Archive of Our Own ^beta

George is clumsy, and this is something he’s grown to accept into his adult life. It might even be his fatal flaw. 

The bar is packed and George is squeezed between Joe Toye and Skip Muck. He’s nursing his fourth drink of the night, something fruity and appley that Malarkey swore he would love. So far George isn’t the biggest fan, but the drink is neon green and in a fancy glass, and George would be lying if he said he wasn’t into the flashiness of it all. 

When he looks up from staring into the cup, his eyes flock to his closer friends, hoping to find some entertainment. There’s only so much Skip Muck snark that he can put up with. 

Quickly he spots Lip, across the room, talking to someone that George doesn’t know. 

The man is around the same height as Lip, with jet black hair and pale skin. He looks tired, but he wears a small smile as he leans in to listen to whatever it is that Lip is saying. He’s holding a bottle of beer between his hands, held close to his chest, and he just looks so out of place that George is a little floored. 

Huh, George’s drunk brain thinks. 

That just wouldn’t do. 

He climbs out of the bar seat, hoping to introduce himself. This happens at the same time that Joe is scooting backwards in his chair, and George stumbles into it, sending his drink flying. 

He knows the bartender—it’s Lip’s new boyfriend, a big scary guy that hasn’t said a word to any of them the entire night, just watched and made drinks. George thinks the man could kill him. 

The once beautiful bright green concoction is spilled all over the floor, along with all of the glass from the martini cup. There are a few large chunks that are easy for him to pick up, and he doesn’t think twice about sweeping all of the smaller shards into his hand. His mind is buzzing, brain not quite right, unable to tell himself that picking up a bunch of glass probably isn’t the best idea.

George is crouched on the ground behind Toye’s chair, and Joe scoots backwards again, to try to see what happened. The leg of the chair hits George’s shoulder, and he stumbles out of his squat, palm landing flat in all of the glass that he was trying so hard to pick up. 

He curses, feels the sharp pain shoot through his skin, and he wrenches his hand away. When he holds it up under the bar’s dim lighting, he can see the glinting of a bunch of tiny fragments, refracting with each turn of his hand. 

There are tiny hues of red blossoming under some of the larger pieces in his skin, so he dumps what he can into the trash and then stumbles off towards the bathroom. He can hear his friends behind him, picks out pieces of conversation (What happened? — Just George, you know how he is — Is there a mop? — Is he okay? — Why don’t you go check on him) but chooses to keep quiet as he pushes open the bathroom door. 

It’s easy enough to pick out the big chunks, and he sets them on the back of the sink. One of the cuts is bleeding, and he ducks his hand under the faucet, the red running lighter, mixing in with water. 

He’s entirely unequipped to get out all of the little bits, and he realizes this when none of them budge under the stream from the tap. 

Foolishly, he tries scrubbing his hands together. It sends further jolts of dull pain through his palms, as well as spreads the glass to his other hand. 

The bathroom door creaks open, and George turns, like a deer caught in headlights. He almost sighs in relief when he sees it’s Lip, but then he stills once more when he sees that Lip’s friend is behind him. The one that George doesn’t know. 

It’s his fault, George thinks, tipsy and annoyed with himself. I was trying to say hi to Him .

“You okay?” Lip asks, eyes wide, and George nods. He tries to hide his hands from their sight, holds them folded behind him, but he watches as the friend looks at the big pieces of bloody glass on the sink. 

“I’m George,” he blurts. Without thinking, too buzzed and stupid to stop himself, he holds out a shaking, red hand for the man to shake. “Luz.” 

The man reaches out as well, but with his palm just centimeters from George’s, he pauses. Lip steps forward and grabs George’s wrist, flipping it skyward so that the bathroom light can shine down on it.

He sighs. “George…” 

“It’s fine,” George slurs, and he pulls his hand back to himself. He straightens up, tries to be cool, but his blood is both in and on the sink and the glass in his skin is starting to hurt with each movement. “It’s fine,” he repeats. “Don’t want your boyfriend to get me.” 

Lip’s friend smiles from where he’s standing, about a foot away from both of them. George catches his eye, and smiles back as Lip says: “George, stop. Ron doesn’t care. It happens all the time.” 

“I don’t think he likes me,” George goes on, as Lip takes his hand once more. Now the friend steps up, peering over Lip’s shoulder at all the little cuts. “Think he could kill me. S’that why you like him? ‘Cause he’s scary? Didn’t think you were into that, Lip.” 

“Shut up,” Lip huffs, not holding any heat. He seems concerned, and George realizes belatedly that he probably is ruining the fun, by being sort of hurt or something. “You won’t even talk to him.” Then, he drops George’s hand and sighs. “I’ll get the first aid kit.” 

“It’s fine,” George argues, but Lip is already leaving. The door closing echoes in the room, and George’s brain short circuits, and he sort of doesn’t know what to do now that he’s left with Lip’s quiet friend. 

He shifts on his feet for a few seconds, and looks down at the floor. When he looks up, the friend is still there. The man’s eyes, dark in the room’s poor lighting, are on George. 

“You can go back out,” George tries, waving a hand towards the door. 

The man shrugs. He crosses his arms, and then says, quietly, “S’fine. This is what I do, anyways.” 

George blinks. “You hang out in bathrooms?” he questions, unfortunately serious. 

The man rolls his eyes, gives something of a smile.

“No,” he says slowly. He tugs back the collar of his sweater to reveal light blue scrubs underneath. 

George watches as the guy steps towards the sink, plucking the glass pieces off carefully. He tosses them into the trash, and George still feels like his brain isn’t quite following the conversation.

“You’d be surprised how many people come in with broken glass,” he finishes, and George nods.

Ah, right. That makes more sense. Hot nurse. Right. 

He should probably just go home. 

His mind starts rolling right along then, hanging onto the words from the stranger. Well, stranger-slash-mutual-acquaintance. His voice is sugary sweet, and not at all from Philadelphia. Probably not even from the state.

The door pops back open, and Lip comes in with his Big Scary Boyfriend and an even bigger first aid kit. Ron crosses his arms and hovers behind Lip, watching as he gets out medical tape and some bandages.

Even in the presence of the enemy, George can’t help but laugh, “Don’t you think that might be overkill, eh, Lip?” 

Lip looks up and frowns, holding all the supplies. Scissors, gauze, ointment, all sorts of things. He flushes and admits, quietly embarrassed, “I don’t really know how to help.” He pauses and stares at George. “I’m sorry, Luz.”

“Psh, it’s fine,” George waves. “I’m not gonna die. Just a little cut. Nothing I can’t handle.” 

“I got it,” says the friend, stepping forward and lightly taking the first aid kit. Lip steps back and watches, leaning into his boyfriend’s side. 

“Don’t bleed all over my bathroom,” Ron warns, voice ice cold and clearly peeved. His eyes shoot daggers at George, and George imagines how good it would feel to wrestle the guy and tear him to shreds. Choke him out with both hands.

Don’t you hurt my Lip! his mind shouts, and he snorts at himself. 

He’s a funny guy, what can he say?

Ron furrows his brows at George, and even Lip’s friend looks up to raise a brow at his quiet laughter. 

Lip sighs, and he pulls Ron by the hand to the door. “Thanks, Eugene,” he says, and then, he’s gone. 

When it’s quiet, and the friend has fished out the tweezers, George asks, “Eugene, huh?” 

“Yep,” he responds, quietly popping his p. He glances up at George’s face before stepping forward, an amused lilt to his words, “That’s me.” 

Certainly not from here. Maybe the south? Uh… Florida?

“I don’t like that guy,” George announces, looking straight ahead at the door. He’s so caught up in his self-righteous anger that he doesn’t even notice Eugene taking his hand again. 

“I can tell,” Eugene replies, amused, before plucking out a piece of glass without any heads up.

George hisses, and tugs his hand back, but Eugene is still holding it. He pulls the hand closer and leans down, makes quick work of picking out small shards of the martini cup. After a few pieces, he pauses and looks up to meet George’s eye, checking if he’s okay.

George feels a flush creeping up behind his neck, and he is hit with a startling, newfound thought. 

Eugene is rather attractive, and nothing like anyone George has pursued before. 

George just nods, not sure what to do with this realization. He’s drunk, and Eugene is clearly not, so what can he even do, besides make a fool of himself? 

Too soon it’s over, and Eugene is rinsing the tweezers in the sink. George sits, hands still out, but empty of glass. He can almost feel the other man’s touch still lingering, warm and strong. Eugene spares him a glance, and then nods towards another sink, so George washes his hands quietly. 

After a while he blabs, “I’m not normally like this,” not wanting the moment between them to end.

What moment? he thinks, and he frowns, scrubbing at his palms harshly. A few spots bleed, and he smacks the soap dispenser harshly, dumping a load of pink fruity bubbles all over his hands. A few bits of soap fly into his face from his rough impact, and he blinks through it. 

Eugene says nothing, just packs up the first aid kit, and George huffs. 

“Try not to break anymore glass,” Eugene murmurs, picking up the bulky tub. He eyes George for a moment, and then leaves. 

George leans his head against the mirror and groans. 

The second time it happens, it’s not even George’s fault.

George is at the library, sprawled out on the floor in the middle of two aisles, reading a book about Greek mythology that he just doesn’t understand. 

It should be simple. It’s like history! He loves history! 

He didn’t even want to take the stupid class, but he needed another culture credit, and he knows the professor teaching the course. Plus, Malarkey all but begged for one of the guys to tag along and take it with him, and George was the only one who had an opening in his schedule.

So really, it’s all Malarkey’s fault.

If you think about it, the last time was Malarkey’s fault, too. That stupid green appletini. 

He’s been reading the same four lines about Sisyphus for the past ten minutes, and he can’t get through it because all he can think about is that stupid Sisyphus boulder meme that Frank references all the time. 

In a way, George sort of feels like Sisyphus. And the boulder is the paragraph that he’s failing to comprehend. 

He can get through this.

His nose starts to run, and George huffs, wiping it with his arm. He’s alone, okay! No one’s gonna see.

He doesn’t so much as glance down at his fingers, figures it’s just his dust allergy acting up with the mildewy book in front of him. 

Then, a drop of red falls onto the page, landing right on the head of one very determined Sisyphus. 

Another drop.

And another. 

George frowns, and then he feels his nose really start to run. 

He’s going off of about two hours of sleep and three cups of coffee, so it doesn’t really click what’s going on until he wipes his nose again and sees his hand come back with a smear of blood.

George immediately scrambles to stand, lugs his open bookbag over his shoulder and scoops up his textbook. He cups a hand over his nose and rushes to the bathroom, weaving through the maze of bookshelves and exhausted college students. He gets a few confused looks and annoyed glares.

The bathroom, thank God (thank Zeus, he thinks, haha), appears empty when he gets there. 

George dumps his bag unceremoniously to the ground and tosses his textbook into a sink. He then goes to the one next to it and ducks his head over it. He lets his nose drip freely, watches as the blood tick tick ticks into the basin, unsure of what exactly to do. He can’t remember, because he doesn’t get nosebleeds, like, ever—do you pinch it? Do you stick something up there? 

Head tilted up or down? 

As he leans over the sink, hands gripping the white edges, a stall door opens behind him. He would look up, but he doesn’t really want to face whatever student it is, would much rather just let the air be awkward for a few minutes before the other guy was done. 

He is startled to hear a soft question of, “George?” 

George’s head shoots up and through the reflection of the mirror, he meets the eyes of Eugene Roe.

Eugene looks perfect, and George sits and stares at him for a little too long. Eugene is wearing old jeans and a navy blue sweater, and it makes his pale eyes and dark hair stand out. George licks his lips, and feels blood spill over them.

He looks down in the sink, spits out blood, and says, “Gene, we’ve really gotta stop meeting like this.” 

It’s supposed to be a joke, but George’s nose is bleeding worryingly faster now, and it comes out flat and dejected. He spits again.

Eugene washes his hands quietly, and then pauses and peers over George’s shoulder. He frowns, and George spares a glance up in the mirror to see it. 

Ducking into a stall, Eugene grabs a bunch of toilet paper. George watches through the reflection, confused as the man folds it several times before walking back over to the sinks. 

Then, Eugene steps closer and presses the toilet paper to George’s nose. His fingers pinch and apply a light pressure, and George sighs into it, leans forward. 

George lets it be for a moment, and then makes a very awkward movement of trying to wash his hands while another man is holding his nose. His mind blanks out, struggles to come up with some funny quip to go along with it. 

Wordlessly, Eugene grabs a paper towel with his free hand and passes it to George.

“Thanks,” George says, and it comes out muffled, a little squeaky. 

Biting his lip, Eugene nods. George’s brows furrow, but he takes his clean hand and puts it over Eugene’s to grab a hold of the toilet paper. 

Eugene slips his hand out from under George’s and steps back. For a moment he stands, eyes on George. Then, he snaps out of whatever he’s thinking, washes his hands again, and leaves. 

George stands at the sink and stares at the door for a very long time. 

Okay, this time, it’s definitely not George’s fault. His lack of coordination be damned. 

Around seven o’clock one Sunday night, George gets a frantic call from Babe Heffron. The poor guy sounds almost to tears, ranting and ranting about his stupid Stats class that he doesn’t understand, some big exam he has on Monday. George feels bad, and caves before Babe can even ask for help—what can he say? He has a soft spot for the little guy. 

Plus, it’s not like he’s doing anything, anyway. He can play Stardew Valley and romance the hot doctor Harvey some other time. 

It’s a short drive to Babe’s apartment, and George finds it easily, even though he’s never really been. Babe lives in a small place above a pharmacy, tucked in a little neighborhood. 

When he knocks on the door it opens immediately, a wild-eyed and flushed Babe greeting him. George can’t even get a word in before Babe’s wrapping him in a bear hug, and then tugging him inside. 

They hole up in Babe’s room quickly, with a few sodas and a bag of chips. Babe has his laptop open, his iPad and textbook out, along with a notebook filled with pages upon pages of notes and math. The TV is on, playing music that’s a little too loud. George takes it all in and feels overwhelmed after about three seconds.

“Your room is a shithole,” George observes pointedly, stepping over a pile of shoes. A fucking cat ducks out from under Babe’s bed, and starts nipping at George’s toes, because Babe made George take off his shoes at the door. 

“You gotta help me out,” Babe raves, ignoring the comment. “Bill wasn’t giving me shit—neither was Julian. I don’t—I don’t know what to do.” 

“You’ll be fine,” George mutters distractedly, standing in the middle of the room, because there’s not exactly a place to sit. Maybe if he kicks around the load of laundry he can turn it into a chair…? “Your fault for goin’ to Guarno. How big is the exam?” 

“Midterm,” Babe explains, grabbing half of his books from his bed and throwing them to the other side. It leaves a sort of clearing for George to sit, and he gets on the bed gingerly. 

He crosses his legs so as not to knock into anything else, and he sets his bookbag in front of him. He pulls out his old Stats binder, and muses, “Huh, you don’t feel good about it?” 

“No,” moans Babe, cracking open a RedBull. George watches, nose wrinkled, as he chugs half of it. “Just,” Babe starts, pulling his textbook over. George is baffled to see that he’s opened on the first page of the first chapter. “George, you gotta help me, I’m dyin.”

“What’re you confused about…?” 

 “Everything,” he cries, leaning heavily into George’s shoulder. 

George eyes him for a beat. “Are you drunk?”

“No!” Babe retorts, offended, and he presses his chin over George’s arm to move the book. He helps himself to putting the heavy thing in George’s lap, and he points at the page, finger landing on a Greek symbol. “I don’t—what the fuck is miu? I don’t understand.” 

George blinks. 

“You don’t know miu?!” 

They study for about two hours before they make any progress. The sun has long set, and the room is straight up dingy, because both of them have been chain smoking for the later part of an hour. Babe’s light also doesn’t work, so they’re stuck pouring over the books under an old lamp, which flickers every couple of seconds. 

George feels like he’s drowning, but that’s nothing compared to the agony that Babe is suffering. 

They go on for another hour, the clock reading just past 10 p.m, and that’s when George decides they need a break. Babe has gone eerily silent, just staring at his scrawlings of notes with blank, glossy eyes. He looks like a fucking ghost.

“Alright, kid,” says George, peeling himself off of the bed. His bones crack, and he stretches his back. The cat meows and tries to claw at his pantlegs. “Let’s take a break. I’ll get you some water. You’re killin' me.”

Babe nods without looking over, and George sighs. 

He leaves the room and heads into the kitchen, tired and worn out. The cat follows him, slinking through his legs with each step. George pauses in front of the counter, unsure of which one has all their glasses, then goes to take a step forward.

The cat shoots out and stops, right in front of George’s feet.

Of course, he trips over it. George goes flying. 

The corner of the cabinet meets the skin above his eyebrow, and he groans loudly at the deep jolt of pure pain that shoots through him. It sends tingles through his forehead and a throbbing on his eyebrow, and he pulls away from the cupboard to bend over the counter. For a moment he sits, head in his hands, aching in pain, but then he feels wetness meet his skin. 

Of course, George is bleeding.

Of course. 

Of fucking course. 

George holds a hand over his face and walks back to Babe’s room, pissed off and hurting. His brow is bleeding steadily, and the stream goes down and gets into his eyes. 

Too fed up to hide it anymore, George lets his hand fall from his eye and he gazes at Babe. His vision goes sort of blurry from the red trickling down into it, and he blinks through the haze to ask, “Where’s your bathroom?” 

Babe looks up, spots the blood, and gapes. 

“Gene!” he shouts, and George frowns, because he wasn’t really expecting that. 

He feels a drop of blood roll down to his chin and he wipes at it, unsure what to say or do. 

Grabbing George by the shoulders, Babe pushes him out of the bedroom. The door across from Babe’s opens at that exact moment, dark without the lights on, and out steps Eugene Roe. George feels his shoulders sag as their eyes meet, and Eugene sort of slumps, too. 

“George,” he states, dry and tired.

“Can you help him?” asks Babe, manic from the interruption of his studying. Eugene spares Babe a glance and then nods curtly. 

He disappears into the room he came from for a moment, and George’s head is starting to pound, a dull ache behind his eyes. Babe’s hands are still gripping his shoulders, but then Eugene is back, carrying a small bag. 

“C’mon,” he says, gruffly, and George follows. Babe’s bedroom door slams behind them. 

George leans against the bathroom counter while Eugene sets his bag on the toilet seat and starts digging through it. He grabs gauze and comes up to George, making careful work of soaking up the blood. 

“It ain’t that bad,” Eugene says, and he sounds… extremely out of it. His eyes are heavy-lidded, purple smudges resting beneath them. His hair is a mess, and he’s in sleep pants and a baggy long sleeve. His lips press into a thin line before he explains, somewhat practiced, “Stuff on the head always bleeds a lot. Makes it look worse than it is.”

George slouches against the counter so that he’s more at Eugene’s eye level. He opens his legs wider and Eugene steps closer. It feels sort of intimate, and George is hit belatedly with the thought that he really doesn’t actually need help. He can wipe up a cut just fine. 

It’s not like the glass, where he couldn’t pick it out himself. Hell, he could’ve tended to the nosebleed just fine, too. 

A warmth creeps up his neck as he thinks about it, the eye with all the blood clamped shut as the other one watches the man in front of him. 

Eugene’s touch is soft as he dabs up the blood. He tosses the gauze and grabs another, soaking it with some alcohol. He gives George no warning before he presses it to the cut, and George winces, biting his lip. He sighs through his nose, against all of the burning. 

“Sorry,” Eugene murmurs.

“S’fine,” George replies, almost a rasp. He clears his throat, and asks, “What’re you doing here?” 

Eugene pauses in his cleaning. His brows furrow, almost annoyed. “I live here.” 

George is tired.

What can he say?

 “I thought Babe lives here.” 

Eugene really pauses, holding the now-pink wad of gauze in his hands as he gives George a hard look. He smacks his lips together and says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “We’re roommates.” 

“Oh,” says George, and with his one eye he looks down. “Oh, yeah. Right.” 

Eugene stays still for a minute and watches George, lips downturned in confusion. Then, he goes back to cleaning up the cut. 

“Is it bad?” George asks, because oh yeah, what the fuck, he forgot—this guy is hot, and he’s touching George’s face. 

“It’s deep,” Eugene replies, as he tosses out the gauze. He grabs two more pieces and some medical tape, using one of the squares to dry off the area. “Don’t think you need stitches.” 

He runs a finger over the cut, where it dips into George’s eyebrow. George stills at it, feels the twinges of pain, but lets it happen. The other man smells like cigarettes and barely-there cologne. George tries not to breathe too heavily.

“Might leave a scar,” Eugene muses, sounding less annoyed, and George relaxes. 

“Right,” he says, softly, as Eugene starts taping the last square of gauze over the cut. 

When he’s done, Eugene throws out all of the trash and picks up his bag. 

Quietly, he says, “Be more careful, George.”

Then, he’s gone. 

“Thanks,” George whispers, alone in the bathroom.

Well. Eventually it had to be George’s fault.

He and his roommates—Lip, Frank, and Hoobler—all decided to throw a house party for Halloween. It being four of them, they have the biggest apartment out of all of the guys. More room for people, for food, for dumb shit. 

George has one thing on his mind, and it’s to get wasted. He bombed one of his midterms, and didn’t do so hot on a big paper for another class. Obviously, he has to celebrate. 

Too broke to wear anything else, George snags some of Frank’s makeup (and no, Frank won’t explain why he owns a colorful eye shadow palette, George already asked) and dresses up as Zoolander. Specifically, he’s the whole Blue Steel moment. Which means, George just gets to wear black pants and a black shirt, with funky eye makeup. 

He knows how to ball on a budget. 

Ron and Joe Toye come over first, because they—along with Lip—are all dressing up as some of the guys from Top Gun. George feels a little betrayed by Joe, because he didn't even know they were close like that to match. Then comes Babe and Bill, dressed as Phillies players, strutting around in their little Baseball pants that make Bill’s ass look huge. They all pregame in the kitchen.

George sort of loses track of who comes after that. His mind does, however, drift to the thought of pale eyes, dark hair, and a gentle touch. 

It takes a while before Eugene shows up, no matter how hard George thinks of him.

When he does arrive, George spots him immediately—two matching flashes of baby blue across the room, one of which carries a six pack of beer. 

Pushing his way through all of the drunk people in his house, George meets them at the door. He gives Eugene and his friend once overs, and snorts. 

“Wow, Doc, real creative,” he teases, eyeing the scrubs that hug Eugene’s waist.

“We’re nurses,” says the friend—Ralph Spina, another medical student that George has met once or twice—and he presses the beer into George’s hands. “Can’t you tell?” 

“Huh,” says George, hauling the beer to the kitchen. “Never would’ve guessed.”

The two follow George, and he stumbles a little over his feet, already way too tipsy. He hopes it’s not noticeable, but he can feel the flush settling on his face, and knows it’s probably obvious. He’s always been an easy person to get drunk with, anyway. 

“And who’re you?” asks Spina, and George whips around. 

He gives his best Blue Steel, and Spina grins. When George looks around, Eugene is gone, somehow disappearing into the apartment. He tries not to let it bother him.

As time passes, George only gets more intoxicated. He has some sort of bet going on with Toye, where they’re trying to see who can hold more liquor. All the money so far has been put on Joe, but Lip—ever the best friend—has put five on George.

Five whole dollars. He’s not going to let this go without a fight. 

An hour later, George has downed a few more shots, and a couple beers. The alcohol starts to go to his head, and he’s stuck in the kitchen with Bill and Toye, though his eyes are wandering through the apartment. He hasn’t seen Eugene since the man got there, and it's leaving him both bummed out and eager to see him.

George starts to walk forward, desperate now to find the guy, hoping for any sort of interaction that doesn’t involve blood or bathrooms. 

A strong arm loops around his neck and George squirms, though he’s too busy being pulled into a broad chest to really do anything about it. 

“George,” rasps Joe, leaning down to George’s ear. He’s thoroughly drunk, but the only way you’d guess it is by how tactile he is. That’s sort of what George loves about Joe—he’s a fucking asshole, but if you go about it the right way, he can be a softie. “Shots.” 

George groans, feels himself sweating. There are too many people, his house isn’t big enough for this shit. Regardless, he loves to drink, so he won’t say no.

“What’s on the line?” George mumbles, and Joe scoffs.

“Nothing,” he replies, pouring two very heavy shots. Some of the vodka spills over the little glasses, and then Joe is shoving the thing into George’s hand. He claps George on the back, hard. “Drink up.” 

George does as he’s told, barely coughing as the liquor burns down his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and hands the glass back over. Joe claps him again on the back, and squeezes his shoulder. 

Looking across the room, George meets eyes with Eugene. 

He grins before he can help it, and leaves Joe to approach the nurse. 

Eugene eyes him over a red solo cup, sitting on George’s sofa. Joe Liebgott is next to him, ranting about some stupid superhero movie of all things. Eugene listens carefully, nodding along at the right times, but his eyes keep flicking over to George. Then, he scoots over, so that George can sit on his other side. 

As he sits down, George’s smile falters. He feels his stomach start to turn, feeling too full, almost uncomfortable. He tries to listen to what Lieb is saying, but finds he can’t really place any of it. 

George leans into Eugene’s side, and whispers, “You really listening to this bullshit?” 

Eugene waits a beat, and then looks over, keeping his face carefully blank so as to not give anything away.

“No.” 

George grins once more. 

After a while, Liebgott gets up and ducks off towards the kitchen. George leans back on the couch, and eyes the back of Eugene’s head. His stomach aches, and he tries to ignore it.

“Doc,” he starts, “How come I never see you around?” 

Eugene turns and shrugs. He finishes off whatever's in his cup and says, “I’m a busy man.” 

George scoffs, a reply of Yeah, no kidding on the tip of his tongue. When he opens his mouth, though, it quickly fills with saliva, and he feels the room turn and jolt. Steadying himself, George grips the edge of the sofa cushion, and swallows. More saliva pools behind his teeth, and his stomach churns and rolls.

Shakily George stands, afraid he knows what's coming, and he leaves the room without another word. In the back of his mind he feels bad, because he finally was getting to talk to Eugene. And this time, it wasn’t in any fucked-up circumstances!

The bathroom door is jammed when he reaches it, and it takes a harsh jut of his shoulder to shove it open. 

George pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight of Babe devouring the face of a brown-haired, doe-eyed man (Justin, Julian? J… something?) on top of his sink. That’s George’s sink! 

He’s ready to cry about the fact that his toothbrush has been knocked to the floor, but then Babe is yelling at him to leave, and George’s stomach lurches once more. He shoves past the two and folds over the toilet, most of the vodka and beer leaving his body in one fell swoop. 

Ears ringing and head pounding, George throws up for what feels like ages. He doesn’t even notice when Babe and the other guy leave, too busy burning his throat with stomach acid to pick up on anything else. His arms feel like lead, and his hair hangs in his eyes. 

It’s the type of vomit that’s more liquid than anything else, clear and watery as it runs down his nose and fills the toilet. He flushes, then promptly throws up again, and he grabs toilet paper to wipe his nose. 

His ears ring further, muffling out any sort of music or conversation that floats from outside. 

The pressure of a hand on his back grounds George, and he looks up to meet pale eyes and a concerned frown. 

“Hey, Doc,” he croaks, finding that he rather likes the nickname. Eugene’s brows furrow, and George turns around and throws up a third time. It’s hardly anything, more heaving than substance, and he spits heavily. 

Vomiting almost makes him feel drunker, and he has to bite back the urge to say I hate that we always meet like this. 

Instead, he says, “You always see me at my worst,” and Eugene’s frown deepens. 

Eugene shakes his head, and flicks the hair out of George’s face. He says nothing, and George feels terrible.

He’s sweaty, skin slick with it, and his makeup is starting to run. It blurs his vision. He turns back to spit in the toilet, and hears the sound of the door shut. The hand disappears from his back.

Alone and feeling like shit, George folds his arms over the toilet bowl and looks down into it. The room stinks of bile and throw-up, and he peers blearily at the rings of dirty water that have stained the basin of the toilet. He’s starting to come back to himself, and can feel the pounding of music in the floorboards, a dull ache forming in the front of his head. 

It seems like a low point, staring at the brownish yellowish stains of the porcelain. It must be some sort of metaphor, but he can’t quite scrape up his brain to figure out what it’s for. 

The door shuts quietly and a hand presses to the plane between his shoulders. George slumps even more, assumes it’s probably Lip or maybe even Frank, and says nothing. The hand pats a few times and George looks up, not entirely surprised to see that it’s Eugene.

Eugene presses a cup of water into his hands and George sits up, cradles it. A little splashes on his fingers and it wakes him up into drinking half of the cup. 

After a few seconds where George makes no move to stop, Eugene reaches forward, a gentle hand on George’s bicep that tugs his arm down. “Easy, George,” he says, “slow.” 

George sighs, lips wet and shiny, a drop of water rolling down his chin. He swallows and nods, setting the cup on the tile floor.

For a few moments, all he does is stare at Eugene, who is staring right back, clearly worried. A little breathless, George says, “You don’t have to do this.” 

He holds back a burp, because Eugene is so close, and he doesn’t want to fuck things up more than he already has. The water worms down his stomach, giving his too-hot body a cool through the center. 

Eugene shrugs, and picks up the water. He taps George’s hand, and George takes a small sip while Eugene replies, “It’s betta than listenin’ to Liebgott.” 

George snorts, and his stomach churns again. He squeezes his eyes shut, already forgetting what Eugene just said. 

“You wanna call it a night?” Eugene asks, after a few quiet seconds have passed. 

George looks over at that, and then his eyes dart towards the door where he can hear Bill and Joe Toye loudly arguing in the kitchen. He feels like jelly, stomach torn up and eyes glossy. 

He thinks back to part of the deal he made with Joe Toye, something about a round of darts. He’s still curled up around the toilet, and poor Eugene is half-crouched on the floor. 

“No,” George responds, shaking his head. Eugene reaches out and presses the back of his palm to George’s forehead. “Gotta… beat Toye. Darts.” 

Eugene sighs, but he has something of a smile playing along his lips. He bites his lip as if to hide it. “You oughtta go to sleep.” 

“It’s early,” George argues, weak. He leans back against the wall and runs a hand through his hair.

Eugene huffs. “It’s 12 in the mornin.”

George is about to protest, but then Eugene bends down and grabs George’s arm, pulling him to a stand. George is surprised to find that the man is strong, pulls him up with ease despite both of them being less than sober. 

They shuffle into the hall, Eugene ducking under George’s arm to better lug him around. George lets him do it, feels a small butterfly awaken in his stomach, and he tries not to smile. He’s supposed to be sickly, or something, after all.

“Which room is yours?” asks Eugene, and George smiles, shit-eating.

“Doc,” he says, slyly, “I’d love to take you to bed, but maybe not like this.” 

The comment comes out easily, guard let down and filter less-than-stellar in his drunken state. He’s not even a little surprised by his own words, and he looks over to gauge the other man’s reaction.

He watches as Eugene ducks his head, and is thrilled to see that the other’s face is red. Maybe it’s from the alcohol, or from the heat of a small apartment crammed with people, but George will count it as a win either way. 

“George,” Eugene murmurs, almost a warning.

“Alright, alright,” George gives in, waving a heavy hand towards the door at the end of the hall. “Right over here.” 

As soon as they’re inside, George peels himself from Eugene’s warmth and flops onto his bed, belly-first. He’s too caught up in hugging his pillow to see what the other man is doing, but then he feels a tapping on his back.

“Lay on yo' back,” instructs Eugene, and George turns over and does what he’s told. 

Eugene grabs pillows and props them behind George’s head, and then he asks, “You got a trash can?” 

Eyes closed, George grunts and points vaguely at his desk. Eugene grabs the bin and places it on the ground next to the bed, near George’s head. 

For a few moments Eugene stands, elbow bent over a crossed arm to bite at his nail. George cracks open his eyes and sees that the other man looks almost embarrassed, and George thinks: that just won’t do.

“You sure you don’t wanna join me?” he jokes, and Eugene huffs, then presses the back of his palm to George’s forehead once more. 

George leans forward into it, feeling like a little boy again, getting tended to by his mother. In the morning he’ll be embarrassed, both by losing the bet with Toye and for flopping all over the man who he sort of has the hots for. 

Eugene sighs after a moment, and pulls his hand away. By the bedside, he hesitates, and clears his throat.

“Goodnight, George.” 

The door closes softly, and George falls asleep. 

The last time happens the same way it began—at the bar. 

It’s a Friday night towards the end of the Fall semester, winter break looming just around the corner. George hasn’t seen much of Eugene since the Halloween party, and he’s started to come to terms with the fact that he has something of a crush on the other man. He also is accepting the possibility that it’ll probably never happen.

He’s not much for self-pity, but when he thinks about all of the circumstances in which they’ve interacted, he can’t see anything good about them. Eugene probably thinks he’s a basketcase.

He’s not moping, thank you very much Frank, but he sort of definitely is, hugging a half-empty cup of Guinness over the bar. There’s a second empty glass next to it. A strange man cooped up a few chairs away had ordered both of them for Malarkey, and when Ron had set it all down in front of the redhead, Malarkey panicked. George knows he loves a good dry beer, he’s fucking Irish after all, but still he accepted them both when Malarkey passed it his way. 

George sips on the beer for a while and kind of hates it, but free drinks are free drinks. He knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever the stupid saying from his mythology class is. He’s like a Trojan, he thinks, and Eugene is the horse. Or something. 

Or maybe Eugene is the boulder, and George is back to being Sisyphus. 

He sighs, twirling his finger around the rim of his glass, because he’s trying to be poetic about his feelings but so far none of his metaphors are making much sense. 

Ron eyes him across the counter, not paying much mind to the surface that he’s wiping down. He has a fucking staring problem, George thinks, and he tries not to glare too hard because that man is dating his best friend. 

“I don’t know what Lip sees in you,” George mutters, trying to joke, but it comes out entirely bitter. 

Ron smiles, creepy and weird. 

George huffs. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t like Ron, but he knows he’s definitely not being immature. 

“Can you be nice?” pleads Lip, appearing out of nowhere. 

Slowly, George looks up from his drink, and his eyes are blank as they fall on his friend. 

“I could treat you better than this schmuck,” he insists, and Lip scoffs. 

“In your dreams,” says Ron, under his breath, and George narrows his eyes. 

“Luz, c’mon,” Lip scolds, his voice going a soft tone of tired. “Give it a rest.” 

George sags a little in his chair, because he isn’t drunk at all, and has no excuse to be a dick. 

Then—amazingly—Ron leans across the bar and levels George with a scarily gentle look. “Why don’t you just talk to him?” 

With an embarrassed scowl, George looks away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Ron stands up straight and huffs, tossing his towel over his shoulder. He purses his lips and looks at Lip. “I tried.” 

He walks away to tend to another customer, and George presses a hand over his eyes. He doesn’t even know why he’s upset. It’s just one of those days, where everything’s been going wrong, and on top of that he’s hopelessly into someone who he’s already assumed doesn’t return the interest. Looking over his shoulder, he spots Eugene across the room, talking to Babe. They’re tucked into a booth, speaking quietly as they look at some textbook for one of Babe’s classes.

Who brings a textbook to a bar?  

His mood sours further at the thought, and as he turns back to his drink he feels himself frowning. Lip stands at his side, heavy concern oozing out of him, so George reaches over and claps him on the shoulder.

“All good, Lip. Don't worry about me.” 

Lip huffs. “Right…” he trails, and George sighs into his drink. 

Then, Ron comes back over, carrying a third Guinness. He has a funny look on his face, nose wrinkled and eyes stuck on Malarkey. He clears his throat, and sets it down in front of Don.

Very uncomfortably, he announces, “Another beer for… the lovely redhead at the end of the bar.” 

Malarkey pauses in his conversation with Skip to gawk at Ron. 

“Are you—?” he sputters, but then he glances at the creepy guy who is still staring. He leans closer to Ron and whispers, “Are you serious?” 

Ron shrugs, not very invested. He walks away to start cleaning glasses, while Muck starts cracking up in laughter. 

Desperate for an out, Malarkey turns back to George. His eyes are wide and pleading as he holds the glass.

“Fine,” George interrupts, not even waiting for the question. Malarkey sighs in relief and passes him the beer.

“Thanks, I owe you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, adding the cup to his collection. 

Lip watches the whole thing, frowning. His big brown eyes just look sad, and George hates it. Lip is too good to be sad. 

“You want it?” George offers, holding up the cup. Some of the foam sloshes with it, and Lip shakes his head, eying it.

“No thanks,” he mumbles, and George sighs. 

Alas, God is not done with him yet.

The chair pulls out beside him and George looks over to see the guy who’s been in charge of all these drinks.

“I didn’t buy those for you,” the guy says, pointing a chubby finger George’s way. 

Behind him, Lip sets a hand on the back of George’s seat. Malarkey glances over his shoulder and freezes as he sees what’s happening. 

George isn’t drunk at all, but he’s at that exact level of done where his mind buzzes out and his mouth takes over, no forethought in sight. He gives the guy a once over, and it takes one inhale to overload his nose with the scent of alcohol and weed.

George snorts, “Uh, yeah buddy, but does it look like he wants them?” 

The man’s eyes narrow. 

George leans in, pissed off and careless with his words. On behalf of the guy, George answers his own question, in a loud stage whisper: “Obviously not.” 

“You gonna pay me back?” the guy asks, and George’s eyes widen at the sheer gall. 

“Am I gonna pay you back?” George repeats, incredulously shocked.

Lip butts in with a “Sir—” that is quickly cut off.

“Am I fuckin’ talkin’ to you?” the guy spits out, as he turns to face Lip. 

He’s holding the back of George’s chair as he growls it out, leaning into both of their spaces, drunk as all hell. 

George blinks through it and thinks, What the fuck?

The room goes a little quiet, and George kind of wishes that someone like Joe Toye or Bill Guarnere were there. They have no issues with a little fight, but George? 

His arms aren’t that great, and he has the reflexes of a dead man.

Ron steps up to the bar and sets down a glass loudly. 

“Is there a problem?” he questions, all authority and anger. The guy turns to face Ron, beet red and seething. Malarkey is silent in his seat next to George.

“Yeah,” the guy starts, raising his voice. His words are slurred as he jabs a finger into George’s chest and continues, “This fucking idiot has been stealing my drinks. Drinks I ordered,” he pauses, to wave at Malarkey, “for him .” 

Malarkey slumps in his chair, and George scoffs loudly. That’s all it takes for him to turn and snap:

“He’s not fucking interested—” 

A fist flies into George’s face, colliding with his nose, and his hands fly up to cup it. Everything sort of happens in a blur after that; he hears Malarkey and Ron both shouting, and can hear the sounds of a bottle falling off of the bar as the guy lands another punch against George’s left eye. 

Strong hands land on George’s shoulder and tug him from the bar, but by now he’s clutching his head and groaning, way too sober to be getting beat up. He can’t focus, doesn’t know who’s grabbing him. His head throbs, and he feels sticky hands scramble up his arm, trying to pull him back into the fight. 

Everything is loud and noisy, raucous yells and commotion. Pain blooms in his nose and he feels a rush of heat that surges to the area, and he knows by now that his nose is bleeding. He’s pulled further away, and he blinks his eyes open a few times, sees that he’s moving through the bar, but the lights are too bright so he closes them once more. 

Suddenly, things go quiet. He hears the sound of a door being shut, and can feel cold air against his skin. When he opens his eyes, he sees that he’s been brought outside. 

His head still hurts too much to fully look around, so he stumbles for a second until the hand pulls him to the curb where he’s brought down to sit. 

The door opens and closes a few times, bringing with it the noise of people going in and out. Whoever brought him outside talks quietly to someone that sounds like Lip, but George’s ears have started to ring, and his head feels painfully light. Nothing really makes sense. 

He hisses when he feels something freezing cold being pressed to his eye, and he cracks open the other one to finally see what the hell is going on. 

Crouched in front of him is Eugene, and George tries to sigh, but then blood bubbles out of his nose. He feels the splatter of it popping and rolling down over his lips. 

Eugene’s eyes are wide, brows furrowed in the middle as he presses his lips into a line. His gaze darts all over George, and George just feels awful, sick of finding them both in these situations because of him. 

Holding the ice in place, Eugene looks lost for words. His nose is turning pink in the cold, and George just stares at him, the adrenaline of being actually punched leaving him dizzy. His nose is still bleeding, nothing having been done to staunch it. 

“Did he break my nose?” George asks, nasally and hard to make out. 

Eugene leans forward, and George can feel the man’s breath hitting his face. George takes over holding the bag of ice, and carefully, Eugene brings his hands to cup George’s face. His fingers spread over George’s cheekbones, and before his thumbs make any contact with his nose, he hesitates.

“Might hurt,” Eugene says, sounding like he feels bad.

“S’okay.” 

Eugene nods, and then carefully prods at George’s nose. He pulls back from the pain, but after a second leans forward and lets Eugene continue. 

It’s really rather disgusting, because with the pressing down of his nostrils and cartilage, his nose squelches. George has to really dial into some self control to keep himself from snorting at the grossness of the sound. 

He can’t help himself from smiling though, and after a few seconds, Eugene’s lips curl up, too. 

Still, it hurts like hell, and George’s smile soon turns into a grimace as Eugene’s thumbs go higher, pressing on the bridge of his nose.

He pulls back and shakes his head. “Not broken.” 

George sighs in relief, and hangs his head. He’s no longer icing his eye, so Eugene takes back the pack so he can ice it for him. George just lets it happen. 

The door opens once more, and from the way Eugene freezes, George can guess who it is. Eugene’s hand falls to hold George’s knee, so George ignores the noise spilling from the bar and keeps his eyes on the man in front of him. 

He can hear the arguing of the guy from inside, but then he hears the quiet and deadly voice of Ron, and George ducks his head to hide his smile. 

Maybe he’s not so bad. 

When he looks back up, Eugene is looking at him curiously. It’s quiet and dark outside, and the bleeding from his nose has stopped. 

“You’re good at this,” George tells him, earnestly, because it’s true. 

Eugene smiles and looks down, not quite responding. He fishes out a napkin from his pocket and uses condensation from the ice to wet it. He then leans forward to wipe the blood from George’s face, setting the pack of ice on the pavement. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” George asks, because he kind of needs to know. Everything feels sort of life-or-death right now, with winter break just ahead, where he won’t see much of anyone. 

Raising a brow, Eugene gives a dry response. “I’m lookin’ at you right now.”

George blinks, and huffs. He rolls his eyes, and it hurts. He can already feel the bruise forming, left eye tender. 

“C’mon, Doc,” he says, “humor me. I’m a dying man.” 

“You ain’t dyin,” Eugene mutters, folding up the napkin and setting it on the concrete. He wipes his hands on his pants and says, quietly, “No. I’m not seein’ anyone.” 

George swallows. 

“Do you want to?” 

Eugene pauses, and looks up to meet George’s eyes. He’s quiet, and George realizes then the weight of his words, that he basically just asked him out. 

Eugene looks around, and then settles his gaze on George once more. George swallows, waiting. 

“Where’s your phone?” Eugene asks, and George blinks. 

He fishes it out with shaky hands, unlocks it, and passes it over. Then, he watches the other man. 

“When you ain’t bleedin,” Eugene says, adding his contact, “you can give me a call.” 

Eugene hands him back his phone and their fingers brush together. George, for once in his life, is stumped into silence. 

“C’mon,” Eugene says, squeezing George’s shoulder before standing. He wears a soft smile. “Lip said he’ll take you home.” 

As they walk inside, Eugene’s hand on the small of his back, George thinks:

Maybe there’s a perk to his clumsiness.