video, posted a couple hours ago, a clip from a stream. Karl Jacobs sits front and centre, talking animatedly, giggling, typical Karl, picture perfect. In a chair beside him sits Sapnap. He's wearing a plain black cap, plain black shorts, a grey hoodie with Japanese writing on it. He's nodding along to what Karl is saying, gazing at him intently, a small smile on his face. His beard is trimmed pretty short, his hair is long enough to curl just slightly, hands clasped in his lap, feet planted on the floor, body swaying to twist the chair ever so slightly, left and right, left and right, left and right.
George feels dizzy.
Right at the end of the clip Sapnap glances over at the camera, that same honest smile on his face.
George feels sick.
He's up and out of bed in an instant, phone clutched in his hand like a knife. The video was captioned heart eyes with a few appropriate emojis to boot.
George feels -- he feels a lot of things, a lot of things, enough hatred and malice and betrayal and sadness and confusion and irritation and tiredness spilling through his brain and throat and chest to make each of them ache instantly, terribly, pounding in pain each time his heart beats.
"Dream!" George screams. “DREAM!"
Dream is in the kitchen, fixing up something for his lunch, George's breakfast. He comes running, concern dripping into understanding once he sees that George isn't actively bleeding out or whatever. Not externally, at least.
“I didn't want to wake you," Dream says. "I'm really — I wasn't — we weren't sure how to tell you and then he arrived sooner than we thought.”
"You're a fucking bastard," George seethes. "I fucking hate you.”
"Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. We should've — I didn't think they'd fucking stream so soon, I thought they'd wait. I'm really really sorry, George," Dream says. And he sounds it. Looks it. Eyes big and wide, hands twisting in front of him.
"The food is going to burn," George mutters, to change the subject.
Dream hazards a laugh, tension leaving his shoulders when George doesn't berate him for it.
"I only just put it on. I'm making pasta, you want some?”
"I'm not very hungry," George says, and then kicks himself for admitting it. "I'm fine! I'm fine, I just feel kind of sick. I'm fine. Just... yeah.”
“Yeah," Dream says, softly. "Take it easy today, yeah?”
"I actually think I should probably not do that. If you send me that video we recorded on Tuesday I can do a rough edit for you and send it back, I need something to do. I was — shit, I was going to stream today. Whatever. Whatever. It's fine. It's fine!”
"George, I don't —"
"I don't give a fuck what you think, Dream, he wasn't your boyfriend. He was — he was mine. I just — send me the file. Please. After breakfast. Lunch. Whatever. I need — I need to be busy.”
"Okay," Dream gives in. "I can send you the footage. We're having a movie night tonight, though, I don't care what you say. I'm not — I worry about you, I'm not just gonna let you do your wasting away thing again. I'm gonna make you a smoothie and you're gonna drink it.”
They're stuck staring at each for a second and George can feel his whole fucking chest filling up like his heart has burst open and all his blood is gushing out, overflowing up into his throat and nose and finally spilling out of his eyes.
Dream is saying something, probably apologising, and they end up kneeling on the floor, George crumpled up small in Dream's arms while he rubs his back and rumbles out soft nonsense.
George doesn't bother trying to pull himself together, just slumps into Dream's hold, refuses to cooperate when Dream tries to get him to stand up. Eventually he finds himself perched on the counter while Dream makes some sauce for his pasta.
Dream fills the room with chitchat while George glares daggers at the smoothie maker sitting innocuous in the corner of the kitchen counter. He falls quickly silent when George speaks.
"It was strawberry banana yoghurt water," George says. "And he'd always split it unequal and give me less. It's kind of fucking ironic because the rest of it was the opposite to that. But whatever. I wish he was easier to hate. I'm fucking pissed, Dream, I'm so angry.”
Dream hums sympathetically. George is acutely aware of the fact that he probably looks like a wet cat, bedraggled and pathetic and pitiable.
"We should get drunk," George says, trying to spark Dream up into defensiveness. Dream doesn't fall for it, though, just shakes his head and keeps stirring his stupid pasta sauce.
"We should do hard drugs," he tries. "You let me get drunk when the Japan pictures were posted.”
"I didn't let you do anything, you told me you were getting food and came back with a twelve-pack," Dream scoffs.
"Beer tastes so shit," George mutters. "Everything is so shit. I was going to stream today, I was going to play Bedwars with Hannah.”
“You should probably let her know you won't be able to do it anymore.”
"No, it wasn't scheduled. It was just going to happen," George says. It's kind of a joke but he genuinely was planning to stream. He's been consistent for the past however long. He doesn't like to think about exactly how long it's been. Too long. Not long enough. Too much, not enough. He's a seesaw these days. Or a swing set. A fucking carousel with no brakes. A roller coaster flung off the rails.
He has a schedule, a proper schedule, to keep in check, in control, in the zone or whatever. He streams weekly, uploads fortnightly, actually edits shit and sometimes helps Dream with his stuff, participates in the merch meetings he used to leave for Dream to handle. He keeps himself busy, plans out even his free time, watching shows and films, trying new restaurants with Dream, sometimes driving over to bother Hannah on her streams. The two of them have gotten pretty close, playing Hypixel together both on and off stream and venting to each other about random shit. Random shit for Hannah, at least. Most of George's rants are centred around the same subject.
Dream makes George eat a bowl of pasta.
The day passes.
George does a rough cut of the footage which ends up taking a good few hours, by which point it's time for movie night. Dream comes up to drag him out of his office and then doesn't even let him pick the film.
George isn't really bothered, though, he doubts he could make any kind of decision right now. It's a simple action movie, entertaining and formulaic and Dream doesn't complain when George holds the popcorn bowl in his lap and refuses to let Dream have any.
Patches curls up just next to him on the couch and lets him pet her and overall everything is fine, just fine, George is doing just fine.
He hasn't looked at twitter, hasn't looked at anything, has no idea what's going on and doesn't really care to. He's keeping himself busy. He's going on with his day, moving forward with his life, and he's doing just fine and dandy.
Until Dream, who was up much earlier than him, gets tired and gives up and goes to bed. Leaving George all alone. With his thoughts. And Twitter. It isn't fun.
Sapnap seems fine, laughing and smiling and George keeps all the clips muted which makes it hurt a little less, he thinks, though it means his burning curiosity isn't at all sated. So he keeps scrolling, and scrolling, wide awake in his little tiny room and he thinks about the time not so long ago, not so long ago, when Sapnap was just through the wall and he could knock on it and Sapnap would hear it. And George would knock on it just so Sapnap would knock back, both of them unused to such closeness. And then Sapnap was in his room and George got to unravel a new kind of closeness in touches and kisses and soft starlit words.
And then —
And now George is up and out of bed again, dressing quickly and scurrying downstairs because fuck that, he doesn’t need to be fucking thinking about that
He waits until he’s already driving to text Dream a simple, out driving dw I’m fine.
George had to jump through hoops because of his colourblindness, but he passed his driver’s test a couple months ago. Which means it’s been over a year and a couple months since… everything went to shit. Nearly two years, probably, George isn’t really sure, there’s a few blurry months right after that he always glosses over in his head when he’s counting.
Originally George was going to learn for content purposes. Dream talked about doing a vlog, but they never got round to it, always delaying. He preferred to sit back and let Dream or Sapnap drive him anyway, commandeering the aux and all their attention.
Afterwards, though, after everything, he’d needed something to do, something to get him out of his bed, out of his room, out of the haunted house. Dream had suggested many things, of which learning to drive seemed the easiest, the most time- and brain-consuming, the most useful.
Dream had taught him, driving up and down their secluded road before deeming him competent enough to brave the city. They’d coast along the highway, get drive thru, visit their nearby friends, go to the mall and joke about buying random crap, laugh and joke and pretend it wasn’t all hollow.
George took to dragging Dream out in the middle of the night, driving in silence, in the dark, gazing out at the night and wondering, wondering, wondering.
Sapnap used to do this, when he needed to think, when he needed to not think. George was lucky enough to be invited a few times, wriggled his way in a few other times. It was simple, easy, tilting his seat back and letting Sapnap’s soft humming and singing lull him into sleep.
Sometimes he’d look over with his eyes just barely open, stare at Sapnap’s profile, nose and beard and dry lips. Bright eyes gazing ahead. George never knew what he was thinking about, Sapnap never cared to talk about it. He’d call Karl, sometimes, talk about random shit and all the while George could see the true problem seeping out of Sapnap, worries soothed by cityscape darkness and sleepy conversation.
George still doesn’t quite get the calming aspect of driving yet, still has to concentrate of the mechanics of it too much to properly be able to autopilot and think about… whatever. He doesn’t really know what Sapnap thinks about. Thought about.
It doesn’t matter anyway. Right now he’s thinking about driving, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road, listening to the GPS feeding him directions.
And he’s fine. He’s focused and he’s fine.
George arrives at Karl's house as the sun is creeping over the horizon, shiny and tentative, beetle-bright.
He sits behind the wheel for a second. He hasn't seen Sapnap in person for nearly two years. He’s talked to him only a couple of times, on the rare occasions when he accidentally wondered in when Dream was on call with him, short and sharp and shockingly heavy oh's and hi's and yeah’s.
This is the closest he's been to Sapnap since they lived in the same house, in the same room, in the same bed. Since Sapnap stuttered and stumbled his way through a compromise and George, shocked and scared and selfish, spat back all the promises Sapnap had made to him.
It had worsened. It had worsened. George is sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, and Sapnap is all bare fists and bruises. It had worsened. George had told him to leave. Just fucking leave, then, if you despise me so much.
Sapnap had left. Left the house, left him a blank emotionless scripted voice mail, left his life.
George had never been In Love before, is the thing, and he didn't fucking know it until Sapnap was gone.
And he thought it would mend, heal, fade, that it was better this way because the London loneliness was better than the seasick shudder that ran through him whenever he looked over at Sapnap and found him already staring back, open and honest and spilling syllables like they were easy to say.
And yet despite such openness, such honesty, such love, Sapnap had all the while been compiling a laundry list of all the shit George does wrong because he doesn't fucking know any better. Didn't know any better.
Would he be any better now?
Probably not.
He's still a fucking coward, sneaking away in the middle of the night, showing up unannounced because he doesn't think he could take it if the phone call just wasn't picked up, sitting in his car rather than getting out and knocking on the door.
He's here though, at the very least. He’s making an effort. He's trying. Hoping, even, maybe, though for what exactly he doesn't know.
He gets out of the car, sighs heavily, stretches out his arms and winces as his back cracks, trying not to think about the fact that he's turning thirty next year. And Sapnap is twenty five right now, which is kind of fucked. At twenty five George was still in England. At twenty five George met Sapnap for the first time, at twenty five George met Dream for the first time.
He knocks on the door not really expecting an answer, pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls Karl quickly so he can't chicken out. It takes him a couple of rings to pick up.
"Hi?" Karl says, sleepy and unconcerned.
"Come open the door," George says brusquely.
He can practically see Karl's eyes flying open in panic.
"George! George, hi, how are you?”
"I'm outside your door. Come let me in. I'm hungry.”
"I -- what? Okay. I'll -- I'm coming, give me a second. I dunno that I have much food, though, George, you might have to make do with reheated pizza."
There's a scuffle from the other end, more muffled noises, and then George can hear Karl breathing again so he says,
"Funny that you asked me how I am, though. I'm really good! Really good. Peachy. Woke up yesterday to see my boyfriend trending on twitter because no one thought to fucking inform me that he was back in business!”
"Dream was supposed to tell you," Karl mutters. "Also are you still in fucking denial? Should I even let you in? Do you have a fucking knife or some shit?”
"What? Of course I don't have a knife, why would I have a knife?”
"That's the kind of thing that someone who had a knife would say," Karl says, lightly, faintly amused. There's a pause, a hesitation, and then he adds, "You said -- I know it was probably a slip of the tongue but you said ‘my boyfriend’. Not, like, ‘my ex-boyfriend. Which was -- like, I don't want any fucking trouble, George.”
“I’m not going to cause trouble," George snaps. "It's done now, it's over, everything's over.”
There's the sound of a lock clicking and then the door swings open, revealing a dishevelled Karl wearing tatty pyjama pants and a baggy shirt. George scans his neck automatically for hickeys and is.... pleased, for want of a better word, to find none.
"Why are you here, then?" Karl asks. There's darkness smeared under his drooping eyes.
"Sorry for waking you. I was -- I just wanted to... I don't know. I was sad. I just drove and drove and I ended up here.”
"Right," Karl says, stepping aside to let George in. They head to the kitchen in silence. The house is much the same as it was when George saw it last, when he was here for a Mr Beast shoot a few months ago. Cluttered but cozy.
"Coffee?" Karl asks, already heading over to the machine.
"Yeah," George says, sitting down at the table. Slumping down, really. The tiredness hits him all at once. "Is he sleeping?”
"I guess so. Are you -- do you wanna talk to him?”
"No, I drove for eight hours to talk to my good pal Karl Jacobs," George says, propping his chin in his hand.
"My dear chum GeorgeNotFound," Karl says, with a slight giggle. George smiles, cheeks straining only slightly. He's okay. He's fine. He's well-adjusted, moved-on, he can handle this without shouting or screaming or sobbing.
Karl brings him coffee and a microwaved slice of pizza. George sits and stares down at the cup and plate for a moment before tearing the pizza up bit by bit, devouring it slowly and carefully so it won't turn his stomach. Karl fiddles with his rings, glances up at George every so often. George feels a bit bad for not telling him to go back to bed but he's still selfish.
"Does he still hate me?" George asks. He struggles to stay steady, has to fight back the urge to cover his ears and hum lalala to drown out Karl's answer.
"He never hated you," Karl murmurs. "He loved you to pieces.”
"I think I loved him to pieces," George says, quiet. He examines the wreckage of his pizza. "I pulled and prodded at him till he just -- fell apart. Snapped. Whichever. Whatever.”
“I don't want to talk for him," Karl says carefully. "But I think he misses you a lot.”
George doesn't even care if Karl is just humouring him. He's happy to take pity, happy to take scraps.
"I miss him a lot as well.”
"I can tell," Karl sighs.
They lapse into silence. George burns his tongue on the coffee and takes another sip anyway. Maybe he can dissolve it away entirely and then he won't be able to fight back when Sapnap yells at him.
A slight sound from upstairs has them both tensed. George continues to nibble at his pizza, continues to sip the too-bitter too-hot coffee, stares down at his busy hands and waits. Sapnap doesn't freeze, doesn't pause, doesn't hesitate at all when he traipses into the room.
"Hey Karl," he says, and George flinches at the hit, at the lack of a hit, but then, "Hey George. Did you get the redeye?”
"It's like a four hour plane trip, I don't think you can call that a redeye. And no. I drove.”
Sapnap hums. he's behind the counter, distant, so fucking distant. "Forgot you finally learned. You still on your L’s?"
"Always," Karl giggles.
“I passed my test few months ago, actually. Are you proud of me?”
"Always," Sapnap says, far too fucking soft and George really really didn't want to cry, he really really wanted to keep it together, keep it all bottled up and safe like he always does.
"Thanks," he mutters, sarcastic, and bites harshly into another fragment of pizza.
"Crash yet?" Sapnap asks. George hears the beeps of the coffee machine and deems it safe to glance up, which proves to be a mistake as Sapnap is staring right at him. He looks a little worn down, tired, hair messy under his cap, but his eyes are bright, expectant.
"Have you crashed yet?" Sapnap repeats.
"No," George scoffs. "I'm a brilliant driver, I'd never crash ever.”
"So that's a yes," Sapnap laughs, turning back to grab his coffee. He's acting so normal, so casual, his nonchalance starting to eat away at George. He seems well-adjusted, moved-on, able to talk to George without screaming and sobbing.
"I've never actually crashed, I'm just bad at parking," George defends. “
Are you two good? Can I go get dressed or are you going to bite each others heads off as soon as I leave?" Karl interupts, already standing.
"You can go," Sapnap says. "Take your time.”
"Okay," Karl says. He glances pointedly at George, who just shrugs.
Karl leaves the room and Sapnap takes his seat at the table and George stuffs the rest of his pizza into his mouth so he doesn't spit out something stupid.
"I saw you hit twenty million," Sapnap says. “Congrats."
"Yeah," George says lamely. He sips his coffee, wishes it were hotter. "I saw you on Karl's stream yesterday.”
"Figured. Unless you often show up at Karl's house at the break of dawn looking like death?”
"I don't look like death," George frowns. He doesn't have a mirror, there's none nearby. He probably does look like death. He hasn't slept for like twenty hours or something. A little less. And he was driving for nearly half of it, and driving is tiring for him, far from a calming thing.
“You really do. But in a cute way.”
"Shut up." It's said too harshly, maybe. Probably. "Sorry. I'm tired.”
There's a silence, and George wonders if he should apologise again just to be safe, but then Sapnap says, "It's okay. Me too. I've been driving a lot lately as well, it takes a lot out of you.”
"Where have you been driving?”
It's small talk, basically, but he is genuinely curious. He knows Sapnap travels a lot, recently driving around America, and he toured Europe and lived in Greece for a few months and went to Japan -- but George doesn't think about that. He doesn't think about what Sapnap might be doing, where he might be, what he might be thinking and feeling and wondering.
"Well I was in LA for a bit, and then I took a zig-zaggy sort of route to get here. I arrived quicker than I thought I would, got bored halfway and changed the route to just head straight here for the last couple days.”
"Dream said that," George recalls. "That you arrived quicker than he thought you would. No one told me you'd be here. First I heard was seeing you trending on twitter and then a clip of you staring at Karl like you wanted —”
He cuts himself off. He stays safe, stays nice and polite and non-confrontational.
"Like I wanted to what?" Sapnap presses, amused.
George glares at his almost empty coffee cup. "Like you wanted to have his babies. To say it the nice way.”
"Karl would be a good dad," Sapnap says musingly. "He's got lots of energy and he's... kind, I guess would be how I'd put it.”
"Yeah, I'd try to fucking drown the thing if it woke me up at night," George mutters.
"Same," Sapnap sighs. "Our baby would be dead within days. Terrible tragedy. Or we'd just give it to Karl, I guess. Offload it. Sell it. People would pay billions for the SNF baby.”
"You wanted kids, though," George frowns. "On Banter, you said you wanted kids.”
"Yeah, but you don't," Sapnap says.
The statement hangs in the air, resounding in the quiet room.
And then Sapnap simultaneously breaks the silence and George’s heart.
“It was never going to work,” Sapnap says, with such conviction that it must be true. It hurts to hear all the same, almost absentminded, hope crushed simply and easily. “You made a habit of shooting me down and I was too in love with you to tell you to stop.”
I was too in love with you. Was.
“You did tell me to stop,” George says, too tired to defend himself. “I just didn’t. You go red when you’re angry, so red that even I can see it.”
Sapnap hums gently. The sound makes a home inside George’s hollow chest, curls up comfortably, achingly familiar. It fades into a soft sigh.
“I always liked you, you know,” Sapnap says. “Always wanted more. Ever since I knew you. But I knew I’d never have you.”
“You had me,” George says. You have me, he doesn’t say.
“Yeah,” Sapnap says, happiness singeing the edges of the words, curling like strands of smoke, quickly whisked away. “I remember sitting in Comfy with you and it was… I never really let myself hope, you know, it was always just a fantasy, but then we’d talk for hours, just us, and it was so special. You were so special, and I couldn’t help but let myself think that maybe you also thought I was special, and then you did, and it was like… I had to keep it. I had to keep you. No matter what. But it didn’t work.”
“It was never going to work,” George murmurs, repeating Sapnap’s earlier statement.
“No,” Sapnap says. His lips are curved into a smile that carves neatly into George’s chest. “It wasn’t. What do you do these days when you’re bored?”
It’s a strange segue. George flounders for a moment. “I don’t know. I keep myself busy, I don’t get very bored.”
“Keep yourself busy?”
“With work stuff. I’m trying to stay consistent. I have a routine. I stream, I guess, or watch something, or make Dream do something with me. We play scrabble with made-up words.”
“Sounds fun,” Sapnap says. “Do the words have meanings or are they just letters?”
“You have to give it a meaning,” George says.
Sapnap nods thoughtfully.
“You keep in touch with Dream, don’t you?” George asks. Small talk. He can feel all the real questions bubbling up inside him like the sulphuric gas from the volcanic vents at the bottom of the sea.
“Yeah, we call every couple of days.” Sapnap likes to talk when he’s driving somewhere with purpose. George was his person of choice when he was travelling to move in with Dream on a days notice, a far cry from George’s years and months of waiting and waiting, and then Sapnap had hung up when he arrived at the house and hadn’t bothered to call George till the next day. George was dragged along as he first moved into Dream’s house, and George was the one to shove him out of it.
“Do you keep in touch with everyone?” He needs to keep his head above water, all his fucking bottles are cracking and he feels tiny, trembling and terrified and Sapnap is so calm and composed. He might seem uncaring, almost, if George didn’t know him so well. Unless he doesn’t know him so well anymore.
“People I talked to about things besides content, yeah. Not a whole lot. Just checking in, mostly. Sometimes people invite me to tag along on their holidays, I went with Sylvee and Hannah and Karl to Japan a few months ago.”
“Yeah,” George says. Sapnap doesn’t post anything anywhere anymore, but he’d been in some of Hannah’s snaps, a couple of the pictures from Karl’s instagram photo-dump. Every small smile and thumbs up like a needle prodded into George’s skin. “Looked fun.”
“It was, it was really cool. I think you’d like it there. We could get proper sushi.”
“We,” George says, carefully.
“You could get proper sushi,” Sapnap says, like he’s correcting himself. George isn’t sure if it’s for his own sake or George’s. “Go with Dream sometime, he’d love it as well. He could bring back the stupid cat beanie phase, there’s loads of stuff like that there, cute hats and stuff.”
“Yeah. So. Where are you planning to go after this?” George asks. He feels Sapnap tense.
“Not sure,” is all he says, though, nonchalant.
“I think maybe you do know,” George says, quiet. Imagines it: Sapnap’s sleek Porsche pulling back into its home, the garage still painted garish green.
“I think maybe I’m waiting,” Sapnap counters.
George nods, slowly, as he tries to formulate a way to invite without actually asking. He’s never been good at fixing things beside computers, meticulous and methodical.
“I was going to move out after you left. It felt weird with just me and Dream and I was going to find an apartment to stay in for a little while. But then I… I couldn’t.” He doesn’t elaborate. The months just after Sapnap had gone are murky in his mind, sour to taste and sharp to touch and sickening to dwell on. “It sucked. It was like I was back in England.”
“I’m sorry,” Sapnap says.
“It’s fine. Not your fault. It was for the best that you left. Like you said. We weren’t working. It was… everything was shit. I fucked it all up. I finally had everything I ever wanted — more than — and I fucked it all up. I’m just lucky Dream didn’t hold it against me.”
“You’re dumb if you ever thought he would. He said… he told me you were doing okay.” There’s a touch of guilt in his voice.
“I told him to,” George reassures him. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured to come back. Didn’t want you to see me like that. It wasn’t even that bad. I was just… self-pitying and selfish. Sad. I’ve never…”
But he can’t say it. He still can’t fucking say it, even though it’s all over now, done and dusted, the page turned and the sun set.
Sapnap pushes, though, prods and pokes like always, wanting more, they both always wanted more but while Sapnap was willing to give and give and endlessly give George was too lazy or scared or whatever the fuck else to figure out how to.
“You’ve never what?”
George opens his mouth, tries, finds himself unable. Weak. Cowardly as ever.
“George.” Soft but slightly stern.
“I think… I think that I — that I’d like for you to come home,” George says, stumbling, failing again. The sentence sits in his stomach like a snake, ravenous, twisting up and around his heart and squeezing tight, tight, tight. “Please. If you — if you want to.”
There’s a silence. George's heart battles fruitlessly.
“Of course I want to,” Sapnap says, soft and sincere. “Do you want another coffee? Or the machine makes hot chocolate as well I think?”
“I’ll take a hot chocolate. Please,” George says. “Thank you.”
Sapnap picks up George’s cup and George watches the flex of his fingers, the same as he always has, big and strong and broad. Watches his back as he walks over to the machine. The red-tinged scruff of his beard as he turns back, dry lips smiling, eyes excited despite the shadows dripped under them.
The coffee maker beeps. Sapnap leans back against the counter, gazes across the room at George who struggles to hold the stare. Sapnap chews the inside of his cheek. George knows the taste of the raw skin, bites his own lip to hold back the confession.
The machine beeps again, Sapnap turns to grab the filled cup. He sets it down in front of George, who watches the shape of his breaths, imagines the pulse of his heart.
Sapnap sits. George stares down at the steaming cup, pale brown liquid rippling.
“Don’t look at me,” George mutters. He hears the rustle of fabric as Sapnap obediently turns away, glances up to make sure he’s not looking. Examines the edge of his jawline, the curls of his hair. “I think I… I think I’m too late.”
He expects a rebuttal but Sapnap just sits there, facing away, waiting, impossible to read.
“Look at me,” George pleads, begs. Sapnap twists back towards him, face open and honest and hopeful, just ever so slightly hopeful. George has to tamp down the urge to look away, the urge to cry, the urge to cower in on himself again. “I know it’s too late but I — I loved you. And I know I’m not good but I’ve been trying to be better and — and braver. And I miss you. I miss you so much, so terribly. Will you please come home?”
“I’ll come home,” Sapnap says quietly. George nods, tightly, jaw locked, blinking not quite fast enough to stop the tears from trickling out. He grinds his hands into his eyes, scrubs and scrubs, flinches as an arm slips around his shoulders.
He goes boneless as he’s tugged up into a hug, strong arms enveloping him as he presses his face into Sapnap’s neck, hands fisted in the fabric of his hoodie, which he trusts is thick enough to muffle his words to nonsense as he mumbles, the snake relinquishing and relenting.
“I know,” Sapnap whispers. “I know, baby, I know.”