George Villiers

He wakes up slowly, in the comfortable bed and, for a moment, he doesn't know where he is. It isn't his childhood bed, for certain. It's too soft, the covers too comfortable and, more than that, someone's in it with him. At first, he thinks it must be John or Kit but, when he lifts his head, he sees tumbled dark curls and pale skin, the face turned away from him. He sits up suddenly, his hair slipping into his eyes, heart thumping in his chest.

"What the fuck is happening?" he asks, his voice trembling.
It is the strangest, most real dream.

It is, without doubt, the worst handful of days of his life. On the first day, all he really does is cry until he's sick and then cry again. He curls up in bedsheets that still smell of Lee and he replays everything over and over in his head and he tries to make sense of it. How he feels about it. How he feels about Lee.

How much he loves him, despite everything.

He goes back and forth on the subject, sits in the chair that Lee likes best and stares out at the city, scraping the nail of one thumb against the base of the other until he draws blood. He stares at it for a long time. One thing that Lee said to him keeps coming back -- George couldn't be a monster, because he was just trying to survive the world. So why should Lee be any different? That's what he keeps coming back to. That's the thought that he can't let go.

On the third day, he tries to call, but there's no answer. For twenty four hours, he tries and tries again and, somewhere in there, doubt creeps in. What if Lee isn't just ignoring him? What if Lee broke that final promise? What if Lee went back?

He can't bear the thought of it, so he grabs the jacket that Lee found in a thrift shop for him a d pulls it on, heading out into the chill night. He's only been to Lee's apartment a few times but the key in his pocket works in the door.

"Lee?"

He finds him on the couch, frozen in time. It's like he fell asleep, like exhaustion overwhelmed him. He doesn't wake when George shakes his shoulder.

Unsure of what else to do, George curls up in the armchair to keep watch.

He discovers it by accident, tucked down a side street, hidden behind dark windows. When he steps inside, he's taken aback by the sheer variety and, almost immediately, his head is full of possibilities. He texts Lee, suggesting that they meet for drinks later in the evening, giving him a place to meet and a time.

Later finds George leaning against a wall, waiting for Lee, scrolling through his phone. He's dressed in a button down shirts, sleeves rolled up, and he uses the camera on his phone to preen a little, undoing another button before he snaps a photo and sends it to Lee.

Festivities descend upon Darrow well before George would have expected them and, while they're different from the traditions he would have expected at home, there's enough familiarity that it's hard not to get caught up in it. To enjoy it, at least. He goes about his days, sees the people he knows, exchanges messages with Elora, with Lee. Strange as the world is, now, there's still comfort in bodies, and George takes comfort where he finds it.

Which is how he finds himself making his way through a crowded bar, sweating bodies pressing in on both sides. He's dressed for it, snug jeans and a t-shirt fitted across his shoulders -- so little clothes that he might as well be naked by the standards of the world that birthed him.

When he gets to the bar, he leans both elbows on the polished wood and waits to catch the barkeep's eye.