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There are times when Arthur feels so deeply about something that it burns at his skin and it’s all he can think about until he can satiate it. It’s like his mind is an indistinguishable blob of mass in deep space, his body victim to the relentless force of its gravity, warping however it is commanded.
So, he finishes off his drink and gets up from the table. He tells Bach where he’s going so it doesn’t seem like he’s just disappeared, and so no one comes searching for him. Then he makes his way outside, spiralling past a blur of bodies by the bar, trying to ignore the feeling of somebody else’s sweat rubbing up against his bare arm as they collide momentarily. But everything is temporary, like this night and like that brush of a stranger’s skin on his and like this feeling that he’s so overwhelmed by. It’s not a bad feeling. It’s hardly even a feeling at all. It’s an urge. An itch. A disturbance of space-time.
When he’s outside, Arthur unlocks his phone and calls George at one in the morning on a Thursday, for no reason aside from the simple fact that he misses him and feels like talking to someone who he hasn’t already been talking with on-and-off all night. Mostly because he misses him. He’s ever so slightly tipsy, but that’s irrelevant, truly.
Arthur knows George well. Probably better than most of their other friends do. So, theoretically, he should have known something wasn’t right the second George answered the phone with a short and disinterested, “What’s up?”
He should have sensed the shift in equilibrium, the unbalance of all the fundamental forces in the universe. He should have faked a butt-dial and aborted. But his head feels like it might explode. So he says all at once, in one breath, “Hey mate, you all right? I just got done filming for Chris. Well, we finished filming a while ago, we stayed at the last bar for some drinks. I’m a bit battered. You can probably tell.”
There’s a brief silence that isn’t quite silence, because it’s never completely silent over the phone. There’s always the soft noise of the other person breathing, or the background static that sounds like the colour brown, somehow, or even the rustling of clothes as the person shifts about on the other end.
The silence now is interrupted only with a huff of air. Like a sigh. One that sounds small and tired.
Then George says, “Hm.”
Arthur replies, “You should’ve come, it’s been really fun.”
There is another sigh. This one cannot be misinterpreted as a heavier-than-usual breath. It is indisputably a sigh. “You know I couldn’t come, Arthur.”
“I know. You were busy.” Arthur wants to wait for George to say something else, but half a second passes and it feels like a lifetime. “What have you been up to, then?”
“Just editing, tonight.”
Arthur bounces on the balls of his feet where he’s stood on the pavement. He’s only just now beginning to feel the cold bite at his fingers and nose. He left his jacket inside. He’d rather freeze gradually and painfully than go and retrieve it. “Yeah? That it?”
George hums noncommittally.
Frustration simmers in Arthur’s throat. He needed to do this, and he’s done it; he has called George and he has released some of the static energy that has been accumulating beneath his skin. But he’s not getting what he wants in return. He’s not getting anything at all. It’s unsatisfying and it’s irritating and, above all else, it’s concerning.
Arthur says, without really thinking about it, “I feel like I never see you anymore.”
George scoffs, and his tone is cold and vacant when he replies, “What are you on about? I saw you the other day at the Sidemen shoot.”
“Surely you understand how that isn’t the same?” Arthur tries to make his own tone as even as possible so as not to come across as argumentative, because that isn’t what he wants, and it isn’t going to help the situation. But he really needs to get to the bottom of George’s foul mood. This new urge transcends his prior one, to just talk to George; now he needs to figure him out entirely.
“Isn’t the same as what, Arthur?” George sounds annoyed, which was never Arthur’s intention, to call him and rile him up, but there’s something about his demeanour that’s so distinctly off, like there’s something more important or relevant that he isn’t disclosing.
“Seeing each other for work isn’t the same as seeing each other just for the sake of hanging out.” Arthur tries to choose his words carefully, but George’s reactions feel unpredictable and dangerous right now, like the ocean, if you aren’t familiar with it. Arthur should be familiar enough with George by now to avoid all the areas where treacherous currents lurk. But again, it’s all in theory. Theory only gets you so far. If it fails in practice, it’s back to the drawing board. “Your schedule is busy and that’s fine, mine is too, but I think it would be nice if you made some more time for your friends. More social time. Outside of filming.”
And the tide takes him under. He’s paddled right into the rip.
“Did you seriously call me to have a go at me about this?”
“No, George. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Did you?” Despite the raised volume of his voice, George still sounds so distant, like his focus is elsewhere. Arthur wouldn’t mind the disconnect if George wasn’t being so mean about it all.
Arthur chews on the inside of his cheek, even though he knows he’ll likely make it bleed. “Are you busy with something else? If you don’t want to talk, just tell me.”
“Okay, well, to be honest, I don’t really want to talk if you’re going to keep carrying on like I’m your boyfriend or something, mate.”
Arthur’s gut clenches at the cruelty of his words. Straight-forward, cutting, uncaring. Frank, whilst simultaneously so out of character. George must be having the mother of all bad days. It doesn’t seem fair that Arthur has to bear the brunt of it.
“Yeah, fine,” he says quietly. “Okay then.”
“Okay then,” comes the muffled reply, dry and condescending, then Arthur’s phone beeps in notification that the call has been ended.
Arthur stands there with his phone in his hand, staring at his stupid nebula lockscreen that he screenshotted from the story highlights of the official Hubble Instagram page, feeling like the most moronic of all morons in the East London area.
He’s not even sure if it’s hurt that he feels. Maybe it’s disappointment. Or confusion. Or maybe he’s altogether numb. Maybe it’s because he’s so cold. He should really head back inside, at least to grab his jacket.
But space is a freezing, lonely vacuum and he’s stuck floating out in the middle of it like a bit of wayward space junk.
Barely even a minute of existential contemplation has passed before Arthur’s phone buzzes. He swipes to take the call mindlessly.
The line crackles. There’s an audible inhale, and an even louder exhale. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur blinks, stares ahead at the lamppost a couple of feet from him, its harsh yellow light flickering against the road.
“Hello? Arthur?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, you’re… hey. I didn’t… I’m sorry.”
George sounds choked up. There is an ache in Arthur’s chest which has remained constant yet dull up until this point. It is now a significant, steady thud which is beginning to grow uncomfortably painful.
“It’s okay,” he says, as gently as possible.
“It’s not okay. I really am sorry. I just… I can’t… you’re right. About everything. But I don’t think it’s a good time to have this conversation. I’m just going to say everything wrong and sound like a dickhead.”
It’s George who is rambling now, a stark contrast to Arthur’s earlier drunken rant, of sorts. Arthur can’t help but smile a bit, despite the lump in his throat which makes him feel as though he might cry if he so much as opens his mouth again, because the way George says things when he’s being genuine is riveting. It is an anomaly of all that is natural. George jokes around ninety-five percent of the time, so when he’s serious — actually, genuinely serious — it makes Arthur feel beyond special that he is invited to witness it. In fact, he’d take a bit of nastiness everyday if each blow promised an insight into George’s brilliant, complicated brain.
Defiantly, Arthur swallows the lump and braves the question that has been lingering on the tip of his tongue for some time now. Possibly even before tonight.
“Are you okay, George?”
There is a brief pause, then, “I’m okay.”
“You’re not, though, are you?”
A sniff, subtle but unmissable, permeates the stillness. “I don’t know.”
Arthur cares so deeply about him that it stings. “Do you want to talk about it?”
George laughs. It’s not a real laugh — Arthur is sure if he could see him right now, it wouldn’t reach his eyes — but that makes it even more real, somehow, because George can fake a laugh easily enough. He’ll only allow it to sound fake if he wants what it’s hiding to be seen.
“Not particularly,” he answers.
Arthur barely knows what to say. He wishes he could reach through the screen, pull George towards him, give him a hug to let him know it’s all okay, without a need for words. Words can be perplexing and difficult. They can achieve all the wrong things with all the right intentions. Often, Arthur finds it easier to convey through physical touch all of the things that he cannot properly articulate. He can’t touch George right now, though. He can’t even see him. He’ll have to make do.
He’s not that drunk. He should be able to mould his thoughts into something useful, something that won’t be taken the wrong way.
That clearly isn’t true, though, or George would never have hung up on him earlier.
Thankfully, he doesn’t need to think for much longer, because George’s voice cuts through the silence again, so soft that Arthur has to turn his phone volume up to hear better.
“I think I’m burnt out.”
Arthur hums low in his throat, thoughtful. Partly delighted. Not delighted by George’s admission, but by what it means.
Arthur adores when George opens up to him because it’s a rarity for him to open up to anyone, ever. It makes their relationship as self-appointed best mates feel less one-sided, which isn’t even George’s problem in the first place. The true problem is that Arthur values his friendships more than anything else in the world, and George is at the top of that list. Arthur can’t imagine a future in which he wouldn’t be. Sometimes, he is afraid that such devotion might eventually nip him in the arse. But he won’t ever lose George. He refuses. Even if it kills him.
“Do you ever consider taking a break from it all?” he offers, then holds his breath.
George blows a bit of air out through his nose. “All the time.”
It sounds like it’s a relief to get it off his chest. Arthur is just relieved he hasn’t managed to ignite another argument.
“Why don’t you?” he presses.
“I don’t know how. I don’t even want to. I… don’t know what I want.”
George pauses but he doesn’t sound like he’s done speaking. Arthur waits patiently.
“I enjoy my job,” George continues. “I know I’m lucky, right? With all the shit I get to do. I love it. I really do. It’s not even a difficult job. I don’t know why I feel burnt out. So many people have it so much worse. I don’t need a break from a job that’s barely a job in the first place. Y’know?”
Because it seems to be working in his favour now, Arthur just says what he’s thinking, unfiltered. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself of that? I can’t tell.”
“I’m not…”
Another pause.
“Fuck. I think I might need a break.”
“Okay.” Arthur smiles, feeling less like he’s being crushed under the weight of George’s mental burdens. Not that he minds it. Or that said mental burdens are even burdensome in the first place. It just hurts him, is all, to know that George is hurting, and it’s frustrating when he can’t take that hurt away. “We’re making progress here.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” George rushes out. “Can I see you?”
Arthur’s heart soars, then promptly sinks when logic overrides excitement. “Chip’s stealing me away for a video. Somewhere in Southeast Asia. We’re leaving tomorrow night, I still have to pack.”
“Sounds romantic. And vague.”
“He’s keeping it a secret. I won’t be home until next week. I’m all yours next Friday, though.”
“Shit. I can’t next Friday.” George sounds bashful when he elaborates, “I have a date.”
“You’ve scheduled in a date?” Arthur says, incredulous.
“Well, yeah, because Friday is when the date is, so I’ve put it in my calendar,” George defends, voice growing louder, hackles raising.
Arthur should be careful, should tread lighter, yet he can’t help but feel bold. A strong gust of wind makes him shiver. He thinks wistfully of his jacket again. “Then cancel it and I’ll take you out to dinner.”
“You’ll…” George scoffs down the line but it doesn’t sound mean, just disbelieving. “What?”
“Or I can cook us something at home. Italian, maybe. Pasta and some garlic bread. Whatever you feel like.” If Arthur wasn’t tipsy, he probably would have shut up several sentences ago. But it’s like his mouth is just moving unconsciously. Things are spilling out. Quick and fluid, like water bursting through a crack in a dam. Unrelenting, inevitable. He couldn’t stop it if he tried, it would just trickle right through his fingers.
There is a faint metallic taste in his mouth from the wound he’s bitten into his cheek. It grounds him.
“Arthur,” George begins, tone now soft and hesitant.
“I’m dead serious,” Arthur deadpans, and he is. “Cancel it.”
“You know you could be actively preventing me from meeting my future wife right now? How does that make you feel? Guilty, at all?”
“Not at all. I can’t legally force you into anything, you can practice your right to free speech and say no. But what was it you said? On your podcast, the other week? That I’m your husband?”
God, he’s still talking, isn’t he?
“That’s crazy,” George says quietly. “I didn’t know you listened to my podcast.”
“George, you’re my best friend. Of course I listen to your podcast. I think I’ve seen every video you’ve been in, ever. Which is, like, half of the content on YouTube. And Netflix, now, I guess. Mogged all of us massively with that one.”
“Well.” Arthur is so close to turning on his camera, switching over to a FaceTime, just so he can see how George would look at him in this moment. He doesn’t. “I’m a really shitty mate, aren’t I?”
Arthur shrugs even though they’re still only on a voice call. “You’re in a slump. I’ll forgive you for not supporting my creative endeavours.”
“That’s the thing with you. You’re too nice. You give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Even when they don’t deserve it.”
Gnawing on his bottom lip, Arthur considers this. He wonders vaguely if it’s true, if all the people in his life think of him the way George claims to. He knows they don’t. A lot of people think he’s a robot, bad at conversing, bad at thinking before he speaks, with a mean streak that he takes out on his friends. If one asked the universe if it agreed with George, it wouldn’t, nor would it go on about putting Arthur there on Earth for a reason. In fact, it wouldn’t say anything at all, because the universe is infinite and important and doesn’t have the means to communicate directly with anyone.
If no higher power put him here for a reason, then he is merely the product of billions of years of biological evolution, and there is nothing inherently special about that at all.
There is nothing special about any of them.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he answers honestly.
He doesn’t think he’s a robot. He feels deeply. He can say mean things, accidentally, when he’s not really thinking about ensuring that words come out the right way, but he’s not mean. George claims he’s too nice. But that can’t be true, either. So what is?
“I think I just see the good in people who are fundamentally good,” Arthur concludes. “And from an objective standpoint, you do deserve it. Everyone is worthy of being treated with kindness, except pedos and animal abusers, obviously. I’m also a bit biased because I love you, but that’s besides the point.”
“You love me?” George’s voice cracks as he speaks and Arthur’s heart does the same.
“No duh. Idiot.”
George audibly swallows, then says, “I love you too, mate.”
There’s a short stretch of silence.
“Thank you for being patient. It means a lot. I’ll get my shit together, I swear”
“I know. You won’t have to do it alone.”
George tries to stifle a sniff but Arthur hears it. “Okay, it’s getting cringe now. You’re going to make me actually cry.”
“Right.” Arthur clears his throat. “I’ll change the subject. I know something else that could get you all choked up.”
George makes a sound of disapproval. “That is foul. You need to stop hanging out with Isaac so often.”
“I know. He’s poisoning my young, innocent mind.”
“There’s nothing young about your mind, mate, you’re forty-three.”
“If I’m forty-three then you must be twenty-six, because together we make sixty-nine.”
“That is impressive quick-maths. Also, you are insufferable.”
“You’re smiling,” Arthur realises, and simultaneously finds that the ache in his chest is no longer painful.
George huffs a laugh into his phone microphone. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“I made you smile.”
“Don’t go getting a big head about it.”
Arthur chuckles. “Oh, don’t worry pal, you’ve got us both covered in that department.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Arthur starts, having forgotten that there are in fact other people in the world, and turns around. It’s Chris, emerging from the bar out onto the street along with Bach and Arthur Hill. The three of them look absolutely battered. Chris is hanging off Bach’s arm. Hill seems like he’s one wrong move away from emptying the contents of his stomach onto the pavement.
“Just George,” Arthur replies.
“Is that Chris?” George asks in his ear. Arthur puts him on speaker.
Chris lets go of Bach to scamper over to Arthur, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
“Love you, George!” he yells at Arthur’s phone.
“Wait, I wanna talk to George.” Arthur Hill joins them. He leans in too, even though there’s no need for either of them to do so, what with the unnecessary decibels they’ve tacked onto their perfectly suitable inside voices. “Love you, Clarkey.”
Arthur hears George let out a little breathy laugh.
“We missed you tonight, handsome man,” Bach chimes in at a reasonable volume, ruffling Arthur’s hair. Arthur looks up at him, and Bach gives him a little knowing smile, a subtle dip of his head. Like approval. Or simple recognition for something Arthur doesn’t quite understand himself. His stomach twists. He feels warm and light. It might be because of the alcohol. It probably isn’t.
Bach has Arthur’s jacket slung over his shoulder. He passes it across to him. The warmth grows, expands and bursts apart like a supernova. Brilliant. Colourful. Arthur adores his mates.
“We all love you so much, George,” Arthur concludes, and after their prior conversation, the words hold so much more meaning than Chris or Hill or Bach could understand. Maybe Bach understands a little. He and Arthur are renowned for their mutual telepathy, after all.
When George finally speaks, Arthur hears the smile in his voice again.
“Bunch of sappy morons, you lot. You’re all lucky I love you back.”
Everyone laughs, and the world keeps turning.