shameless. | dnf au

II

George.

It's contradictory, really. I wouldn't say I liked large crowds or the taste of alcohol. But that burning sensation down my throat was yet another reminder that my throat begs for peace. Perhaps that's why I found myself in places like that to begin with. To create a juxtaposed fallacy that another burn will comfort the burn of being silenced. 

But I was bored. The people thrived off of small talk. The music was shit, and, quite frankly, the tacky strobe lights gave me a headache. 

I barely remember snaking my hand into the front pocket of my jeans. The text log between my driver and myself remains the only significant identifier of how I ended up back in my room after the copious amount of cheap liquor formulated a booze-infested fog in my mind. 

The splintering migraine and piercing bright light that peaked through my curtains the following morning was the only proof I had that I did bribe my driver to escort me to a nightclub to mute my problems with spirits and shots. 

All of that seemed like more than enough. No need to dwell on a shit evening. It remains in the past, right? Wrong. Barely allowing any time for the paracetamol to kick in, I'm sitting in my mother's office, tuning out her reprimands. It's all become routine. In through one ear, straight out the other. 

"When will you realize that your actions affect more than just yourself?" I don't know, mum. Perhaps that's what I'm fighting so hard for. My actions should affect me, and solely me alone. 

She usually continues like this for ten minutes, lectures, and chastises me; I promise I'll try harder, for the family, of course, seeing as doing whatever I deem best for me doesn't correlate well with the whole 'perfect prince' facade. Then I go about doing the same shit all over again. It's a vicious cycle I'm willing to repeat. 

"You've left me with no choice, George. You're going to boarding school." My heavy eyes nearly shoot out of their sockets. Surely I'm hearing things. Surely this is all a misunderstanding. 

"Pardon, but what the fuck was that?" I ask, pinching my brows together with so much intensity that the headache only worsens from the action, but I don't care about it. Not now, not when I've heard what I've just heard. 

I can tell she wants to have a go at me for using foul language, but another voice chips in from behind me, interrupting her attempts.

"George, the Isle of Bute is a beautiful part of Scotland, and the academy is where I made some of my closest friends today," I feel his hand on my shoulder now, trying to soothe the untamable tension that has unknowingly built up in my posture. "You never know; the Royal Academy might be your saving grace."

With all due respect, fuck Wilbur. 

My brother always knows precisely what to say, but I don't want him to calm me down. Instead, I want him to get angry with me. I want him to stand up for me. Tell our mother that I never was and never will be like Wilbur. The academy might have been the perfect place for him, but I am not him. 

Wilbur is first in line to the throne, he was made for this life, and quite frankly, he does a bloody good job convincing himself that he loves the life he's been given. The academy might have been a great experience for him, but I can only assume it's because it was full of people like him—high-profile, brown-nosing, narcissistic pricks who live comfortably off daddy's trust fund. Don't get me wrong, Wilbur's far from a brown-nosing narcissist, and he's only a prick from time to time. Still, given our status, I can only imagine that people would assume we're prone to associate ourselves with that particular crowd. 

"I need air," is all I manage to say. There's a high-pitched ringing in my ear, and if these two believe bickering on and on with me for a minute longer would convince me to go, then the entire nation is fucked under the rule of two idiots. 

It doesn't take me long until I'm back in my room—an ample and empty space with a king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows that lead out to a balcony. I may hate living in a palace, but I like this spot. It's become my spot. 

I pull out my pack of cigarettes. I never quit smoking after that article was released about me. In fact, at the time, I did it in spite of what people had to say about it. Truly people have a lot to say about things that don't concern them. Take my most recent scandal at the nightclub, for instance. I am an eighteen-year-old boy who has family issues and wants a normal life. Why should my status prevent me from doing what any other eighteen-year-old boy in my situation would do?

I lean against the railing of my balcony, the sky is overcast, and it looks like it should rain soon. The lit cigarette between my lips brings my mind's chaotic cacophony to a silent solace. 

Inhale.

Exhale. 

"George?"

Fuck. 

I turn my head only slightly to watch as my brother slips past the door and onto the balcony. He knows I smoke. Hell, so does he. Who would he be to judge a common flaw?

"I said I needed air," I spit as I turn back to overlook the gardens below. 

"You did, but you never specified whether you wanted to be alone," I don't reply. There's no reason to. He's a stubborn arse with unwanted words of wisdom to share, and he's not leaving until he's satisfied. "You should go to Scotland." I turn to him now. He's next to me, leaning against the railing. Unsurprisingly, when my gaze fixates on him, he's already looking right back. 

My relationship with my brother was always a confusing one to understand. I hated that he fit in so well to a life I wanted nothing to do with, but I loved him more than I've loved anyone. He frustrates the living hell out of me, but I wouldn't want to be smothered by anyone else. There's an odd comfort that comes with it. But only if it comes from him. He knows exactly what to say and when to say it, even if it's the opposite of what I wish to hear. He supports me in silent gazes or curt nods from across the room, but he would never stand up for me vocally. He understands I feel the way I do, but he doesn't relate to the said feeling. It's a complex relationship, but it's the only relationship I have that doesn't feel as artificial as the rest. 

"If not for wanting to shape the family's image and reputation better, then at least to get away from it all." I inhale again, my eyes not leaving his, a silent gesture for him to continue. "If we want to think about this with as much rationality and logic as possible, we must face the facts. You will never get the life you want, but you can make choices now that would make the pressure of it all seem like less of an overbearing weight and more like a slight annoyance." 

"How does moving to a preppy, posh-boy boarding school achieve this exactly?" I ask, a raised brow paired with an amused smirk. 

"If you move to Scotland, you won't see mother as often as you do now, you wouldn't need to attend any Royal events- you'd get to make friends, George. Actual friends who you can do normal things with." Would I? "I don't think it's quite dawned on you that the majority of those boys have been sent to IBRA for a similar reason as you. They want to get away and live a normal life before the reality of it all is no longer something they can stall. 

There's silence now, and suddenly the sun creeps out from behind the heavy cloud that blocked it only moments prior. 

"Tell mother I'll go."

With that, Wilbur sends a soft smile and a pat on my back before heading back into the palace. Off to report the news to Her Majesty the Queen. I'm sure she'll be thrilled. Possibly even praise him for persuading me. I'd commend him for achieving such an unfathomable task myself if I weren't afraid his already inflated ego wouldn't put him at risk of combusting. 

I think about everything my brother said. I hope - for my sake - he's right. Moving to Scotland would lift the weight I've been struggling to hold up my whole life. That would be nice. I'd like that, even if it was only temporary.