Chapter Text
It was the first time in a long time that George and Harold decided to go to the treehouse after school. George was wearing his standard collared shirt and tie, but it was sloppy and loose. He had moved on from his shorts and was now wearing slacks, though they were in dire need of a good ironing. Meanwhile, Harold had a black hoodie that was slightly dirty and a pair of longer shorts. Underneath the hoodie you could see that green striped shirt that he loved. The two were in the treehouse in their typical spots: George laying half propped up on the floor and Harold drawing in the hammock. Though they had slightly outgrown the treehouse at their age, 15, they still liked to be in there. Besides, they had plans to expand it soon. Eventually. Probably.
“Harold, have a look at this,” George said. He didn’t even have to stretch like he used to do to give Harold the pages he had written on: he just handed them over.
Harold took the paper, pulling his eyes up from his own work. He looked at the handwriting, which had gotten increasingly neater over time and now looked vaguely like the average sans font type at this point. George looked at Harold’s expression as he read it, almost seeming to hold his breath. His eyebrows drew up together, and his brown eyes flicked back and forth over his friend’s face.
The blonde boy nodded. “Yeah, looks good. I can draw it,” he replied, setting it down next to himself to continue on the drawing he had been working on before. He was so expressionless as he said that. He didn’t even look up at George as he did so.
For some reason, this mildly dismissive behavior just annoyed George. He let out his breath, squinting at the other and wrinkling his nose. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if he had done something. “You okay Harold?” he asked, putting his pencil down and scooting a bit closer. Trying to find something to talk about, he looked at Harold’s drawing, grinned, and reached his hand out to point at the paper. “I think you forgot that we usually draw him with only three fingers buddy.”
Harold’s face twisted in what looked like a cross between a smile and a grimace, then turned slightly around so his drawing was more hidden. He half covered it with one hand. “It’s not finished yet, buddy,” he replied, intending to be lighthearted and joking. However, his expression gave off that he didn’t want George to look at it. “Besides, it’s not a very good one anyway. I think I gotta restart and try again, don't I?” He looked disappointedly down at the page and folded it in half, shoving it into his bag and getting a fresh page.
George lifted his eyebrows, the grin slipping off of his face. “I was just asking.”
Harold blinked a few times at the paper as George’s tone finally got through to him. He thought for a moment, frowning. Finally he moved his eyes up from his paper to look at George. “What?” he said, his blue eyes anxious, yet reserved.
George held eye contact, almost seeming to harden as he stared Harold down for a moment. Then he sighed shortly through his nose and scooted away, back to his original spot. “Nothing.” His voice was low and sulky. He picked his pencil back up and started writing on his paper again, dark and brooding.
Harold looked George up and down for a few seconds, his face tightening a little. “What’d I do?” he asked.
“Nothing, Harold, it’s fine,” George sighed, not looking up.
Harold put his stuff down and scooted to the edge of the hammock to put his feet down flat on the floor. “No, dude. What’s wrong? Did I do something? Or is something going on? Come on man, you can tell me.” His voice was gentle, but he was fidgeting with his hoodie strings, tapping his foot, and biting at the skin on the inside of his lips.
“I said it’s fine, Harold!” George looked up furiously from his writing. His brown eyes, which were usually warm and cheerful, were suddenly fiery. “Why are you hounding me? I said I’m fine!”
Harold’s eyes widened. “What? Dude what’s going on? Just tell me!” Though he was trying his best to be understanding, he felt something awful building in his belly.
“We literally never hang out anymore! Ever! You’ve always gotta be busy every time I ask. And the one time you give me the grace of your presence, you wanna sit over there being a dick and barely talking! I’m trying to joke with you and write this comic and you’re just ignoring me! What did I do?” George burst out.
Harold’s brows darkened his eyes to a dull grey when they pushed together. “I’m not being a dick! I was trying to joke with you! Why are you so angry for no reason? I’m trying to help!” When he dropped his hands angrily onto his lap, the figurines on the shelves rattled with the motion.
“We just never hang out! Ever!”
“Yeah? Well it’s because you’re suffocating me, George! God forbid a man wanna have time to himself once in a while without needing to reassure someone all the damn time that yes, everything’s okay!”
George looked bewildered. His shoulders dropped slightly and he sort of deflated. He looked Harold up and down for a half second, the black of his eyes cooling down into a dingier color. He blinked a few times, letting a breath huff out of him. Harold opened his mouth to say something, but George swelled with anger yet again. “I’m suffocating you?” he seethed through his teeth, hunching forward and tensing up.
Whatever helpful statement Harold had been about to say died on his tongue and was replaced with frustrations that had been building for at least a year. “Yeah, dude! You always wanna be around me, but sometimes I just wanna be alone!” Harold looked like he was about to cry as he spoke, his voice getting higher pitched the more he talked.
“You never wanted that before.” George said, his voice raising again.
“Well people change!”
“WHY THOUGH-? FUCK!” George had stood up suddenly, maybe to prove a point or something, he didn’t know what for really, and whacked his head on the top of the treehouse. Several of their writings and drawings fell off the walls and shelves from the way the walls shook, including the one at the center of it all, their Captain Underpants poster they had designed together. It fluttered to the floor, the rippling, paper-y sound of it lost amongst George’s cussing and Harold’s high pitched yelp.
“Son of a bitch!” George swore, crouching back down and clutching the top of his head. He felt like his skull was going to split in two. Tears were welling up in his eyes, though he couldn’t tell if it was because of the argument or because of hitting his head so hard on the ceiling. He sat down on his knees and leaned over, running his hands over his hair in a futile attempt to stop the vicious pain of the lump forming there. He saw through blurred vision Harold’s socked feet slide across the floor when he got on his knees next to him, hands shaking as he hurriedly approached.
“George! George, are you okay?” Harold’s voice was suddenly concerned again. He put one of his arms around George’s shoulders, trying to steady him. “Shit dude, that looked like hell. I’ll go get some ice or something, oh my god, oh my god- Just sit still for a sec-”
“Get off me,” George mumbled, pushing Harold away from him. Even that small motion made his head throb. He stood up, careful not to beat his head on the ceiling again, and made for the curtain. Stepping on the papers on the floor in his hurry to just get out of the cramped treehouse, he swept open the curtain and climbed down the ladder.
“George, I’m sorry!” Harold called out, scrambling to follow. He nearly fell in his hurry to follow the other. He hadn’t even realized that the sun had started to set, and he struggled to see where he was going as he stumbled over random things in George’s yard. “I’m sorry dude, I didn’t mean- Well I was just asking if you were okay-”
“I’m going home, Harold,” George said, his voice serious and hard.
Harold halted where he was. He swallowed, pausing as if maybe George would change his mind. He fidgeted with the strings of his hoodie for a second, trying to decide what to do or what to say. When George looked at him, when those eyes became forlorn and sad, Harold just wanted to jump at his friend and make amends right then and there. Ultimately, however, George turned away from him, and Harold eventually settled on anger. “Fine. Fine! Just go home then. And when you wanna stop being an ass, come talk to me!” he shouted after the other’s figure, his voice hoarse as he tried to keep it steady.
“Only when you stop half-assing our friendship.” George snapped back, not even looking back as he slammed the back screen door and put the hook into it to lock it.
Harold scoffed, sending George the finger that he couldn’t see. He felt a tear moving down his face. Then he heard the muffled sound of George’s mom saying something, and George shouting at her to leave him alone. His mom looked out of the screen door in alarm, catching Harold weeping, and turned back around. He sniffed and wiped his face, turning away before anyone else could see.
Maybe they just didn’t understand each other anymore.