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1. Just a coincidence
Thunder erupts, loud and clear, like a drumbeat that shakes the stillness of the night. The sudden sound snaps Chris awake from a light, restless sleep. His eyes fly open, and he blinks against the darkness of his room, squinting at the outlines of his furniture, trying to shake off the grogginess. He reaches over to his bedside table, groping for his phone. 2:23 a.m. reads the display; Chris sighs. Another summer storm, uninvited but not entirely unwelcome. It’s the kind of storm that makes everything feel a little rawer, a little less real.
Since he’s awake now, there’s no point in trying to fall back asleep. So, he sits up and stretches, his body heavy from the leftover sleep. With a half-hearted yawn, he flicks on his bedside lamp, and the soft yellow light spreads across the room, illuminating what he could envision but not distinguish. His bare feet make a muffled noise against the smooth, polished wood of the floor as he shuffles towards the door, careful not to disturb the quiet.
He opens it slowly, the hinges squeaking just slightly. The apartment is immersed in darkness, but the faint glow from his room slices through the air, making the hallway seem eerie, almost dreamlike. He steps into it, the warmth of his room quickly swallowed by the coolness of the corridor as he walks down it, the storm outside rattling against the windows in time with the blood pumping in his ears.
As he passes George’s room, he hears a muffled noise - laughter, perhaps, but it’s too soft, too hidden in the walls for Chris to place its exact source. He pauses, the sound unfamiliar in the quiet of the apartment at this hour.
He stands still for a moment, straining to hear more. But it’s quiet for a long moment, so much so that Chris considers just having imagined it. It’s then that he notices a faint light, a subtle glow creeping from underneath George’s door. A warm streak, like the first bit of daylight heralding dawn.
Curiosity gnaws at Chris, and he raises a hand to knock gently on the door, though he isn’t sure why. He doesn’t expect to be let in, nor does he particularly want to disturb George, but something about the quiet and the laughter pulls at him. He knocks softly - three quick taps - and waits, listening for any movement. Silence. He knocks again, this time more firmly. Still nothing.
So, without really thinking it through, Chris turns the handle and gently pushes the door open.
The room inside is bathed in the flickering light of the street lamps outside. The curtains flutter like ghostly sails, tossed by the wind from the slightly open window, and they catch the glow of distant lightning every few seconds. In the dimness, George is a silhouette, a dark shape framed against the window, his figure still, but alive with energy.
Chris can see that George is sitting on the windowsill, knees pulled up to his chest, his head tilted back against the cool glass as he gazes out into the storm. The dim light of the room, mixed with the flashes of lightning, paints his face in dramatic strokes, in chiaroscuro. George has his AirPods in, and though Chris can’t hear his words, he can see the smile on his face, the soft curves of his mouth and the way his eyes shine even in the dark. He’s not alone. There’s a conversation happening here, an invisible thread between him and someone else.
Chris hovers at the door, half in the room and half out, his curiosity blooming, though he doesn’t want to intrude. The words filter through the air, carried by the soft hum of George’s voice.
“Like, oh no, rain! Let me run into the water real quick. How’s no one ever picked up on that?” George whispers, his tone amused, teasing.
Chris stands frozen, unsure whether he should leave or stay. The storm outside roars again, another sharp crack of thunder that vibrates through the walls. He watches George’s face light up with a grin, his expression animated, as though he’s caught in some private, shared joke. There’s no tension in his voice, no rush to end the conversation. It’s effortless, like they’ve been talking for hours.
"Because no one can know they’re mermaids!” George says, his voice rising in mock-exasperation, and Chris can almost hear the playful eye-roll from the other end of the line.
The person on the other end of the conversation must say something else, because George laughs, a sound Chris recognizes, even though it’s muted by the way he buries his mouth in the crook of his elbow. “No, Arthur, that was about Luca, not H2O.” George chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. “H2O as a queer metaphor, I can’t believe you’ve just said that!”
The room fills with another quiet laugh, and for a moment, Chris doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to pull himself away from this glimpse into George’s life, the carefree, warm space he shares with someone else. It’s like watching a scene unfold that’s not meant for him, but that’s been laid bare regardless. The connection between them, between George and Arthur, feels almost tangible in the stillness of the night. How do they always have so much to talk about?
Chris shakes his head. It’s just darkness and silence; just a summer storm that will pass, and tomorrow the sun will shine and whatever it is that Arthur and George are sharing will no longer seem arcane, secret.
Before he realizes it, he’s been standing in the doorway for too long, caught in a moment that isn’t his to witness. He feels like an intruder. Without thinking, he steps backward, his heart a little heavier than before. He quietly pulls the door shut, muffling whatever soft remark was just coming from George.
The hallway feels even colder now, quieter, and Chris finally turns toward the kitchen to get that glass of water. But even as he walks, the thought lingers, the question swirling in his mind, unanswered and stubborn: is there something more?
The water doesn’t help. It never does.
—
2. A clue
The front door creaks as Chris pushes it open, the familiar sight of his flat’s homely living room greeting him. George is sprawled out on the sofa, legs stretched across the cushions, a half-empty mug within easy reach on the coffee table. His eyes are fixed on his phone screen, his thumb flicking absentmindedly though random TikTok videos. The soft background music coming tinny from the speakers gets lost in the white noise of the room - the dishwasher approaching the end of the programme, the traffic barely audible from the street underneath.
"Hey, George," Chris calls, stepping inside and locking the door closed behind him. He runs a hand through his hair, the sound of keys clanging as he tosses them in the coin tray nearby.
George doesn’t look up. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. His finger swipes again, engrossed in whatever nonsense he’s watching now. Chris sighs, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. The air smells faintly of pizza from last night and of the air freshener, amber and sandalwood, that Lisa brought them the last time she visited.
"Hey, George!" Chris repeats, louder this time, as he pushes himself off the door and begins walking towards him.
"I’m renting the pitch for the next video," he adds, hoping that might catch his attention. "Which works best between the 17th and the 19th?"
George's thumb freezes mid-swipe, then continues its rhythmic tapping, utterly unfazed. After a long moment, he finally speaks without even glancing up. "Of September?"
Chris scoffs. "No, George, of July 2025."
There’s a pause - a second, maybe two - before George’s eyebrows raise in mild annoyance, though he doesn’t look away from his phone. “Of September, got it. In which case, neither works.”
Chris blinks, genuinely confused now. “Wait, why?” He leans forward, elbows braced on the back of the coach.
George shrugs, still not breaking his attention from the screen. “Arthur’s going back to Jersey for his sister’s eighteenth birthday. I thought you wanted him in the video. Also” - he drops casually, like it’s no big deal - “don’t tell his parents if you hear from them. It’s a surprise.”
A few questions bubble to the surface in Chris’s mind, too many to untangle all at once.
“Why the hell would I hear from- Wait,” Chris starts, his pitch getting all shrill and squeaky as a thought occurs to him. “Are you in touch with Arthur’s parents?”
George doesn’t respond immediately. The phone in his hand flickers with the next video, a clip from the latest Chicken Shop Date episode, and George’s lips quirk in a small, amused smile. He’s probably not even paying attention to what Chris is saying anymore. “Sometimes,” he answers finally, still not looking up. “I’m just saying. I don’t know why you’d hear from them, but if you do, don’t say anything.” He shrugs again, completely at ease, as if talking to Arthur’s parents at times was perfectly normal and not a big deal at all.
Chris watches him for a beat, blinking rapidly, trying to connect the dots. He could question George about his relationship with Arthur’s family, but the guy’s so deep in his own little world, there’s no point. Instead, he decides to move the conversation along, feeling the beginning of a headache gnawing at his temples. "The days before, then? Like the 14th?"
At that, George finally does look up, his expression morphing into one of pure disbelief. The phone lowers just enough for him to give Chris an incredulous glance. “Maybe after?”
Chris stares at him, brow furrowed. At this point, he has given up on understanding. “Arthur will say no to the 14th?”
“Arthur will say yes,” George replies, his tone flat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course, he’ll say yes. It’s Arthur. But…” He trails off, staring at Chris, his gaze suddenly serious, but only for a moment.
Chris leans even further in, trying to follow the shift in tone. “But?”
George's eyes narrow slightly as if he’s weighing what to say. Then he sighs, dropping his gaze back to his phone. “I just think it would be better if…” He trails off again, the words slipping away like sand through fingers.
“If?” Chris prompts, impatient now. The whole conversation has become a tangle of half-answers and unspoken thoughts.
George looks up again. He tilts his head slightly, his lips tightening into a thin line. “If you didn’t make him do something that could easily get him injured two days before he’s supposed to leave to visit his family.”
Chris’s brain stalls. "Right," he says slowly, chewing over the words. "Okay, sure," he continues, deciding to let the weirdness of it all slide for now. "I’ll just check the available dates again." He taps a few keys on his phone, distracted by the thought of an already-extended deadline and the fact that the planning for this video keeps getting more complicated.
For a second, there’s silence between them, the kind that sits heavy in the air as George starts flicking through his feed again. Chris looks at him one more time and offers, “The 23rd?”
George nods. "Yeah, sounds great."
His attention is fixed on a new video. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins at the screen, a baby elephant, soft gray skin a little too large for its body, stumbles forward on wobbly legs and tumbles straight into its mum’s leg. The video loops twice, and then George, grinning, hits the share button, forwarding it to the top contact in his messages.
Chris doesn't even need to check to know who that is.
“Still talking to him, huh?” he asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
George barely acknowledges the tone, absorbed in the next video. "He loves elephants," is all he says, a simple explanation. His grin stretches just a bit wider.
Chris shakes his head, his mind still spinning from the absurdity of it all. He’ll sort this out later. Probably. Right now, he needs to get back to planning the shoot.
The conversation’s over, for now. But Chris can’t help but wonder, as he watches George's grin widen over a viral elephant video, just how tangled his and Arthur’s lives really are.
—
3. A proof
Chris is pulling fresh laundry out of the dryer, feeling the heat radiate off the clothes as they tumble into the basket. He’s nearly done, and it’s one of those quiet afternoons where everything feels under control, like his life is that part of the film that just happens somewhere off screen with everyone’s implicit consent. But then the doorbell rings, shattering the calm.
“Coming!” Chris shouts, tossing the last shirt onto the couch. Without thinking twice, he rushes to the door, half-distracted, his mind already on the next task. He assumes it’s one of his flatmates who’s forgotten their keys again, as they so often do.
But as the door swings open, it’s not George or Arthur Hill standing there.
“Arthur?” Chris says, blinking in confusion, half-expecting to be mistaken. ArthurTV, of all people, is on time?
“Hi, mate,” Arthur greets with his usual laid-back grin, stepping in and already kicking his shoes off at the door. Without missing a beat, he pulls Chris into a brief, but warm hug, like he always does.
Chris pulls back slightly, still trying to process what’s going on.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Arthur asks, noticing Chris’s open-mouthed stare and furrowed brow.
“It’s three,” Chris mutters, as if that should explain everything, though it doesn’t. To anyone else, it probably wouldn’t make sense.
Arthur pauses, brows furrowed. “Hadn’t we said at three?”
“Yes, we had,” Chris exclaims, finally allowing himself to process the absurdity of it all. “But you’re never on time. Never. You’re always late. I mean, George is still at the supermarket and I’m here folding laundry because I figured you’d be at least twenty minutes late!”
Arthur’s face breaks into an amused grin. “Should I apologize for being on time, then?”
Chris snorts, shaking his head. “I think you should,” he says, voice dripping with sarcastic affection.
“Alright, I’m sorry,” Arthur immediately complies. “I could help with the folding?”
Chris raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised. “Are you serious?”
“I mean, I offered,” he laughs, shrugging again.
It’s a weird situation - Arthur, the perpetual latecomer, on time and volunteering to fold laundry - but, well, Chris isn’t going to say no. Not when there’s so much to do.
“Suit yourself, mate.”
So, the two of them sit down together on the couch, the pile of clothes looming like a small mountain between them. They start sifting through the clothes, folding shirts and matching socks with a sense of distracted camaraderie. The sound of their chitchat, mixed with the rustling of fabric, fills the otherwise quiet apartment.
Chris quickly segregates his own clothes into a neat pile, but the rest is a mess of confusion. George and Arthur Hill both have fairly similar tastes. Nothing particularly memorable or distinct to help him differentiate their stuff. And of course, this leads to a problem.
“Okay, I’m just gonna leave these here for George and Arthur to pick,” Chris says, uncomplaining, holding up a bunch of generic shirts and hoodies.
Arthur waves a hand dismissively, clearly not bothered. “No worries, mate, I’ve got it.”
Chris snorts, ironic. “‘Cause you obviously know my flatmates’ wardrobes by heart.”
Arthur shrugs, his face entirely unbothered. “I know George’s stuff, at least. I’ll just go by exclusion for the rest.”
With that, Arthur begins sorting through the pile with ease, picking out a pair of joggers and declaring them to be George’s. Chris watches in stunned silence as Arthur confidently divides the clothes in two imaginary groups: “George” and “Arthur.”
Chris doesn’t even know what to say. His mouth is half open, still processing the bizarre scene unfolding before him. Arthur’s confident in his choices, casually holding up sweaters and hoodies and assigning them to each flatmate with uncanny precision. It’s almost like he’s been living here for months. And somehow, that’s the weird part.
Until Arthur reaches a particular jumper - one Chris remembers George wearing the other night to go out. It’s navy blue, knitted, and Chris recalls exactly the moment when George pulled it on before heading out to meet their friends. Without thinking, Chris blurts out, “Wait, that one is George’s.”
Arthur pauses, holding the jumper mid-air, a look of mild confusion crossing his face. He glances at Chris with a deadpan expression. “George wore it, yeah, but Arthur lent it to him.”
Chris freezes. The room seems to tilt a little, and his brain starts racing. Here they are again. “You’re joking right now,” he stammers. The only way Arthur could know all this, would be if…
Arthur just shrugs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “No, mate. I complimented George on it the other night, and he told me it was Arthur’s. So, I complimented Arthur on it too. Just for the jumper though, not how it fit him.”
Chris blinks a few times, processing. This is ridiculous. The fact that Arthur not only knows what George is wearing but also the backstory behind it is a level of knowledge Chris was not prepared for today. And he doesn’t even want to start thinking about the implications of his last remark.
Arthur continues folding, oblivious to the mental chaos he’s causing, picking through the laundry like some sort of domestic wizard. Eventually, he finishes sorting, taking the piles of clothes for George and Arthur Hill and heading towards their rooms to put them on their beds.
Chris is watching him, still processing, when his eyes land on the last hoodie left on the sofa. It’s the one George has been wearing every night this week before bed, now that it’s a bit chillier. It’s worn in, the green of it a bit faded and the name of some place in California printed in white letters, and for some reason, Chris feels a small sense of victory.
“So, what about this one?” Chris asks, trying to keep his voice casual as Arthur returns from putting away the other clothes.
Arthur picks it up, glancing at it, and responds without hesitation, “Oh, that one’s mine. I’m taking it home.”
Chris’s head snaps up in disbelief, so fast it gives him whiplash. His body goes rigid, his eyes widening as he processes the words.
George has been wearing Arthur’s hoodie before bed. And then again in the morning, still sleep-warm and barefoot, eating eggs and toast at the kitchen counter. Every day for a week.
Chris almost says something, but then the sound of keys turning in the lock distracts him. George is home, shopping bags in hand. Arthur, as usual, is quick to offer help. Chris, on the other hand, needs a moment. A long one.
He excuses himself, heading straight for the bathroom, where he locks himself in for a few minutes to collect his thoughts.
-
Later that night, at dinner, the mood is lighter, but Chris is still internally reeling. They sit down to eat, and as usual, George and Arthur Hill are talking about their day. But then, Arthur looks in Chris’s direction and he seems to remember something. “Thanks for doing the laundry, Chris,” he says, wholeheartedly grateful. “You even managed to return my jumper.”
Chris freezes. He has not quite stopped thinking about how Arthur knew about the jumper, or how he knew which clothes belonged to whom - or, to George, at least - with such accuracy.
“It was Arthur,” Chris admits, the words almost feeling like an apology. “I wouldn’t have known, to be honest.”
And if the smile that brightens up George’s face at the sound of Arthur’s name is something he can go by, then the count is already up to four. What’s more certain than a proof?