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He glanced down at his phone, turning on the screen, unlocking it to reveal what he had been mulling over for the past half an hour or so. A reservation booking, he was the one who had booked it, the time and restaurant tantalisingly staring back up at him.
He could picture how it would go down. Lando, funnily enough, would have the spiciest dish between the three of them, even if he was a self-declared picky eater. When Alex tried it, he would act as nonchalant as possible before reaching for his glass. George would decline, too aware that the food would not sit right in his stomach and that he would rather not have to face those consequences on the early-morning flight tomorrow. Alex would choose something meaty; in fact, he would order a selection, and the array would be spread across the table for anyone to pick at. He preferred noodles over rice and would most likely have a main dish centred on that. George (and no one would be surprised, he reckoned) would choose something tame. Something that would make someone say, Mate, you're in Shanghai, try something a little more out there when they saw it. George always liked the comfort of what he was used to when it came to food; the drinks were a different story, however.
He liked exploring all the different drinks he could try when travelling. In fact, once they were bordering on stuffed and should realistically go home to rest, someone will point out a stand, a shop, or a stall. Probably Lando and his infamous sweet tooth. Now, despite George acting like he swore off all things indulgent and delectable, he would submit. None of them should, considering they were almost too full to begin with, but they would walk back to the hotel, sweet treat in one hand, a drink in the other, and once satiated, they would crash in the room and sleep off the sugary rush.
Well, that would be what happened if George stopped being so selfishly nervous.
He could feel it, the uncertainty stirring in his stomach, making the thought of food too nauseating to bear. It was arrogance, stagnant and vile, because his self-centred thoughts were making him hesitate. He had it all: the fast car, the championship lead, a team that backed him; he had no right to complain.
Yet something, belittling and mean, sat behind his ribs and poked harshly into the meat of his heart.
It was ugly, all jagged shapes and ungainly angles, sharpened edges that dug into skin and tore through with paper-thin cuts that left speckled blood in its wake. It had been growing, slowly, a constant threat that thundered behind him. Not a fast, precise hunter, and he was the unassuming prey, his untimely demise waiting to pounce. Rather, this had been gradual. It had grown like snow fluttering down on a winter's day that piled little by little, and before you realised it, the mound was too big to handle, a snowball effect, a ripple, something that started as so tiny at first, now much greater than what he could manage.
Alex and Lando did not get to start the race. George was ungrateful for even letting the thoughts mock him, but no matter how fast he drove, the indignity managed to cling on.
He figured, despite the thought making his stomach churn further, that the feelings sprouted when they made the relationship between the three of them official. He and Alex had been fooling around with each other for— well, for as long as he could remember. After failed girlfriends and fleeting boyfriends, somewhere along the way, they became a bumbling pair that no one batted an eye at. It made sense; they were inseparable anyway, no one questioned if George stayed the night with Alex, or if Alex showed up to a race with George. They were two best friends, nothing to it.
At some point, because nothing was ever officially declared, nothing was ever tied down; Lando was added into the equation. George wasn't sure who approached whom first, wasn't sure if it was himself or Alex who was the first instigator, or maybe they'd been doing it at the same time, unknowingly. Though Lando, forever bright and a joy to be around, had managed to pull them both in. The three orbited one another for a while, nothing spoken, nothing communicated, just late nights and the morning sun breaking the peace.
One day, George woke up tangled between both Lando and Alex. That day, Alex sat them all down, always the steadfast one between them all, and declared they should talk about what was happening.
Lando was open to the idea immediately. Alex, who had suggested it, was obviously keen. George hated himself for it and would never admit the fear of self-loathing out loud, but he was hesitant. Commitment always spooked him; he tried so hard not to act like it did, attempting to show he was a functioning adult who could put all he had into a relationship, but at the start, he could not deny it; he was scared.
He said he would never admit it out loud, but he was almost certain Alex and Lando already knew. With all the time they spent invading each other's personal space, calls that lasted way too long as they ate into the early hours of the morning, and shared flights and travel, they knew a whole lot about each other.
George ran away once. He could recount it perfectly— well, it wasn't as if he was going to forget anytime soon. This was all still new; it wasn't that long ago when George fled. No words, no nothing, just a tail between his legs as he hopped onto a flight after a race and ended back in Monaco. He recalled the notifications, blocks of texts and missed calls as he locked his door and threw his own pity party, slumping down on the sofa and wishing he could melt into the leather.
Alex found him. Lando, of course, was close behind.
"No running away, okay?" Alex had said, kind but confident. George knew he'd hurt them; the act was childish, naive, and most importantly, showed a lack of trust. He wanted to scream and shout that it wasn't them, that they were not the problem, but rather it was his own fragile complexion that made him act this way.
He wanted to be with them forever; he always wanted to hold onto the special connection they had, but he couldn't combat the sneaking, sly thoughts. The voice that told him he was the outlier, the negativity amongst the light, and the strain of this season would show him as much.
George was leading the championship, for Christ's sake! Two races in, so of course they had plenty more to go, but he was confident he could hold his lead to the very end. There was no reason for him to be moping, the champagne still soaked into his skin, despite the shower he'd had. Neither Alex nor Lando started; neither had an exceptionally great race last week, either, yet George was the sour one. Too scared to even call them to tell them he needed— well—
That was the problem; he did not know what he needed.
George knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to tell them he loved them— those words had never left his mouth once, despite both Lando and Alex saying it countless times. They did not push him, but waited kindly until he was ready. George wasn't sure if he would ever be ready—but he still loved them so dearly. He loved them so much that he wished he had never fallen for them both in the first place. He was unworthy of their compassion, sullying the perfect haven they had built, and wished he could remove himself so the other two did not have to deal with the immature behaviour.
It was a selfish thought. It prickled against his skin, and a wave of jagged static washed over him.
He swallowed, opened his messages, typed: Sorry, won't be at the meal. You guys enjoy it, though. Then he sent it.
The ticks formed before he even had time to put his phone away, the dotted bubble popping up as he turned the screen off and slipped his phone back in his pocket.
It was childish. It was selfish. George was worried that this was the only way he could deal with the overlapping feelings; the only other option was his mind telling him to take himself to the airport tonight.
He wouldn't do that to Lando and Alex, not again.
Instead, he made sure his phone was on silent, trudged back to their hotel room and hid under the covers, lights off, in a weak attempt to fall asleep.
He didn't sleep a wink.
An hour later, maybe two, the door cracked open, and at first the voice he strained to hear was hushed. An attempted whisper, not amazing, but Lando had never been excellent at the soft, subtle whispers; he was always more of a stage whisper than anything.
Then, following, louder and astute, "Lan, no need to be quiet, I know George is not asleep."
"Well, pardon me, Alex, for trying to care," Lando shot back, the door shutting and the light flicking on.
George stayed unmoving, cover pulled up past his head.
"He doesn't deserve your generosity after the stunt he pulled today," Alex stated, not mean, not goading, more a fact than anything. That was what made it hurt; Alex was stating the actuality of the situation, he was not sugarcoating it. George had been a prick, and he would not shy away from pointing that out.
"Alex—" Lando tried.
"No, Lan, he upset you, and he's pissed me off, so we are going to talk about what happened and how we can avoid this happening again," Alex huffed out, voice strained. There was a moment of tense silence, and George, still hidden, could imagine the exchange of expressions between his two boyfriends. Alex added, softer this time, "Or we discuss how to help each other out, yeah? I don't like seeing anyone hurt."
"I'm not hurt," George mumbled, muffled by the bedding.
"Oh, so he talks! Huzzah!" Alex sniped sarcastically. A hand found the top of the duvet, and George tried to grapple it, but it was torn away, leaving the light pouring into his retinas, Alex and Lando's shadows cast over him as they stood beside the bed. "Thought you were going to give us the silent treatment the rest of the night, considering you stood us up and then ghosted us for most of the evening."
George, as petty as it was, did not respond.
"If you're not hurt, then what's got you like this?" It was Lando who asked, and as George took in both his boyfriends' features, he winced at the tender concern in Lando— the soft worry that tried to wash away the panic that was undoubtedly settled in his chest. Then Alex, furrowed brows woven with a care George had not earned, but he was more expressive than just that. He was wounded, too. The frustration was evident. After all, they had spent years of always being able to speak their mind— Lando was the same, he did not doubt that, but he tended to be more thoughtful in his approach, Alex and George could be blunt when perhaps a softer touch was needed.
George huffed, twisted around, and faced the opposite direction so he no longer had to see their watchful gazes.
"Yeah, no. That is not happening today," Alex was already moving around the bed to plonk himself down next to George. "Now wherever you turn, you're going to have to face one of us."
"You're being a right dick," it was spat out before he considered the words, before he realised how utterly petulant they sounded. George had no right to scold Alex when he'd left their messages unanswered, sulking in their bedroom when they were most likely worrying about him as they tried to get him to show them any sign of life.
Though Alex did not rise to the bait. He rolled his eyes, and that was all, before responding, "Let's talk, Georgie. You booked the table for us and then didn't show. What's on your mind?"
"Nothing," he muttered, closing his eyes. If he could squeeze them tight enough, causing stars to dance across the void, he could maybe pretend this was some cruel dream rather than the real feeling of being chastised by both his boyfriends, despite them needing to do so.
"It's not nothing," the mattress dipped behind him now as Lando perched on the edge. A hand found its way to his hair, slender fingers through knotted strands— he hadn't realised how tangled it had become despite washing it hours earlier.
He did not deserve the kindness.
"I don't—" he stopped himself, wet his lips, tongue dragging against the cracked lines branded into his skin. There was a loose flake, dry and pulsing from when he had picked at it earlier with the edge of a nail. He pinched it between his teeth and pulled slightly; the sting was welcomed as it finally dislodged, leaving a small, raw, pink undertone beneath where the flake had once sat.
He did not know what to say. So instead, he ran his tongue over the new wound, the taste of copper heavy and tart.
"George—"
"No, let me just— fuck, I don't know what to say, I can't fucking think," he wasn't even sure who he interrupted. The murmur of noise: voices, the hum of the air conditioning, cars that occasionally drove past outside, all blended into something solid around him.
Both Lando and Alex complied; somehow, that pushed him further, his own frustration bubbling. They were so understanding, they listened, and George was ungrateful and ruined everyone's night despite bagging yet another podium and showing the world what he was truly made of.
He voiced it. It was the only thing he could grab onto. "You're being nice to me. Why?"
"George, what do you mean why?" Alex sounded exasperated, and George couldn't fault him. "Because we love you."
It was said so easily, twisting in George's guts, the same words ready to spill out of George's own mouth, but they were steeped in hesitation that tasted too much like bile.
Alex continued, "Because, even with the ups and downs, we will continue to love you. When you get all pissy and ignore us, despite being the one to suggest we go out for a meal in the first place, we will still obviously love you."
Lando's hand hasn't stopped, a constant movement against his scalp. Alex's words settled, the frustrating need to understand peeking through. Alex always hated not knowing things, and that compounded with the discomfort.
"I'm sorry." It sounded weak. Unstable.
"We know," Lando responded as Alex leaned forward to press a kiss against George's forehead, right at his hairline.
"You guys have had such a shit day," he muttered, eyes finally opening. They meet Alex's, they're greeted with tenderness swirling in the deep brown, "I don't deserve to—"
"Stop that right now," Alex cut in. "We said racing will be left on the track and not affect our relationship, remember? Lando and I had fucking God-awful days today; we spoke about it over dinner, actually. It happens. You can feel sorry for us if you want, but we don't need your pity. What I want to know is what's really bothering you."
George could feel the doubt, thick against the back of his throat. He could not say it quite yet; instead, he busied himself with the act of sitting up. Lando's hand dropped from his hair and slid down, landing against the small of his back, palm warm as it flattened against George's t-shirt.
"What's on your mind, G?" Lando asked quietly, breath bursting against the patch of skin just below his ear.
"Do you guys think you'd be better off without me?"
He had blurted it out; he hadn't considered the words at all. It was too late now, the words sat in front of them, hot to touch, like glowing coals that pressed dusted ash atop fingertips. Too late to take back, too late to try and undo the weight of what he'd confessed, his deepest fears splayed out, ready to be dissected.
"George—"
Again, he didn't know who tried to speak; he was already waving his hands about, dismissing his own words, eyes downcast to study the duvet.
"Forget I said anything," he managed out quickly, "I'm just tired, that's all. I didn't mean it."
"We need to talk about it, George, you don't just say that without meaning it at least a little bit," Alex retaliated. He sounded offended; the hurt was evident.
George wished he could shrink, or maybe dissolve, so he could be left as a puddle of nothing. That would mean no one had to care for him anymore.
"George, you don't mean that, right?" Lando's voice was so small.
For a moment, he did not know what else to say. No fix sprang to mind; he could not go back in time and stop himself from saying it.
"It's stupid," even his own voice sounded small. He should have been feeling anything else right now; he should have been celebrating, over the moon at another good result. Instead, he was wallowing in self-pity, too scared to admit what he had always wanted to say because the fear of dragging his partners down felt too overwhelming. "I don't know what came over me."
"Just speak whatever's on your mind," Alex tried, the discomfort was masked, but George saw through it.
He had fucked up.
"I'm sorry. I didn't— I don't mean it, or well, I hope it's not true. It might— I don't fucking know, okay! I think I'm tryin to, you know, well," he was rambling, uneloquent and bumbling, nothing coming out smooth, "It might be nicer, to not, well, not have me dragging you two down."
He was sulking. He succumbed to the insecurities when he should have been happy. He knew he was not nice to be around, he knew he was crying out for attention, he knew it was stupid and selfish and spineless.
"You really think that?" Alex asked, sudden and shocked.
George felt the shame dust his cheeks in an uncomfortable warmth. "No— like… it's, I don't know!"
"Was it something we did? Or said? If we've done anything to make you think this way, please tell us so we can correct our mistake."
Now they thought they were the problem. George couldn't say anything right; words were clunky, too big in his mouth that he had to force them out.
"No! No, of course not. It isn't you guys— fuck. I just think you deserve something nicer. Something less, you know, like this," he gestured to himself, hands waving widely. His breathing had slipped, becoming something uneven as he caught on every inhale, each exhale too thin. "You guys had a shit race, and I came second and yet I'm the one acting like this. Aren't you sick of it? I do this shit all the time, and it isn't fair. You have every right to be mad because I just stopped responding to you guys, and that was probably scary, right? It wasn't mature or adult, and— well, I don't know. I don't—"
The next breath did not come out right, and George bit his lip, stifling the pathetic whimper that wanted to surface. Lando's hand had not retracted, but George could feel the fingers twitch. A slight shake. He shouldn't look, a part of him told himself that, but the other part, the mean voice, told him to stare down the consequences of his actions.
He tilted his head sideways. Lando was looking away now, but George saw the tears.
Lando wasn't a crier.
He cried when he had won the championship, after several instances throughout the season where he said he wanted to cry but just couldn't. He was always so open; his emotions and mental health struggles were something he did not shy away from. He was far braver than George in that aspect— he saw what comments were made, the assumptions that the struggles equalled a temperament not fit for a champion. Lando never let that get him down; that was why he was more courageous than George could ever be, and when Lando won it all, he proved anyone who doubted him wrong. He had the champion mentality, and it wasn't the rough-edged sturdiness the media insisted was mandatory, but rather it was human and real, in touch and open. George watched Lando get out of his car, watched him hug everyone, celebrating the dream come true, and when the helmet finally came off, proud tears shimmered in his eyes.
That was the first time George had seen Lando cry.
This was the second.
"Lando, please don't—" Please don't what? Cry? George was the reason Lando was crying in the first place; he couldn't ask Lando to do anything; he did not have the right to do so. He wasn't sure what he would say, what he could do to make this all go away.
The warmth left his back, a palm print of coldness left in its wake when Lando instead blindly reached around for George's hand. He grabbed on, tight, squeezing it. I'm here, I just can't talk, was what the touch said.
George squeezed back.
"Hey," Alex's voice, unreadable, cut into the silent gesture, and George turned, faced his other boyfriend.
"I shouldn't have said anything—"
"No, you should," Alex said, not unkindly. "George, we need to talk about stuff like this. It's so important to discuss worries and fears, and well, whatever is going on in that beautiful mind of yours."
"My mind is not beautiful."
"Oh, but it is," Alex reached out, cupped both George's cheeks. His own eyes were glossy, shining wetly under the hotel light. "It's so beautiful, even with the anxieties and insecurities, because that's just what being a human is, Goergie. Your mind is wonderful, always has been, and this hurdle won't take away from that fact."
"Stop being so nice to me," George spat out weakly. He was blinking too much, his lashline heavy with droplets soon to fall.
"But you deserve it—"
"No, I've been a right dick," George tried to push away with his words, tried but failed with the way his voice broke, and the first tears finally fell. "You should be angry."
"I was angry at you, Georgie," Alex responded calmly. "At first, I was pissed off because we had a date to go to and you sent us a direct message, not explaining anything, then ignored us for the rest of the night. That hurt. It hurt me, hurt Lando, but we all make little mistakes; none of us are perfect."
"I'm sorry."
"I know you are, which proves you're not a bad person."
George opened his mouth, closed it again. He felt his teeth dig into his bottom lip, scraping against the raw patch. "But—" he didn't know what his argument was, the words dying before they even made it out of his mouth.
"You deserve the kindness, Georgie," Alex insisted. "What about when I snapped at you after the terrible meeting with Williams, when we realised the car for this year wasn't going to be what I was promised?"
"You were dealing with stuff, that was alright—"
"No, it wasn't. I shouldn't have yelled or let my work frustrations cloud my actions towards you. Yet you forgave me anyway, at the time I didn't think I deserved it, but you gave it to me."
"Or the time I picked McLaren over you guys," Lando managed to speak up, voice wobbly, "we were going to go on a date. It was our anniversary, for fucks sake. And I decided, at the last minute, that the team was more important. That was a dick move."
"The team was important," George reasoned.
"Not more than you two, never more than you guys," Lando replied, resolute. The emotions were still thick, coating his words with a flurry of feelings, but George could tell he meant what he said with every fibre of his being. "And we spoke about it, and you two were rightfully angry, but then you forgave me, too."
"Exactly," Alex agreed, "just because you're having a rough patch, doesn't mean we think any less of you. You can get angry, you can lash out, and then we talk about it, we understand each other, and move forward because that's what the three of us do."
George closed his eyes again; looking at Alex had become too much again. "I shouldn't be having a rough patch! I've finally got the car I've wanted, the team is discussing championship potential, and the media are betting on me doing well for once. I've got it all, and I'm acting like this."
Alex's thumb moved, caressing the skin of George's cheek, brushing against tears. "That doesn't matter, George, because mental health isn't something as simple as life is going well, so I am not allowed to be sad."
"Would you have said the same thing to me?" Lando suddenly asked.
"Wha— pardon?" George stuttered.
"Would you say that to me?" He repeated. "Last year, when my mental health took a nosedive, would you tell me that I shouldn't feel that way because I was given an amazing car, a good team, and the chance to win the dream I'd been holding onto since I was a child?"
"No, of course not, Lan. I'd never tell you anything like that, because your feelings were valid."
"Well, there's your answer then," Lando said simply. "Direct that kindness to yourself, G. Those reasons can be used for you as well, not just other people. You are allowed to feel this way."
"I don't want to drag you guys down," George said quietly.
"And you don't," Alex reassured. "Is this what it's about? You think you'd be helping us by leaving?"
"Well— yeah. Yeah."
Lando made a wounded sound, but his grip did not ease up; George's hand still tangled with his. Alex breathed out, and George didn't know how to describe the long whistle of air leaving Alex's lungs.
"Oh Georgie, I'm so sorry you feel that way—"
"No, please don't apologise," he tried, cutting in, his voice watery. "It's not your fault— it isn't, I just thought maybe if I weren't a part of this, maybe you'd be happy. You guys wouldn't have to put up with me. Or any of my tantrums, tonight was stupid of me, and I— and I— well, I think, maybe, if…"
He trailed off, the explanation splintering into uncoordinated fractions. This wasn't something he could prepare for; there were no notes he could follow. Just unfiltered words that came tumbling out, uncertain of where they were carrying him.
"George, we would never think that way." Alex said back, "Can you look at me?"
George shook his head, the movement a short jerk.
"Please," Alex's voice turned thin, a plea to be able to look George in the eyes.
He conceded, cracking open his eyes, blinking away the watery blur, before coming face to face with Alex again.
"You are not a burden. This was a slip-up, that's all. We know you're sorry— I just, you need to be honest with us here, okay?" Alex sounded nervous, in turn making George's heart spike.
"Alright."
"Do you— do you want to break up with us?"
No! Of course not! That was the thing— George would rather die than break up with them, but he thought he would be helping them out by doing so. Instead, he'd caused a real mess by suggesting such a solution, because his incompetent brain just so happened to be making big mistake after big mistake today.
"Of course not, I don't want to break up with either of you. I love you two so much that I couldn't ever see us being apart," and there it was, the L word, one he'd never used but had always tried to, the fear of unknown prickling the back of his mind, prohibiting him from ever admitting it.
Though he had said it, and Alex's eyes widened slightly, as if unexpecting the confession.
Then Alex started crying.
"Oh fuck, sorry, did I say something? Alex, what's wrong?" The panic clawed deep, gouging into George's skin, scratching up his throat.
"I'm just happy, you big softy," Alex murmured, leaning in and planting a kiss against the corner of George's lips. It was misaligned, a little awkward, but George revelled in the heat's comfort.
"Hey, no fair, I want to kiss George too." Lando, when Alex pulled away, used his free hand to turn George by his chin, kissing him softly as a greeting.
He was littered with kisses, both Alex and Lando pressing their lips over him, not a single inch of his face left unexplored. Tear tracks dried, and George felt the comfort settle.
"I may have been overthinking some things," George mumbled once his boyfriends slowed down and pulled away.
"I am inclined to agree," Alex added. "We love you, Georgie. We will always love you. And you don't have to say it back, I know, sometimes it's harder to—"
"I love you," George interrupted, smiling. Alex stopped what he was saying, and a laugh, gentle and fond, escaped him. George glanced at Lando, too, "and I love you as well."
Lando pressed into the crook of George's neck, the kiss lingering, pulling skin into a taut, pinkish ring. "Love you, G. Love you, 'Lex," he mumbled, pulling away, "now can we have dessert?"
"Dessert?" George questioned.
Lando unfurled himself, standing and crossing the room. George had been too preoccupied with hiding under the covers at the time, so he hadn't noticed the brown paper bag perched on the coffee table. Alex shuffled over beside George, both now leaning against the headboard as Lando returned, bag in hand, as he sat cross-legged in front of them.
"We bought back some sweet treats to try," Lando explained, "we didn't really know which one you would be in the mood for, so we kind of went overboard."
"When he says we, he means himself," Alex corrected teasingly, "Lan asked for one of everything."
George looked between the two of them. Lando, waiting for his response, cheeks flushed and eyes rimmed red from the crying, but the sparkle was back in those emerald greens, the flecks of gold hopeful and yearning. Then Alex, his hand finding George's thigh under the cover, just resting atop of it, not moving, not squeezing, but an anchor for George to hold onto so he doesn't get dragged away with the torrent of the current.
"I really do love you two," he said instead of an answer; he hoped that, in and of itself, was enough of a response.
"Yeah," Alex replied, "you said."
Lando giggled.
"And I will keep saying it," George promised, and he knew in his soul that he meant it— that he never wanted to feel so helplessly lost ever again, "I will say it again and again and again."
"And we will say it back, every single time," Lando assured. Next to George, Alex nodded.
Then Lando was rummaging through the bag, boxes and packets being pulled and stacked atop the bed. Usually, George would discourage food on the covers, especially since they were going to sleep afterwards, but tonight he did not find himself caring. As Lando started chattering away about the bundle of stray cats he and Alex stumbled across on their way back, Alex's hand still a warm reminder against his thigh, George felt like he was exactly where he needed to be, surrounded by the people he loved most in the world.
Who loved him back— despite his flaws.
Who would continue to love him back, and, really, George couldn't wait to grow old with them both. In their own place, tucked away in rural England, where he had persuaded them to get a brood of chickens, and started growing all his own fruit and veg (and will ultimately complain when the corn gets eaten again, nothing seemingly stopping whatever animal kept getting in). Alex would have procured an army of cats, Lando would buy three dogs, and everyone would have enough room with the rolling fields that surrounded them. When summer hit, with the odd chance of a clear day and a pleasant breeze, they would invite friends and family around for a barbecue. Lando would be prohibited from using the grill, though he was excellent at making drinks. George would offer to cook, but Alex would be happy to do so after realising he had a knack for it. George would have every bedroom set for any overnight guests, bedding clean and folded towels waiting for them. It was a perfect snapshot of what was yet to come, and he knew it would be just as perfect as he imagined.
Though he supposed he was jumping too far ahead, too eager for the future. Now, here, he would revel in the company of unfiltered adoration and gentle compassion, accompanied by delicious street food and the terrible house music playlist Lando had blasting.
"I love you guys," George whispered again, more to himself than anything. Alex was too busy fighting Lando to get to one of the boxes of treats, both laughing as they tried to debate who got to devour it.
They didn't need to hear George; that was okay. They knew he loved them both. In the same way that George knew they both loved him back.