nails like god | georgebur

i am coming clean

George fills his lungs -- the cold, crisp air of Autumn stabbing his throat as it flowed through him. He glances down at his hands, which are trembling violently.

Tearing his eyes away from his palms, George looks at the road. He's coming, there's no way he'd flake on you, George tells himself. He's coming. He wouldn't abandon you.

He waits for a few more minutes, skin stinging at the cold. George opens his freezing phone, tapping stiffly, he messages his boyfriend. He's coming.

No response. George taps his foot. The bench underneath him feels like a prison cell's bed.

"Sorry," A voice next to George appears. The short man didn't look over, only nodding and making a small noise through his nose. He moves over a bit on the bench, allowing the stranger to sit as well.

George swallows. He's coming. He's going to pick you up, you are going to get in his car. Because he's coming. And then, you'll drive away. The two of you, together, in love.

By now, it's been about an hour of George sitting. Sitting. Waiting. It's redundant.

"Does the bus come by here at this time of day?" The stranger's voice came suddenly again.

"Not sure." George huffs, voice shaking.

He wants to cry. He wants to cry because his boyfriend isn't here, which means he has to be here still. George wants so desperately to leave. To run away. To be anywhere but here.

George's phone battery was low. He was planning on charging it in his boyfriend's car.

"Are you cold?"

George finally looks over to see the stranger next to him. "What?"

He's big, much taller than George. He's lanky, scrawny and pale just as George is. But, the man's face is slimmer, and his eyes and hair are lighter browns. "You look freezing."

"I am." George answers, unable to take his eyes off the stranger for a long moment.

"Would you like my coat?"

George breathes, realizing he'd been holding it. "Oh, I couldn't--"

"No, I insist. Really, I'll be okay. You look awfully cold." He began taking off his coat, standing. George follows him, eyebrows curled as he stood.

George accepts the large coat, it looked ridiculous on him. "Thank you,"

They sat again. "Are you waiting for the bus?"

George feels like breaking down again. He wants to sob, scream and break things. "No," He spits, "I'm... I was waiting for my partner."

"Oh," The stranger nods along. "She must be busy, hm? You've been here longer than I have."

George purses his chapped lips. "He isn't coming."

The man opens his mouth to say something, only to stop. He looks at his feet. George furrows his brows. He doesn't like silence. "What's your name?" George asks, more of a demand.

"Wilbur," The stranger states. He cocks his head. "Yours?"

George thinks for a moment, as if he has multiple answers. "George,"

"George," Wilbur says the name like he's said it a million times before, it sits comfortably on his tongue. "Your boyfriend shouldn't leave you out in the cold."

George had almost forgot about the cold since he's had Wilbur's jacket. It's like a blanket, keeping George away from the danger of the freezing Brighton air. He glances over, eyes dull as they watched Wilbur's face. "I know. He sucks. He abandoned me."

Wilbur hums, "Can I pick your brain?"

"Sure," George sits back on the bench.

"What's your story? Like, why are you here, waiting for a boyfriend who's not coming?"

"We were running away. He was going to drive us away. I want to leave."

"Drive you where?"

"I don't know. Suffolk, maybe. I don't want to be here."

Wilbur's staring at George, eyes analyzing him. He's telling the shorter one things with his eyes. "Why do you hate Brighton?"

"I grew up here. I hate it because it's all I've ever known, and if I don't leave, it will be all I'll ever know. I will not be trapped here my entire life like my parents and my friends." George vomits his words quickly.

George's counterpart is quiet for a while. He finally speaks up, "I want to leave, too. I was... I was getting on a bus to get to the train station."

"Yeah?" George makes eye contact with Wilbur.

"I was going to leave. Jump under a train."

George's expression doesn't change. He's looking into Wilbur, and Wilbur is looking into him. They wanted out, but instead they're here. Looking at each other.

Looking into each other's eyes, viewing each other's souls.

The coat is heavier on top of George's shoulders.