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It’s 12.04am when Arthur hears the jingle of keys in his front door.
He stops reading mid-sentence, thumb pinning the page, and lifts his head like a startled cat. The flat has been too quiet all week, his housemate in Miami, Arthur alone with the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the building settling. The only other person with a key was—
“Arthur?” George calls from the hallway, voice warm and familiar and slightly breathless, like he’s taken the stairs two at a time.
Arthur’s brows knit. George had texted earlier: Staying at mine tonight. Rehearsals ran over. See you at the podcast shoot in the morning, baby.
“Just in bed,” Arthur calls back, still confused enough that his voice comes out careful, like he’s testing whether this is real.
A second later, Arthur hears the soft thump of George’s trainers kicked off somewhere near the door, then the quick, eager padding down the hallway.
Arthur thinks he might be half dreaming until George is standing in the doorway, grinning like he’s already won the glitter ball.
He’s in black shorts and one of Arthur’s old hoodies, worn beyond recognition. His cheeks are flushed, curls a mess, eyes bright in that almost-giddy way that makes Arthur’s chest go tight with fondness.
“Hi baby,” George says, smiling as he steps further into the room.
He drops his duffle bag onto the floor with a soft thud and flops dramatically onto Arthur’s bed like he’s auditioning for the role of exhausted boyfriend in a rom-com. The mattress dips, Arthur bounces a little, and George makes a pleased noise into the duvet as if the bed itself has personally welcomed him home.
Arthur closes his book slowly, still staring.
“Why are you here?” he asks, tone not unkind just bewildered. He dog-ears the page without thinking (he’ll regret it later) and sets the book on the bedside table.
George mumbles something into the duvet, then reaches out blindly until his hand finds Arthur’s. The moment their fingers touch, George sighs, a long, satisfied exhale, and laces their hands together like it’s instinct.
“I missed you,” George says, muffled, as if that explains everything.
Arthur’s confusion softens into something else. He squeezes George’s hand. “But I thought you said you’d see me in the morning?”
George lifts his head just enough to look at him, eyes wide. “Do you not miss me?”
“Don’t be silly,” Arthur murmurs, and the corners of his mouth twitch. “Of course I do.”
“I’m only joking,” George says quickly, already grinning again. He shifts so his cheek rests against Arthur’s stomach, warm even through the fabric of Arthur’s t-shirt. “I just—Alexis was talking today about how much she misses her husband. And she was like, ‘You’re so lucky you have someone.’ And then she looked at me like I’m the luckiest man alive—”
“You are,” Arthur says softly, before he can help it.
George pauses, then lets out a tiny, pleased hum. “—and rehearsals ran late, and the thought of going home to my cold and empty bed made me sad,” he continues, voice turning small and honest, “so… here I am.”
Arthur’s free hand moves instantly, fingers combing through George’s curls. There’s still sweat-dampness at the roots, and Arthur can smell the faint tang of effort on him, deodorant trying its best, cologne fading, the unmistakeable evidence of George working himself to the bone.
“You could’ve just told me,” Arthur says, a little scold wrapped in tenderness. “I would’ve come to yours if you asked, love.”
George shifts, face scrunching like the idea is absurd. “No.”
Arthur’s fingers pause in George’s hair. “No?”
“I wasn’t calling you at eleven to beg you to leave your warm, toasty bed to come to my freezing cave of loneliness,” George declares, lifting his head enough to point a finger accusingly at Arthur’s pillow. “Absolutely not.”
Arthur laughs under his breath. “Your room is not a cave.”
“It’s a cave,” George insists. “Full of sadness and Chris lurking about.”
“Mm,” Arthur hums, amused. “What about clothes for tomorrow? I know everyone knows, but I don’t think you need Chris rinsing you for days when you show up in my jeans.”
George’s grin turns wicked. “He’ll rinse me anyway.”
“He will,” Arthur agrees, resigned.
“Hill is bringing stuff to the studio with him in the morning,” George says, voice casual, like he hasn’t just admitted he planned this. “I’ll wear this, and then change.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You arranged that?”
George gives him a look that says obviously. “I’m a professional, Arthur.”
“You’re a menace,” Arthur corrects, and George beams like it’s a compliment.
Arthur keeps running his fingers through George’s hair, slower now, soothing. George’s eyelids flutter as if he’s fighting sleep but doesn’t want to lose the moment.
“You’re sweaty,” Arthur says, nose wrinkling.
George doesn’t move. “Thank you.”
“I’m serious,” Arthur adds, trying for stern and failing because George looks too soft like this. “You need a shower.”
George makes a noise of protest into Arthur’s stomach, vibrating against him. “I’m comfy.”
“You’ll be comfier clean.”
George tilts his head up, eyes pleading. “But then I have to stand up.”
Arthur leans down and presses a kiss to George’s forehead. “Tragic.”
George’s eyes close at the kiss, and he sighs like Arthur’s mouth is the answer to every problem he’s ever had. “Will you—” George starts, then stops, suddenly shy. “Will you wait for me?”
Arthur blinks. “Of course I’ll wait for you.”
George relaxes again, as if that’s all he needed. Then he sits up with the exaggerated misery of a man being forced to climb a mountain. “Fine,” he grumbles, pushing himself off the bed. “But if I die in the shower, tell the nation I loved them.”
Arthur snorts. “The nation will be devastated.”
George trudges toward the ensuite like a soldier marching to war. At the door, he turns back, eyes bright again. “You can come with me,” he offers, voice suddenly hopeful.
Arthur’s stomach flips, ridiculous after all this time. “George.”
“What?” George shrugs, too innocent. “I’m just offering. For… moral support.”
Arthur folds his arms. “You’re trying to lure me.”
“It’s not luring if you want it,” George counters, grin sly.
Arthur narrows his eyes. “Go shower.”
George pouts. “Cruel.”
“Go.”
George sighs dramatically, then disappears into the bathroom.
Arthur hears the light click on, the rustle of clothes, George muttering to himself as if he’s narrating his own suffering. Then the shower turns on, water rushing, steam starting to fog the mirror.
Arthur settles back into bed, book forgotten, listening to the sound of George moving around—real, here, in his flat, in his space. His heart does a stupid, soft thing, like it’s trying to melt through his ribs.
He picks up his book again, pretends to read, but keeps looking up at the bathroom door like he’s waiting for a gift he already knows is coming.
When George finally emerges, he’s damp haired and flushed and wearing Arthur’s oversized grey t-shirt like it belongs to him. Towelling his hair, he pauses in the doorway.
“Better?” Arthur asks.
George’s smile turns soft in a way that always gets Arthur. “Better.”
He pads over and climbs back onto the bed, this time carefully, like he doesn’t want to jostle Arthur out of place. He scoots close, shoulder bumping Arthur’s, then flops sideways so his head lands on Arthur’s chest with a satisfied little mhmm.
Arthur’s fingers immediately go to George’s hair again, now clean and fluffy and curling into his palm.
George tilts his chin up. “Kiss?”
Arthur snorts, but leans down and kisses him anyway—gentle at first, then slower, deeper as George’s hand slides to the back of Arthur’s neck like he’s anchoring himself there.
Arthur pulls back just enough to breathe. “You’re going to fall asleep.”
George’s eyes are half-lidded. “Good.”
Arthur kisses the corner of George’s mouth. “You have to be up early.”
George makes a sound that might’ve been agreement. “Stay,” he whispers, like Arthur could ever go anywhere.
“I’m right here,” Arthur murmurs.
George smiles against his chest. “I know.”
Arthur shifts the duvet higher, tucking George in. “You’re going to get my bed wet,” he says, trying to be stern again.
George laughs softly. “Worth it.”
Arthur presses another kiss to his forehead. “You’re exhausting.”
“You love it,” George mumbles, already drifting.
Arthur’s hand keeps moving through George’s curls, slow and protective. He feels George’s breathing even out, the weight of him settling into Arthur’s body like he belongs there.
Arthur stares at the ceiling for a moment, overwhelmed by something so simple: George choosing him, again and again, even when he’s tired, even when he’s busy, even when the world is pulling him in a hundred directions. George still comes home to Arthur like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Arthur’s throat tightens.
He turns his head and murmurs into George’s hair, barely louder than a breath. “I love you.”
George doesn’t fully wake, but his hand tightens in Arthur’s shirt, and he hums like he heard it.
Arthur smiles, eyes stinging a little with it, and closes his own eyes.
They fall asleep tangled together, warm and quiet and safe.
Morning comes too quickly.
Arthur wakes first, as usual, to pale winter light slipping through the curtains and the heavy warmth of George draped across him like a human blanket. George’s arm is slung over Arthur’s waist, leg thrown over Arthur’s thighs, face pressed into Arthur’s neck like he’s trying to burrow closer.
Arthur lies still for a moment, letting himself feel it. The weight. The closeness. The soft puff of George’s breath against his skin.
He reaches up and brushes his thumb along George’s cheek.
George makes a tiny noise and squeezes tighter.
Arthur smiles. “George.”
No response.
“George, love.”
George shifts, burying his face deeper. “Five minutes,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
Arthur laughs quietly. “We have to be at the studio in an hour.”
George’s eyelids crack open. He stares at Arthur like he’s betrayed him personally. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true.”
George closes his eyes again. “You are so lucky I love you Arthur because I swear I’d sleep forever if it wasn’t for this podcast appearance.”
Arthur nudges his shoulder. “And you know I appreciate it, now come on.”
George’s mouth twists. “If I win the glitter ball, I’m blaming you for this morning.”
“If you win the glitter ball,” Arthur says, amused, “you can blame me for anything you like.”
That gets George to open his eyes properly. He studies Arthur’s face, sleepy and soft, then smiles like he’s just remembered something important. “You’re pretty,” he says simply.
Arthur’s ears heat. “That is not going to get you an extra five minutes in bed.”
George’s smile turns fond. “Not trying to, I’m just stating facts.”
Arthur shakes his head, but he can’t hide the grin. He leans down and kisses George’s nose. “Up.”
George sighs, then finally untangles himself with great dramatic suffering, collapsing onto his back. “I came here for comfort and safety,” he complains.
“You came here because you’re obsessed with me,” Arthur counters, climbing out of bed.
George watches him with that open, shameless adoration that still knocks Arthur sideways. “Also true.”
Arthur goes to the kitchen to start coffee. George follows, hoodie pulled back on, hair still damp at the ends. He wraps his arms around Arthur from behind while Arthur pours water into the kettle, chin resting on Arthur’s shoulder.
“You’re clingy,” Arthur murmurs, but he leans back into it anyway.
“I’m in love,” George replies, like it’s the same thing.
Arthur hums. “Mm.”
George kisses the side of Arthur’s neck, gentle. “Thank you for letting me come over.”
Arthur turns his head slightly. “You don’t need permission.”
“I know,” George says, quieter. “But thank you anyway.”
Arthur’s chest warms. He turns in George’s arms, cups George’s face, and kisses him, slow, deliberate, like he’s giving the gratitude back. George’s hands slide to Arthur’s waist, holding him carefully, like Arthur is something precious.
When they pull apart, George smiles like he’s full.
“Coffee,” Arthur says, voice a little hoarse.
“Yes please,” George replies.
Later at the stupid George is changing when Hill lightly grips Arthur’s elbow and steers him a few steps away, out of earshot.
“Come here,” Hill says, tone gentler now. “I wanted a word.”
Arthur turns to him, still smiling faintly, but there’s a question in his eyes. “Everything alright?”
Hill nods. He leans back against one of the counters, arms folding loosely as he studies Arthur for a moment not critically, just thoughtfully.
“You make him so happy,” Hill says finally.
Arthur stills.
He keeps going, voice quiet but sincere. “You know that, right? He’s exhausted every time I see him alone. Like bone deep tired. He pushes himself stupidly hard.” He huffs a soft laugh. “We all tell him to slow down. He never listens.”
Arthur’s chest tightens, something warm and aching spreading just behind his ribs.
“But the second he’s with you,” Hill continues, nodding toward the changing area, “it’s like he gets a new lease of life. He laughs more. He eats properly. He actually sits down.” He pauses, then adds with a crooked smile, “It’s annoying, honestly.”
Arthur swallows. “He doesn’t show that part much.”
“No,” Hill agrees softly. “But we see it.”
Arthur’s fingers curl slightly at his sides, grounding himself. He feels overwhelmed all at once, pride, tenderness, a quiet protectiveness that settles deep in his bones.
Hill tilts his head, smirking now. “He’s also completely whipped for you.”
Arthur lets out a breathy laugh. “I’ve gathered.”
“I mean fully,” He says. “You see him more than I do and I live with the man.”
Arthur shakes his head, warmth flooding his face. “That can’t be true.”
Hill raises an eyebrow. “Arthur, he rearranged his entire rehearsal schedule last week because you had a bad day.”
Arthur blinks. “He told me that was coincidence.”
Hill snorts. “It was not.”
Arthur laughs quietly, but his eyes sting a little. He opens his mouth to reply to say something self-deprecating, something deflecting, because that’s instinct.
But he never gets the chance.
“Time for my big comeback on the pod, baby!”
George bounces over like a golden retriever released into a field, hair freshly tousled, confidence fully restored. He’s grinning, eyes bright, energy buzzing around him like electricity.
He slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulders without hesitation.
“Make sure Java’s got my mic up the highest,” George adds seriously. “The people need to hear me.”
Arthur laughs, breathless, heart already too full. “You’re unbearable.”
George beams. “And yet, I was in your ned last night.”
Hill steps back, shaking his head fondly. “I’m leaving before I witness something I can’t unsee.”
George barely registers him. He’s too busy looking at Arthur, like the room has faded out around them.
Arthur doesn’t overthink it.
He just cups George’s face and kisses him, right there, in the middle of the studio, soft and unguarded and full of everything he hasn’t said out loud.
There are groans behind them. Someone wolf-whistles. Chris loudly announces, “I’m posting this to my story.”
Arthur ignores all of it.
When he pulls back, forehead still resting against George’s, he murmurs, voice steady despite the emotion in his chest, “I’m so proud of you, Georgie.”
George’s grin softens into something smaller. Realer.
His hands tighten at Arthur’s waist. “Yeah?”
Arthur nods. “Always.”
For a moment, George just looks at him like he’s anchoring himself there, then he leans in and presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s cheek, smiling wider than ever.
“Alright,” George says, turning toward the set, confidence renewed. “Let’s give the people a show.”
Arthur watches him go, heart full to bursting, knowing with absolute certainty that no matter how bright the lights get, George will always come back to him.
And somehow, that feels like winning.