𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

who loves you?

a george christmas oneshot. 3933 words.

When he opens the front door, I think I must look like a drowned rat, a freezing winter downpour having caught me in the half an hour between leaving work and reaching George's house. I can barely conceal the joy and relief in my voice at seeing his serene face. He always looks like he's just woken from a nap, even at his most alert, his fluffy blonde hair refusing to stay neat.

'Hi, love.' He reaches to wrap me in a hug.

'You don't want to do that, I'm all wet,' I protest, but my voice is muffled as my face gets buried in his thick sweater.

'Doesn't bother me,' he grins. 'You look knackered.'

'Oh god, do I?'

'Not like that! Only that you deserve a break.'

George is always like this when I come over - caring, tender, affectionate, though we both know what will end up happening. At first I wondered if it was his way of compensating for the casual exchange of sex, but it turns out that's just the sort of person he is. 'You're too good to me,' I settle on replying, dumping my bag near the front door. 'I hope I haven't disturbed anything.'

'Not at all.' He shakes his head. 'I've been messing around with some new gear, nothing concrete.'

I've only ever glimpsed him in his element, not wanting to become a spectator or make him self-conscious, but I often imagine him deep in the process. He has this expression when he's concentrating that is strangely serene, despite whatever effort he's going to beneath it all. No visible signs of focus, no furrowed brow or quizzical frown. It's strangely charming.

'Sounds like a better day than mine,' I admit, trying not to sound dramatic. But he sees through me anyway, and cups my face in his large, gentle hands, making me look at him directly and studying my eyes.

'J? You alright?'

I nod, but my tear ducts are betraying me. 'I just need a bit of George therapy, okay?'

-

We met at a rather lame Halloween party. Both of us were only lazily dressed up, much to the distaste of my journalist friend who had dragged me along, claiming that she'd bagged an invite through some PR connection, and I had nothing better to do for the occasion.

She deserted me when offered a line. The music blared uncomfortably. People I vaguely recognised and definitely didn't feel comfortable speaking to clustered in three little circles in the kitchen. I eyed up the tall man leaning over the marble kitchen island as he grabbed a handful of crisps from a bowl, sporting a cat mask that looked entirely too small for his head. He was slim for his height without being lanky, just well-built, and well-dressed in an embroidered bomber jacket.

'We're the wrong way round,' I hollered in his general direction, pretending to examine the back of the crisp packet.

'We're what?' He hollered back.

My forefinger swivelled between the two of us, and I flapped my DIY cape pathetically (a length of black material reprising a role it hadn't occupied since uni). 'Back to front. Don't guys normally dress up as Dracula at the last minute, and girls go for the sexy cat shtick?'

He pushed the mask up onto his brow - he was striking, cute, a Romanesque face. And then he smiled sweetly, and instantly aged backwards about five years. 'I thought I could pull off sexy better.'

'Well, I won't argue with you,' I grinned back.

'I always thought Dracula had a certain androgynous elegance to him anyway. I imagine he'd play fast and loose with pronouns.' He pulled a plate of cheese and crackers across the kitchen island and started inspecting them. 'I barely know anyone here. Do you?'