Work Text:
It’s Sunday again.
You only know that because there’s a constant pinging reminder in your solidly booked calendar that you have to do some lore building for the DSMP today.
It’s tedious, or at least that’s how everything feels right now. Each day feels like a rubber band that’s constantly being stretched, and the tension is just so high that you know at some point it’s either going to release and snap, or it’s going to break.
With George still trapped on the other side of the world, you feel helpless in a way that doesn’t feel normal. You have more money than is reasonable for a singular person, and yet you are literally powerless when it comes to getting George here.
It’s dumb, the first time you accidentally slip on call, and tell him he’s coming home. You don’t realise you said it at all really, until George goes silent for a second. Then he’s trying the word on like a garment, testing how it fits, and before you know it he’s using it all the time to refer to your house.
Your heart swells, it’s engorged at this point but that’s a poor choice of phrasing when you’re still trying to figure out where your feelings fit in with your attraction to said boy across the ocean.
You know there’s something there, something strong and profound, but you don’t dare put a name to it because if you did, then it would have to be something. It would need a label and you can barely put a label on yourself, your sexuality, your essence.
If the world were an easier place, if you weren’t famous, nor was he, maybe labels wouldn’t matter, and crossing an entire ocean to live with someone wouldn’t be as hard. Or maybe it would be even harder, but you try not to think about that too much.
Whatever it is that you feel, you know he feels it too.
It’s there in the way he banters with you, and in the way he keeps things just for you—in quiet calls while the rest of the world sleeps, or some parts of the world anyhow.
He whispers things to you, and you whisper things right back, because saying any of those things out loud or in the light of day is terrifying.
So instead, you slowly start falling in love with the quiet spaces, the in-betweens where George exhales and you inhale. You don’t say you’re falling in love with him because there’s too much weighing on everything right now. The elastic is still being stretched to unimaginable lengths and you’re terrified.
God knows, every time you hop on stream—or join a voice call with more than just George—you’re absolutely trembling with fear over the idea that somebody, anybody, knows your secret.
Of course, it’s different when people tease you both about DNF because that’s something you lean into for the fans. It’s tongue in cheek for the content and maybe a little because you can’t help yourself. There’s these tiny momentary passes of unhinged flirtation, but it’s only ever temporary—over the moment the joke lands.
It’s Sunday.
And you know you have to answer a bunch of emails, and then work on editing a vod or two, but you can’t bring yourself to do anything but slump in the desk chair and stare at your monitor blankly.
Though the house is quiet, you can faintly hear Sapnap singing to Patches at the top of his lungs, some kind of anthem of love. It’s sweet and earnest and you love every ounce of it, but it’s different from what you feel for George.
You and Sapnap talk all the time, even when you hadn’t lived together, but you don’t feel a heavy thumping in your chest when he says your name. You don’t take your phone to the bed and curl up in the blankets, pretending he’s laying next to you.
George has clawed his way into your very soul, even without having access to all of you. And that alone is a terrifying thought, because if he owns this much of you without really knowing, without being here, then odds are you’ll be lost completely when you both meet for the first time.
At times you feel like you can’t breathe.
Other times it feels like you could float to the moon, for how untethered you are.
Ding
You see your phone light up with a text notification from George.
Can he hear your thoughts from thousands of miles away? Not likely, but then again, George has been known to wordlessly figure out your thoughts before you even have them.
The text is a picture.
Of George.
Holding his visa.
The rubber band snaps back and hits you in the chest, with the knowledge that George is coming home.
—— End ——