Work Text:
George wipes his hands on his trousers, then pockets the chalk. Standing back, he narrows his eyes at the small sign.
ROOTED THINGS
The letters stand out, bold with the bordering. The drawings of the flowers look a bit childish, but charmingly so. He smiles, positioning the sign at the front of his stall, the spring sun warming him through.
It's an easy start to the day. He sells a few daffodils, some tulips and primroses. A couple bundles of herbs go, rosemary and thyme exchanged from one earthy hand to another, wrapped in a smile.
Regulars come and go, new faces alike. The morning is quiet as usual. An old couple stands at the fish stall across from him, a young family buys some eggs. Someone’s singing, a female voice soft and gentle and accompanied by acoustic strumming. George sighs, settling into the rhythm of Saturday’s market day, not dissimilar to the ones come before.
George is halfway through a lunch of pesto pasta from a green Tupperware when he sees him. A book tucked under his arm, a pair of worn headphones wrapped around his neck. Blue eyes peek from under his curls, and he locks eyes with George, fingers toying with the label of one his plants.
George sets his pasta down, eyes narrowing just slightly, unsure if he should be bothered by the stranger’s casual interest or amused by the interruption.
“Hyacinths,” the man says, accent thick with something distinctly American. “Apollo’s tragedy.”
George grins, toothy and appreciative. A beat passes before he asks, his voice light and teasing, “Too close to the sun?”
The other only tuts, shaking his head and letting his gaze drop to the flowers. A small smile tugs at his lips. “Wrong myth. Though I suppose it’s a common theme.”
His insight gives George pause. Clearly he's well read and erudite, and George tries to find the right response. But he doesn’t get the chance before an older woman drifts over to them.
“Good morning, George,” she says, voice proper as ever.
His eyes flit from the curly-haired man. “Afternoon, Mrs. Miller,” he corrects cheekily.
She slides a bundle of herbs across the stall counter. “Ah, silly me.” She chuckles, and eyes the man beside her, still fiddling with the hyacinth label. “Watch out for this one,” she warns, a youthful glint in her eye. “He’ll charm the shoes right off you if you let him.”
George shakes his head, watching the man’s reaction closely. He only catches the flicker of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Ignoring her playful tease, he carefully folds the herbs in some brown paper.
“Card, will it be, ma’am?”
She scoffs. “Daft, you are.” A five-pound note slides across the counter. “Keep the change, lovely.”
For a couple minutes after she’s gone, the man lingers like the smell of a candle. George picks up his pasta again, watching him from the corner of his eye. There’s a casual curiosity about him, an intellectual reservation that keeps George questioning.
A stray curl falls into his face as he leans over a bouquet of purple flowers, eyebrows furrowed. He looks up at George, a question in his eyes.
“What are these?”
George swallows the mouthful of pasta. “Anemones,” he says, sifting through a small box for the label he must’ve forgotten to put out. “They’re related to buttercups.”
The man hums. “They’re nice. Nice colour.”
George grins, standing the label beside the purple bouquet. “My favourite.”
Blue eyes meet his, that quiet curiosity never more present. He bites the inside of his cheek, lets his eyes drop. His fingers twitch, wandering over to the label where he traces the first letters.
Like he’s mulled it over, he picks up the bouquet, handles it with care. “How much would they be?”
He sets the Tupperware down again. “Six pounds fifty. But I can do six just for you.”
George watches his gaze skim over the flowers again. The striking black centres, slightly dramatic. A quiet flair. He pulls out a wallet, the leather worn and cracked, and draws out a tenner. George takes it, hand brushing against the other's. He rifles around in the box of change.
“Well, it was nice to meet you...” He prompts for a name.
“Bob.”
“Bob,” he repeats, the name rolling off his tongue, simple and smooth.
In one quick motion, Bob slips his headphones over his head. His curls poke out from underneath them. George catches the gold embellished letters on the cover of the book under his arm. Keats.
Huh. Poetry.
Bob catches him looking. His smile takes George by surprise. It’s genuine, disarming, cheeks dimpling with it—something about it makes his stomach flutter. George blinks, trying to play it cool, but his heart seems to skip a beat.
Bob tips an imaginary hat to George, not letting his eyes stray from his face.
“Keep the change, lovely.”
And he’s gone.
--
BBC news plays in the background as the kettle boils and George puts out the cat food. There’s nothing new—idiots plastered on headlines, the usual hard-luck stories that serve as background noise.
He wasn’t listening. Not really. Just more reasons not to check Twitter.
At the sound of the tin opening, the cat slinks into the kitchen. Omelette—Om for short, genius on his part, George thinks—drifts over to George, rubbing herself against his trouser leg. He leans down, pats her brown tabby fur, and chuckles.
This, at least, was simple. Feed the cat, water the basil, remember the bins. Everything else could wait.
“Patient,” he instructs. Om immediately head-butts the cupboard door.
Cat satisfied, George focuses on brewing his own tea. He’s barely even opened the fridge when his phone buzzes. George sighs, already knowing who it is. No room for peace and quiet with friends like his.
Paul [7:34] have you dropped off the face of the earth?
George sets the milk down, leaning against the kitchen counter. Truth be told, he hasn’t been able to shake him from his mind—Bob. So he’s done the only sensible thing a man could do: holed up in his room for a couple of hours to see if the thoughts would subside.
Spoiler: they didn’t.
George [7:36pm] no.
He stares at the screen for a moment longer. Watches the ticks go from one. To two. To blue. He can already hear Paul's groan from the other end. Briefly, George wonders if he’s making too much out of it. Letting Bob occupy his thoughts like this.
Oh well. Who's Paul to judge him? He decides to humour him just this once.
George [7:37pm] met a cute guy today
He presses send before he can overthink it. But the moment the text leaves his phone, he feels a pang of regret. It’s too casual, too flippant. What if Paul reads too much into it?
It doesn’t matter though, because the reply comes almost immediately. Sometimes George thinks Paul is more interested in his love life than he himself is.
Paul [7:37pm] OH?
do tell.
George pinches the bridge of his nose and turns his phone off. The black screen reflects his face, tired and fed up. He stares at his reflection for probably a moment too long before he gives in and presses the call button.
It doesn’t even ring once before Paul picks up.
“Right, tell me everything,” Paul says excitedly down the line, not even giving George the chance to open his mouth. “Hang on,” he mutters. “John’s here. Let me get him.”
George groans, almost slamming his head against the fridge.
--
The weekend passes way too soon and reality hits hard. Halfway through the week, and George is already worn out, struggling to keep his eyes open as he sits behind the till.
An hour until his shift is over. That’s it.
George adjusts his necklace, letting it dangle over his Sainsbury’s uniform. His hands work with muscle memory, scanning items absentmindedly as a middle-aged father tries to make idle chat. It’s late enough in the day that the small talk feels like it’s in a different language so he only nods, forces a chuckle.
“Here’s your receipt,” he says flatly. The man seems unfazed by his lack of enthusiasm and escorts his two teenage daughters out, along with their full trolley.
His eyes wander to the window, watching the rain tap against the tinted glass. The droplets run like rivulets in a race to nowhere. It’s almost rhythmic, a welcome distraction from the routine of scanning items, but it doesn’t last long.
He sighs, sitting up straighter, realising too late that he’s slouching again. It’s only Wednesday, but the week feels like its stretching longer with every minute that passes. It’s times like these that he wonders what he’s doing with himself.
He wonders if he’s stuck in this never-ending loop forever, always scanning items and dealing with people who don’t even look at him. He imagines the months and years stretching out before him, just like this—repetitive, predictable, fading into something he can’t even name.
The fluorescent lights above hum steadily, a dull constant that only adds to his sense of unending repetition. His hand drags the divider down with a little too much force, the plastic clacking against the counter.
The week is beginning to feel much too tedious—and even more so with every customer. He’s never particularly enjoyed the job, but he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted out more than right now.
And then there’s Bob. A whole mess of his own.
Telling Paul was a bad idea, really. Especially when John was also there. Now, any hopes he had of forgetting him and moving past their encounter were dispelled. Paul wouldn’t let him, even if his mind would.
He drags his gaze away from the window, looking at the screen in front of him. “That’ll be twenty-two pounds, forty pence.”
His hand strays to his necklace again, and he looks up at the customer. He feels the blood rush from his face, and he inhales sharply.
Bob stands there, almost amused. His lip quirks into a smirk, all smug. George only sits there, unable to move, hand frozen with his fingers tangled in his necklace string.
“I'll pay by card,” Bob says, his voice light and easy. Like he’s not just standing there—he’s not meant to be there. Like George’s insides aren’t twisting into knots.
Though, his words spur George into action. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry,” he sputters, tapping the screen and turning the card reader around.
Bob huffs out a chuckle. The beep from the card reader rings out between them, and Bob moves to pack his shopping. George only sits there in a stunned silence, feeling his heartbeat threaten to hammer out of his ribs. His fingers find the necklace again, toying with the om symbol charm.
“Have you got a phone?” Bob asks, and the question is stupid.
George's eyes flit away from Bob. A customer waits impatiently behind him, staring daggers at George as if this is. his fault. George sighs, tears the receipt from the machine.
“Yeah,” he nods. “If you can wait about twenty minutes, I’ll be off then.”
Bob smiles and takes the receipt from George’s hand. It rustles as he crumples it, shoving it into his pocket. There's that same lurch in his stomach from before at his grin, but George tries to push it down.
Without a word, Bob moves over to the wall and sinks into one of the metal chairs. For a moment, George wonders if he should’ve told Bob: no. I don’t have a phone. As if he’d believe him. As if that was an option.
But then he looks over, sees Bob’s gaze on him. He tries to hide a small grin, but he fails. The customer narrows her eyes at him—but George doesn’t mind.
--
Friday evening rolls around, and George prepares the plants for market day tomorrow, still in his work uniform. His Alexa’s playing music in the background—2000s Dad Rock Mix from Spotify—and he figures Green Day is the perfect background music for sorting through his flora.
With spring comes daffodils, and George loves daffodils. He wraps a bundle into a bouquet, lines up the pots of mint and sage and dill. Only after that does he water the lavender and coriander, before moving on to Om’s food. She comes strutting in, tail swishing defiantly, and George sighs. No rest for him, he supposes.
That evening, he’s tucked up in bed trying to read the book that John had given him a few weeks ago. Only, he’s failing pathetically as his eyes slip shut and he keeps nodding off, just to wake prematurely with a start. He exhales and slips his bookmark in—a polaroid of him, Ringo, and Paul at the beach—and lets the book fall shut.
He puts it next to his phone on the bedside table and lets his hand linger there. He knows he should just go to sleep, but there’s always that urge to check his phone before bed, however much he's been trying to kick the habit. Something about blue light affecting the sleep cycle. Or so Paul says.
He scolds himself mentally for picking it up. The time stares back at him—only half past ten? Adulthood was really kicking him in the arse with all this exhaustion.
He checks his emails, feeling a bit stupid. There’s nothing but Spotify and eBay promotion emails, and one from the bank. Sighing, he checks his messages and tells himself he’ll respond to Paul in the morning.
Then he sees it.
Unknown Number [8:43pm] Will you be at the Market tomorrow?
Suddenly, George is wide awake. The phone almost slips from his grasp. He stares at the letters, lets them imprint themselves into his mind.
He’d almost forgotten about Bob. It had been days. Enough to pretend the whole thing didn’t happen.
He'd given Bob his number—secretly hoping for a message—but nothing came. Work took over, and his free hours disappeared into potting soil, meditation, or the occasional spiral about his own existence.
His fingers hover above the keyboard, making little fake tapping motions as his mind catches up. He exhales shakily and wonders whether he should just go back to sleep and respond in the morning.
No. He would never be able to get to sleep like that.
Before he can think it through, his fingers start typing. He presses send without even processing the words he’d written.
George [10:34pm] yeah
you know where to find me
Two grey ticks appear—the message has sent. He slams the phone down against the duvet, runs his hands across his face. He rubs at his eyes, inhaling deeply. What the fuck has he gotten himself into?
In the dim light from his lamp, he sits for a beat longer before picking up his phone again. Stares at the screen—still grey ticks.
His fingers move fast. He adds Bob to his contacts—his name short and recognisable. Then he switches the phone off, not bearing to look at his reflection in the black screen.
With it on the bedside table, he’s unable to sleep. He can’t—not when he hears it buzz fifteen minutes later.
--
Usually, the market’s his place to unwind—slip into the cosy rhythm of village life and let the week fall off his shoulders.
Except today, of course.
He’s restless, hand absently drifting to his pocket where his phone is. He resists the urge to check it, trying to distract himself with the customers. He strikes up conversation with the guy at the bread and pastry stall beside him—just to keep himself busy.
Last night, he must’ve only gotten about three or four hours of sleep. For hours, he'd lain in the dark, not wanting to give in to the unbearable urge to check Bob’s message.
And when he did in the morning, he was severely underwhelmed.
Bob [10:50pm] cool. Thanks Man.
It took everything in George not to throw his phone at the wall, so he immediately messaged John—though he wasn’t sure why he was his first port of call. He wouldn't be awake until about midday, unless he’s at Paul’s. And then, you could be certain he'd be preoccupied.
But either way, it was good to offload. Maybe he should’ve messaged Ringo instead.
It’s while he’s mulling over his important life decisions—such as these ones—that he spots the curls in the crowd. Short as he was, it was handy to have him so recognisable.
George grows antsy, trying to keep this conversation with the bread boy going, even if it’s just a distraction. A cover—a way to subtly tell Bob I didn’t even notice you. I am not obsessed with you.
As if it wasn’t the complete opposite.
When Bob glides over, George deliberately cuts off the conversation with the bread guy in order to serve his new customer—puts on a bit of a show about it.
“Hey.” His voice comes out much too cheerful—borderline breathless. “Didn’t see you coming over.”
Bob blinks, cocks his head. For a moment, George hopes he’s bought it—that Bob doesn’t know George watched every step he took from the corner of his eye.
Only, George is a piss-poor actor, and Bob’s amused look tells him everything he needs to know.
Bob bites back a smile, immediately steeling his face. George braces himself—he knows instantly then that Bob's going to play along. Internally, he curses himself.
“Really?” Bob asks, his voice seemingly perplexed. Bob pauses, and George catches his mouth twitch. “Could’ve sworn I caught your eye.”
George can’t meet his eyes. Instead, he looks over his shoulder and feels his phone buzz in his pocket—probably John. He shakes his head.
“Must’ve got the wrong guy.”
Bob’s fingers wander to his top shirt button, fiddling with it as he thinks—or pretends to think. Whatever this is they’re playing at. George forces himself to meet Bob’s gaze, those blue eyes electrically charged under his curls.
There’s something equally charged in the air between them, and George feels it like a shock. Like he needs something to ground him, his very own earth wire to keep his fuse from blowing under Bob’s stare.
“No, no,” Bob mutters, running a finger along the rim of a plant pot. “I'm sure it was you. Looked just like you.”
George’s eyes are fixed on the plant pot. An uncharacteristic boldness surges in him as he lowers his voice, feeling his heart thrumming in his chest.
“Oh? And what does he look like?” He pauses, bites the inside of his cheek before adding, “You know. Just for clarification.”
Bob hums, tapping his finger on the rim of the plant pot for a beat before glancing back at George. “Hm...yea tall. Wearing a jumper like yours, actually. Same shade of purple. Pretty on-brand.”
He pauses, like he’s trying to recall something, letting his eyes wander over George like he’s deciding how much to reveal.
“Cheekbones,” Bob continues, voice taking on a mock-serious tone, “sharp enough to cut glass. Probably the most dangerous thing about him.”
He lets out a short, dry laugh, then smirks.
“And, I couldn’t quite see it, but if you ask me…” Bob taps his chin as though lost in thought. “I’d guess he had these eyes—soft and dark like... like a storm cloud rolling in right before it rains. You know, the kind that makes you want to stand outside and do something dumb just to see if you’ll get caught in it.”
There’s a poeticism about it—like he’d pulled it right out of a sonnet from that very Keats book he held before. Words woven together cleverly and with the kind of ease George could only dream of. But Bob just shrugs, playful and casual, before throwing in a final jab, his voice dropping lower, teasing.
“Though, if you are asking me, I’d also say he’s probably got a bit too much confidence for his own good.” He quirks an eyebrow, the challenge in his eyes daring George to respond. “Maybe that’s why you’re so keen on pretending you’re not the guy I’m talking about.”
George swallows, Bob’s words hitting him all at once. Like his mind had been struggling to keep up until now. He watches Bob's finger trail down the side of the pot, and tries to think of an appropriate response to match Bob’s tone.
But his brain has short-circuited, and any words he could conjure up get caught in his throat.
He averts his gaze fast, rubs his neck, makes some pathetic noise out of panic—something between a sigh and an uncomfortable whimper. As if he’s admitted defeat. Bob’s words stir something in him, something dangerously to desire that George refuses to acknowledge as more than frustration.
Bob only narrows his eyes, his face finally breaking from the character he’d put on and curling into a grin. He leans a little closer, but doesn’t say anything else.
George shifts his weight, blinking like he’s just come up for air. He clears his throat and fumbles for something—anything—to say. But Bob beats him to it.
“Oh, right.” Bob dips a hand his jacket pocket, pulling out that same leather wallet. “Meant to ask you—do you know what this is?”
He pulls out a single flower, half-crushed, its blue petals trembling with the gentle spring breeze. Something wild and delicate, like it’s been plucked straight off a walking trail rather than a bouquet.
“Figured you might. It looked kind of sad, so I rescued it.”
George blinks at it. “Rescued it from what, exactly? The dirt?”
Bob shrugs, mock-offended. “From obscurity. Maybe it wanted to be appreciated.”
Their eyes lock, a quiet defiance in Bob’s eyes. He raises his eyebrows, tempting George to say something. He holds the flower out like an offering, expectant and meaningful.
When George reaches out to take it from him, his hand is shaking. He turns it over in his hand with a gentleness that only comes from experience and swallows, feeling Bob’s gaze intense on him. His cheeks flush, and he can feel the heat creeping up the nape of his neck.
“This is a nigella,” he mutters, eyes flicking up to meet Bob’s, whose stare is steady and focused. “These aren’t that common, they don’t last for long in the wild.”
Bob blinks. “Ephemeral.”
George smiles, gaze drifting to the flower again. “Exactly.”
He passes the flower back to Bob, a fragile exchange. Bob handles it with more care this time, pinching it between the stem and inspecting it.
“Nigella?” he asks.
“Yeah,” George confirms, then pauses. He bites his cheek. His phone buzzes in his pocket again. “Their common name is ‘love-in-a-mist’.”
Bob perks up at that—the corner of his lip twitching. “Oh?” he says, far too casual. “Isn’t that nice.”
Each word drips with a subtlety that George can’t help but pick up on. It makes his skin buzz with it, his head spin, and he grips the table tighter. Bob stares back at him, eyes blue with a sharpness that has him short of breath.
He doesn’t get the chance to catch his breath, however, when a customer comes over with a dying orchid in a pot. George sighs, glances at Bob—only to find he’s slipped away.
--
George pulls up outside Paul’s place, engine still ticking. He stares out the windshield, running a hand down his face like he’s trying to wipe away the last interaction—with him.
It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s just the lads. Normal Saturday night. Time to forget.
He walks in—the door’s unlocked—and the room’s already warm with noise. There are boxes of takeaway scattered—how nice of them to wait—half-full mugs, someone’s sock on the table, of course. Because why not.
Ringo’s shaking the bag with Scrabble tiles in. Paul’s talking animatedly from the arm of the sofa, watching the door expectantly. John’s sprawled with the energy of a man who’s just said something very stupid and is very proud of it.
George has hardly even stepped foot in the room, not even received a greeting before—
“So...” John’s voice cuts through the noise, instantly weaponised. “How’s Bob?”
George freezes like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.
“Fuck off.” He says it too fast. Too defensive. His cheeks immediately flush red, and the room erupts with laughter.
He sinks down onto the sofa beside Paul, rubbing at his eye. The laughter only starts to die down when he gets his rack passed his way, and of course that’s when John starts up again.
“You never replied to my messages,” he drawls, picking out his tiles. “I wonder what happened.”
George should never have messaged John—who the fuck picks John as their first choice for emotional support?—but it’s too late for any regrets now.
“Go on George,” Paul prompts, kinder in his tone. “You can’t not tell us.”
George pinches the bridge of his nose and sinks deeper into the sofa. It's going to be a long night.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, taking his time arranging tiles, anything to avoid their eyes. “He just showed up with a flower. Asked me what it was. Nothing, really.”
Yeah. Nothing. Just compared his eyes to rainclouds and left something sharp and stupid blooming under George’s skin.
There’s collective ‘ooh’, and George glares pointedly. No one takes him seriously, though, and they chuckle, finally dropping the subject.
For now.
John wins the first round—the smug bastard—and Ringo’s in the lead for the second. Someone’s cracked open the beers, and George lets the alcohol simmer weakly in his blood, feeling his worries slip away from him, even if just for a moment.
There’s a pleasant warmth to the room, and they’ve all moved to sit on the floor now for easier access to the coffee table. Paul’s keeping track of the score beside George, chewing on the end of his pencil as he thinks.
“Fuck off!” John yells as Ringo uses the triple word. “I was gonna go there—cheeky bastard!”
Ringo throws his head back and laughs, counting up his points. “Should’ve been faster,” he teases, and John jumps to his feet, hands on his hips. He’s pointing fingers, waving his hands, and everyone else is laughing.
“John,” Paul says between peals of laughter, “it’s your go, love.”
John looks down, furrows his brow. “I know, Paul. I'm going,” he enunciates, sending them all into fits of giggles again.
It’s when he sits back down and lays down his next word that George stops laughing. BOB stares back at him, the three Scrabble tiles looking much bolder than all the rest.
He looks up and catches John’s eyes fixed on him. Ringo’s flit between them two, and Paul just sighs, holding back a small smile.
“I— that’s a name,” George says weakly. “That’s not allowed.”
John raises an eyebrow, mouth splitting into an evil grin. “There’s more than one definition, Georgie Porgie,” he teases. “Why, someone on your mind?”
George swallows. He wants to look away but doesn’t give John the satisfaction. Instead, he places his tiles, pretending his hand isn’t shaking.
WANT.
John’s lip twitches—maybe a smirk, maybe something else—but he doesn’t say a word. Ringo clears his throat and George’s cheeks burn, his heart hammers. He can almost feel a pair of sharp blue eyes on him at the marketplace. Bob's voice rings out somewhere in the back of his mind—but George keeps his composure and bites the inside of his cheek.
The only sound is John tapping the side of his beer bottle. But George can hear the blood rushing through his ears, feel every small shift in the boys around him.
“Uh,” Paul mumbles after a beat too long, “that's nine points.”
--
Later the next week, George is on a smoke break out back of the Sainsbury’s. Perched on a milk crate, his burgundy fleece hangs over his shoulders as he scrolls on his phone. There’s a slight breeze, but all it does is tousle his hair.
He tips his head back against the wall, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. He feels his phone buzz, and looks back down, opening the notification.
Bob [12:51pm] are you Busy?
George exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
George [12:51pm] on work break
why?
Bob’s typing—then he’s not. Then he’s typing again—then pauses again. George turns his phone off, stares at his reflection in the black screen, at the cigarette dangling precariously from between his lips. He opens his phone again, and Bob’s still typing.
Bob [12:53pm] No Reason.
Inhaling sharply, George switches his phone off, letting his head fall back against the wall.
Bob [12:54pm] I only just Woke up.
[Image attached]
The message stares at him, unread. His thumb hovers above it and he takes a long drag from his cigarette, feeling his pulse pick up. He’s been texting Bob more frequently recently—ever since that last Saturday at the market. It was Bob that started it, just like he is now, and the notification stares at him tauntingly.
Eyes shut. Deep breath. He opens it.
It’s Bob, lounging on a cluttered sofa, cat half-asleep on his chest. He’s got a mug in hand, a pair of glasses slipping down his nose. Smiling just slightly, his eyes look weary—like he really had just woken up.
He needs to fix that bloody curtain pole, George thinks before he can stop himself.
He swallows.
He stares at it too long. His heart does that uncomfortable flutter—but he tells himself he’s just tired.
George [12:56pm] looking cosy
He scrolls up, stares at the picture again. With at least the decency to be ashamed, he spares a glance around; there’s no one out but him.
Not that it means anything. Not that he’s interested. Christ.
He’s not proud of it, but he clicks on the picture again. Smiles at the calico cat on Bob’s chest. Zooms in on his face, on that small dimple, the slope of his nose, those blue eyes catching the sun. Like crystals flashing from the rough.
He huffs out a dry laugh. Forces it, almost. His fingers work quickly.
George [12:57pm] gotta go back to work
talk to you later
The screen goes black, and his cigarette has burned down to the filter. He lets it drop from his mouth, stamps it out and rests his head back against the wall.
For a few minutes he stays—but doesn’t dare check his phone. Not even when it buzzes in his pocket.
--
The week goes dreadfully slow, and George has just about crawled his way through to Saturday. The usual routine: feed the cat, pack the plants. Meditate if he’s got the time.
Spoiler: he doesn’t. He forgot to set his alarm, so now he’s running late.
He’s rushing and almost forgets to put his earrings in, tripping over countless wires and sidestepping pots as he multitasks. Om’s trailing after him all the while. Usually, he’d pet her, say who’s a good girl? and maybe take a picture to post on Instagram as he gets ready.
But today? Oh, no.
He grumbles beneath his breath as she weaves between his legs, and that’s when it all goes south. He loses his balance, trips over her, and crashes down, face-first, into the floorboards with all the grace of a bin fire.
“Shit,” he mutters, hauling himself up. Om’s already gone, bounded out of the room, and George is left with a throbbing above his right eyebrow. He’s not even had breakfast.
But there’s no time for that—he’s running late.
Loading everything into the car, he can’t help but feel like he’s forgotten something. He stands in the sitting room and glances around—just to double check. In his pocket, his phone buzzes, but there’s no time for that.
His eyes fall on his bookshelf, catches sight of a flower guidebook. It’s pocket-sized, worn, has a pressed daisy inside. The sort of sentimental stuff he pretends he isn’t sentimental about. He thinks of Bob and the way he’d asked about the flower last week. The way he listened carefully to everything George had to say.
Fuck it, he thinks, and slips it into his bag—though not before taking that daisy out.
Not for any reason, though. Just in case. For conversation.
Not because he likes Bob or anything. Of course not.
His phone buzzes again in his pocket as he locks the front door, but he doesn’t check it. Once more when he gets into the car, and when he pulls out the drive, he still feels like he’s forgotten something.
--
He’s late to set up his stall, and he’s off-kilter for the rest of the morning. Customers come and go, but something’s misaligned, like his thoughts are lagging half a beat behind.
He goes through the usual motions, the casual small-talk and exchanging of herbs. Clouds overhead roll in grey, and the slight chill in the air bites sharp—but George doesn’t mind. Nothing unusual, really.
By the time his lunch break comes around, he feels a bit more settled into the rhythm. He pulls out his phone—five unread messages. Three from Bob, two from John.
He stares at the notifications, warring with himself over who to open first. But George is a coward, and he clicks on John’s messages before he even has a chance to second-guess himself.
John [10:33am] bring bob round tonigjt
paul said it not me im just the messenger dont shout
George rubs a hand over his face, his fingers digging into his temples. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, trying to ignore the dull throb in his head. God, does he hate them all sometimes. They just... can’t leave him alone. He mutters under his breath, a string of expletives for the mess of it all.
His thumb hovers over the reply button for a second too long. He doesn’t want this—he can’t— but George pictures Bob’s face, the way his eyes glint, the sound of his laugh.
And he just can’t shake the feeling that he’s too far in to back out now.
George [12:17pm] no. piss off
He turns his phone off, doesn’t even bother to read Bob’s messages. But, as it turns out, he doesn’t need to, because Bob is weaving through the crowd towards George, his mop of curls instantly recognisable.
George smiles, feels his stomach lurch—whether it’s an oh shit, it’s Bob lurch, or an oh shit, it’s Bob and I look awful lurch however, he’s not too sure.
He reaches into his bag for his lunch... or at least, he tries to. His fingers brush the inside of the bag, and that’s when it hits him.
There’s nothing in there.
His face falls, the hunger gnawing at him suddenly intensifying, and for a second, he just freezes.
Bob’s drifted over, his presence drawing George out of the panic. He notices George’s pause, and with a grin, says, “Afternoon.” Bob’s voice is light, teasing, and he gives a playful salute. “Fancy some company on this fine day?”
Shaking his head with a forced smile, George pulls out the guidebook instead and places it on the table. He nods to it, “Brought that for you. After last week, thought you might be interested.”
George smiles, but it feels a little strained. He forces his hand to dig deeper into the bag as if the food might just magically appear.
The expression on Bob’s face softens, and George can’t help the way his breath picks up. Bob picks it up, gently flipping through the pages, and George watches him like he’s suddenly handling something fragile.
“Thanks,” Bob says, his voice sincere, and George nods back.
A slow sigh escapes him, and he reaches into the bag again, this time feeling the weight of his stomach pressing harder.
His hand lands on the empty space where his lunch should be, and it hits him—he’s forgotten it. Bloody hell. Of course he has. He knew he’d forgotten something.
It takes everything in him not to scream.
Bob seems to notice the way George’s expression falters, tilting his head. “What’s the matter?”
George closes his eyes briefly, groaning under his breath. “Nothing, nothing,” he says quickly. “Just—forgot my bloody lunch, didn’t I? Typical.”
There’s a beat of silence—too long—and George begins to regret ever saying anything. Then Bob shrugs. “I have a sandwich.”
“No, no. It’s all right,” George is quick to reassure. “I’ll grab something later.”
He closes his bag and pushes it off to the side, standing up. But Bob wordlessly reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a sad looking sandwich wrapped in foil—all squished with soggy cucumber and way too much butter. He tears it in half and shoves the bigger half at George.
George protests, “Really, it’s okay—”
“Fucking take it,” Bob snaps, and George instantly shuts his mouth.
He nods obediently and takes the sandwich; their hands brush and it’s like George forgets how to breathe. He sits back down to ground himself, but Bob rounds the stall and sits beside him and the way their shoulders touch sends electric shocks right through George.
They eat in silence, and Bob thumbs through the flower guidebook without so much as a question regarding it. The sandwich is mediocre at best, but George hardly has time to think of the taste with Bob's body pressed up next to him, warm and steady and overly present.
It's when George stands up and reaches over to take the foil from Bob that he speaks, without looking up.
“What happened to your face?”
George immediately feels his cheeks heat up. He plays with the foil, shuffling over to the bin—just to give his hands something to do.
“Uh,” he mutters, embarrassed. “Cat tripped me up this morning.”
He doesn’t even know if Bob heard him, for his face betrayed nothing. Not even a twitch, fully engrossed in the flower book. George let his shoulders drop, relaxing a little as a customer comes over.
Bob doesn’t say anything more for the time he’s there, really. George pretends not to notice how close Bob sits behind him as he tends to customers. He pretends not to notice that, by now, Bob has stayed four hours. Or that when he reaches over to accept a hot chocolate from George—he’d got them from a neighbouring stall—their hands brush and George forgets how to breathe.
Eventually, George is packing the stall up when his phone buzzes. Bob hasn’t moved since he arrived, just casually flicking through pages. George pulls out his phone, glancing out of the corner of his eye at him.
Ringo [5:35pm] John says you’re bringing Bob over?
George's eyes flit over again—Bob’s turned the page. His curls fall over his eyes, obscuring his face from this angle, and George can’t help but notice how at home he seems to be here. He swallows.
“Bob?”
His head snaps up, and he looks around to see some other stalls packing up.
“Shit, sorry. What time is it?”
George glances at his phone. “Uh, half five— hey, it’s fine,” he assures as Bob makes to leave. “Look,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “My mates and I, we meet up every Saturday evening, play some board games and stuff. Would you... want to come tonight, maybe?”
Bob’s eyes widen, and his chapped lips part. “Oh, I...” he looks around, then says, quieter, “I don’t know. It’s not really my thing.”
“You don’t have to,” George is quick to reply, feeling a surge of panic. Then, almost as a whisper, he adds, “It was just, you know. An idea. If you wanted.”
Bob is silent, and George swears inwardly: he’d really cocked it up now, hadn’t he? He should’ve gotten the hint—Bob doesn't socialise. He just spent four hours sat behind him without saying a word. Of course he doesn’t want to come to his friend’s house.
He’s about to say never mind. I was only joking, when Bob sighs.
His smile is slight, small, almost nervous. He gives a half-hearted shrug, and shuts the guidebook. “Yeah, I’ll come,” he says breathily. “I have no plans. Just hurry up before I change my mind.”
“Are you sure—”
“I said hurry up before I change my mind.”
--
They arrive last, like always. The others are sprawled out on the sofas, ABBA playing low in the background on Paul’s Bluetooth speaker. This time, they have actually waited for George to arrive before eating—probably because Bob’s with him—which, by the way, George never actually confirmed or denied. John jumps up the second they step into the room. George throws him a pointed glare.
“Guys, this is Bob,” he introduces, and there’s a comedic ‘hey Bob’ in sync—perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. George doesn’t look at Bob when he says it, and he definitely doesn’t look at Paul. “Bob, that’s Paul, Ringo, and John.”
“Hi,” Bob mumbles, eyes flitting across the room, landing on John for a beat too long before darting away again.
John’s already grinning, like he’s about to say something inappropriate. George sends him another look—one of many, probably.
They sit down and tuck into the takeaway—it was John’s turn to order this time, and he’d chosen pizzas. No different to usually really, what with Ringo’s restricted diet. But Bob says it's all right, and that’s all that matters.
“What are we playing then?” George asks, leaning back against the sofa.
Ringo pulls out a stack of cards. “We were thinking, Who’s Most Likely To,” he says as he shuffles them. “It’s simple really.”
Beside him, George can feel Bob shift uncomfortably, his plate untouched. Paul hands out a few notepads and pens and explains, mainly for Bob’s benefit. “Someone reads out the card, and we all write down who we think is most likely to do whatever's on it. Whoever has the most votes keeps the card, and you basically want the least amount of cards.”
John chips in, kicking his feet over the arm of the sofa opposite. “We get you only really know George,” he says to Bob with a cheeky grin, “so go wild. We won’t be offended.”
Bob nods, his expression caught somewhere between a weak smile and a grimace.
They settle down, and Ringo reads the first card. “Who’s most likely to cry watching a nature documentary?”
There’s a pause, then pens scratch. To George, the answer is obvious, but he spares Bob a glance, watching him hesitate. When they reveal their votes, Paul is a unanimous decision—he even admits defeat.
“He cries if a tree sways gently,” John says with an affectionate pat on the shoulder.
Paul scoffs, but leans in closer. “I’m in touch with life, love,” he mumbles, and everyone laughs.
They pause the game so John can go and bring in another pizza box from the kitchen, and Ringo tries to strike up some conversation.
“So, Bob, do you like pineapple on pizza?”
Bob glances down at his own slice—not pineapple, mind. “I think it depends on what you’re expecting it to taste like.”
There’s a pause. John walks back into the room, pizza in hand, clearly having caught enough of the conversation to look baffled.
With a shrug, Bob takes a bite. “Depends on the day. Sometimes it tastes like a crime. Other days it’s a revelation.”
John chokes. “Oh, mate. That’s not an answer, that’s a fucking riddle.”
Paul stares. “So… is that a yes?”
Bob raises his eyebrows and sinks back into the sofa beside George, calm as ever. “Is there ever really a no?”
John just falls backwards onto the cushions with a groan. “Jesus Christ.”
There’s a collective chuckle, and Bob smiles, seemingly proud. “He’s like this all the time, George?” Ringo asks.
George rubs his temples, trying to hide the amused yet frustrated smile tugging at his lips. Bob’s just so damn impossible to pin down. “You have no idea,” he mutters. His friends are laughing, but all George can do is watch Bob, the way his lips curl in that infuriating half-smile.
Ironically, the next card is: who’s most likely to give cryptic answers to yes-or-no questions?”
They all howl with laughter, and don’t even need to write anything down.
“Bob,” they all say in sync.
Bob raises his hands in surrender, and George can’t help the warmth blossoming in his stomach watching Bob laugh with his friends.
“See?” Paul says with a giggle. “He won’t even deny it.”
A few more cards roll by. Laughter. Drinks. Someone drops a bottle cap down the side of the sofa, and the beers multiply when no one’s looking. Someone switches ABBA to something smokier, and the room gets too warm.
But George can’t distract himself from how close Bob is sitting now—closer than George expected. Every so often, their knees brush, and George feels the jolt of electricity surge through him. He forces himself not to acknowledge it, keeps his eyes on his slice of pizza, but his leg shifts just enough to give Bob more space.
Bob, however, stays close, his body warm against George’s side. George pretends he doesn’t notice when their knees bump again—pretends that it doesn’t set something off inside him.
“Who’s most likely to write a poem and burn it immediately?"
When the card is revealed, George feels a prickling heat on his neck. He glances at Bob, but it’s like staring into a mirror he doesn’t want to see. His stomach tightens. He quickly looks away, as if the contact burns.
Bob, however, doesn’t look away.
George writes John, but when everyone reveals who they’ve written, it seems they’ve written him.
Even Bob.
He begins to protest, but it’s pathetic really. With a smirk, Paul taps the side of his beer bottle with his pen. “Dramatic little thing, aren’t you,” he teases.
George shrugs, and grumbles to himself. “Maybe the poem was shit.”
John bumps Paul’s shoulder. “Maybe the poet was scared.”
From across the room, George pretends he doesn’t hear. But he does, and Bob’s eyes are still on him. George’s hand goes stiff around his glass, fingers curling tighter, but he doesn’t move it away from Bob.
John picks up the next card and barks out a laugh. “Who’s most likely to kiss a stranger?”
Pens move faster this time, comically so.
When the names are revealed, George scans the room and thinks everyone’s picked John—even Paul. John takes a theatrical bow, but Paul elbows him.
“You better fucking not, though,” he warns, half serious, and everyone laughs.
Then George looks at Bob, glances at his notepad. And freezes.
Bob’s card says: George.
It seems everyone follows his eyes, and they see it too. The room stutters. It takes a beat to click. Then John cackles. “Ohhh.”
George feels his heart hammer in his chest, and suddenly Bob feels ten times closer to him than he did a second ago. The room feels far too hot, and everything seems too loud. It doesn't mean anything—George is reading too deeply into this.
All the while, Bob sits there, perfectly composed. As if George hasn’t just been thrown into turmoil—and it being all his fault.
Paul raises a brow. “Interesting.”
Ringo, chuckles lightly. “Oh dear.”
Their comments—unhelpful, useless, completely unnecessary—have George’s mind scrambling. His heart lurches. Only when the quiet stretches too long does he realise how tight his chest is, like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
And then, too quick, too defensive—
“Define stranger.”
There’s a collective inhale, like the room is holding a shared breath. Fuck, George thinks, cursing himself for even saying anything at all.
But Bob only shrugs. “Whoever you want it to be.”
His eyes are fixed on George’s, unwavering and steady. There’s something daring behind them, like a silent challenge to George. He can hear John gasp, hear Paul hit him, feel Ringo’s eyes on them both.
Heat rises in George’s throat, settles behind his eyes. But Bob hasn’t moved away.
They sit there, staring at each other like they were in some kind of unspoken stalemate until eventually John says, “This is getting personal.”
Paul and Ringo laugh, but it has gotten personal. And they all know that.
They switch it up, play a few other games. Each time Bob leans a little closer, George feels the space between them close up too, until it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating off him. But George doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to seem obvious. Not when there’s something different in the air between them two.
The drive back is quiet. Not awkward—just full of something that neither of them seems willing to name. Bob guides George to his flat with haphazard, nonsense directions. They just about make it, and George walks him to his door, not trusting him to make it himself.
Bob hesitates, hand on the door handle, key in the lock. He shuffles, unsteady on his feet.
“You know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says. George knows what he’s referencing.
He just nods, not daring to say anything else.
“Thanks for inviting me,” Bob mumbles. George nods again.
For a moment, they just stare at each other. In the dim, dingy light outside of his flat, Bob looks almost ethereal. Like a spirit illuminated only by the moonlight, pale and transparent like he’d vanish if touched. It gives George chills.
He didn’t have many drinks, but alcohol clouds George’s mind nonetheless. He opens his mouth to tell Bob so. To ask him, Do you know how unreal you look?’
But, in one quick flick of the wrist, Bob unlocks the door, and slips inside, leaving George in his dust.
--
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and George is trying to keep his mind from wandering. He’s focused on the rhythmic nature of the job, stacking instant noodles like his life depends on it, when his phone buzzes in his trouser pocket. He glances over his shoulder—manager nowhere in sight, only an old woman pushing a trolley—then pulls out his phone under the shelf.
Bob [2:12pm] What are you Doing?
George [2:13pm] working???
what are you doing
Bob [2:13pm] watching a French Film I don’t understand.
George sighs with a small smile, tucking the noodles under his arm as he types. He’s been texting Bob almost every day—even more than he texts Paul, which says a lot. And with every text that’s sent, he can’t help but feel as though he’s walking blindly into something he won’t be able to find his way out of.
George [2:13pm] subtitles?
Bob [2:14pm] Of course Not.
George [2:14pm] you're impossible
There’s a pause. Bob types, doesn’t send anything. George holds his phone precariously in one hand, stacking a few more noodles on the shelf—the damn thing is sticky, and the pots keep toppling. Yet, when he checks again, Bob still hasn't sent anything, so he takes it upon himself to.
George [2:16pm] you do this often?
Bob [2:17pm] watch Things I don’t get? constantly.
George [2:17pm] no i meant lounge around while i slave at sainsburys
Bob [2:17pm] Also constantly.
I'm a Writer, it’s part of the job, Darling.
George shakes his head and rubs at his eye. Even as he puts the last pots on the shelf, he can still see it in the corner of his vision: darling. His stomach does a little flip, but he pushes down whatever it is, and instead focuses on the other matter at hand.
George [2:20pm] you didn’t tell me you’re a writer
Bob [2:20pm] Isn’t it Obvious?
Maybe, George thinks. Maybe it should’ve been obvious. But, if he’s being honest, he never really considered it. Bob—well, he was just Bob, wasn’t he?
Bob [2:21pm] Tell me then. what do you Want to know?
you keep Fishing.
George [2:21pm] i’m not fishing
Bob [2:22pm] you’re Angling.
just ask Something. Anything.
The words catch George off guard. Fishing? Has he been fishing for something, unknowingly? And has it really been so obvious? He shoves the cart along the aisle. Fine. If Bob’s offering...
George [2:23pm] okay. why'd you move to england
Bob [2:23pm] moved here at Fifteen. My mom married a Scottish man who Hates me.
George [2:23pm] that’s tragic
Bob [2:24pm] it’s also Tuesday.
Bob’s response is so impassive that it almost throws George for a loop. There’s a certain dryness to him that keeps George reeled in, strung taut between his wit and the poeticism of it all.
George [2:25pm] you’re like if a cigarette became sentient
Bob [2:25pm] and you keep
Lighting me anyway.
George stares at that last message. Tries not to feel anything. Fails, miserably. His thumbs hover. His whole chest feels stupid and full. He feels his stomach clench, feels the heat creep up his spine. Christ. He really was in deep, wasn’t he?
The notification appears before he has a chance to reply.
Paul [2:27pm] i see you online. how's bob?
George groans, then looks up. One of his co-workers is at the end of the aisle, and she’s giving him a judgemental sidelong glance. George turns away, embarrassed, and slips his phone back into his pocket.
--
That weekend, George invites Bob to Paul's again, but he says he’s busy. Got a project to work on, or so he says. Either way, he was able to spare some time to help George pack up the stall, and graciously accepted the offer for a lift home. Even though it was raining.
The drops hit the cobbles with a rhythmic patter, and they’re rushing to cover up wilting flowers, treading in puddles as they move crates to George’s car. Bob’s suede jacket is soaked through to the bone, and George’s hair is dripping and plastered to his forehead.
Their laughter rings out as they hurry to the car, their shoulders bumping as they load the flowers into the boot. Bob rounds the car quickly to the drivers side and opens the door for George, putting on a bit of a show with a sophisticated bow.
“Chivalry isn't dead, after all,” George mumbles beneath his breath, hearing Bob chuckle as he shuts the door behind him.
The drive back is quiet, the only sound audible being the rattling of things in the boot and soft squeaking of the windscreen wipers. Beside him, Bob’s looking out the window, watching the raindrops chase each other down the glass steamed with his breath. The smell of wet suede hangs heavy in the air, a constant reminder of just who’s next to him.
George pulls up outside of Bob’s house, turns off the engine. But Bob doesn’t make to move. His gaze shifts from the window and he glances down at the flowers, then up at George, who’s watching him too intently.
Without the soothing backdrop of the road, and only the rain for company, it seems too quiet. George can catch every movement, hear every sound. He stares at Bob, meets his eyes, stormy and overcast—as if he’d cast the weather himself.
George swallows, his breath catching in his throat when Bob leans in. It’s so slow, so quiet, George can hear his own heart hammering in his chest.
He can feel it pulling toward him, like gravity. His breath trips in his throat. He doesn’t know if he’s leaning forward or freezing. Doesn’t know if he’s hoping for it or bracing against it.
But he feels it—this fragile, suspended second—like glass.
However, just before their mouths meet, Bob tilts. Kisses his cheek, gentle and cautious.
“Thanks for the lift,” he says softly.
And then he’s gone, and the storm’s still outside—but George swears it followed him out the door.
--
Halfway through the following week, George is leaving work, walking to his car. And that’s when he sees him, leaning against the passenger door, face glued to his phone.
“Fancy seeing you here,” George comments, opening the boot. Play it cool, he tells himself. But that’s easier said than done, and, fuck, he can see his hands trembling.
Bob only shrugs. “I was bored.”
George gets into the car, and Bob follows wordlessly. There’s an unspoken agreement—Bob’s coming to George’s tonight. And so he does, and George puts a couple microwave meals in the oven for the two of them before they lounge in the garden.
Their empty plates sit on the glass table in front of them, reflecting the soft glow from the fairy lights wrapped around the fence. George plucks at his acoustic quietly, watching Bob pet Om in his lap. It all feels so serene, like they’re existing in an almost dreamlike state, caught somewhere in the twilight, trapped between the setting sun on the horizon and the dark night sky.
They talk about nothing. They don’t even think of bringing up the car. It’s easy, and it flows freely like wine from a tap. Like the trickling of water through a narrow brook, seeping eventually to the sea.
“I think she likes you more,” Bob mutters, nodding to the cat.
George shakes his head, letting the guitar strings ring out. “No. Trust me, she loves you. I’ve never seen her like this.”
Bob hums, sinking further into his chair. A small breeze blows, tousling the curls on his forehead. To George, he looks golden—and he wants to hold this moment in the palm of his hand. Hold it there forever.
“She has good taste, then.”
George lets the words hang heavy in the air, lingering like cigarette smoke wafting into the evening sky.
--
It’s just tea, Bob said when he invited George round a couple weeks later. His flat is a mess—books strewn across every surface, mismatched mugs (some still half-full) leaving coffee stains on the furniture. It’s chaos, and it suits him.
But, the worst part? It seems as though Bob can’t even keep a plant alive for the life of him. The bouquet of anemones he'd bought from George’s stall—now dead, obviously—were still in a vase on the windowsill in the sitting room. There’s a monstera plant, a sad sight, really, and don’t even start on the cactus. How the fuck do you even kill a cactus?
George has an unshakeable urge to fix things, to order everything, just for Bob’s sake. But he has to push it down, and they’re sitting on the kitchen floor with slices of toast and a jar of marmalade, close enough for their knees to touch.
George pulls out his wallet. “Here,” he says.
It’s a daisy—the one from the flower guidebook. George thinks it’s good that it’s been pressed. No chance for Bob to kill it.
“What’s this?”
“A flower,” he says simply. Bob smiles, reaches out for a book to slip it into. He doesn’t say thanks—he doesn’t need to. He reaches over, links his pinkie with George’s on the floor, and that tells George everything he needs to know.
The contact is felt like a flare of heat, surging and scalding. George watches Bob spread the marmalade on his toast and he inhales sharply.
“What?” Bob asks. “You gonna judge me for the marmalade too?”
George shrugs, trying to act calm. Bob unlinks his pinkie, passes George the jar. “Only if it’s the kind with the bits in it.”
Bob smiles around his toast. “It is. You gonna break up with me over it?”
George stills—just for a beat. But a beat too noticeable. He doesn’t dare look at Bob, thrown completely off by the comment.
“We're not dating.”
“Aren’t we?”
The reply is quick, snappy. As though Bob was anticipating it, planning for it. George passes back the jar and knife, but Bob ignores it and lets them clatter to the tiled floor. He’s avoiding eye contact, he knows it, but he starts eating his toast. And he’s nearly finished the whole slice when he realises—Bob hasn’t been eating.
George looks up—a dangerous move—and finds Bob’s eyes glued to his face, intense and disarming. George swallows his bite, setting his plate on the floor, and waits. He’s not even sure what he’s waiting for—it’s just that Bob looks like he’s about to say something.
Bob sets his plate too, shifts a bit closer to George. Their shoulders brush, their breath mingling, warm with the citrusy smell of marmalade.
It doesn’t even register in his brain. It’s like he’s watching himself outside his body, watching someone else experience it—because before he knows it, Bob is leaning in.
He doesn’t kiss his cheek this time. No—his lips meet George’s, soft and uncertain, and it ignites something inside him.
George goes rigid. Doesn’t breathe. He lets it happen for a second too long, and then Bob is pulling away.
He can see it. On Bob’s face. There’s fear. His pupils are blown, his eyebrows are drawn together in concern. He chews the inside of his cheek, searching George’s eyes for something—anything.
But George can’t think. His mind won't even catch up.
Bob’s eyes are expectant on him—and the weight of it is all too much for George. He pushes himself up from the floor, the plate beside him clinking as he does so.
He glances down at Bob, who looks so small and vulnerable and... afraid on the floor. He curses inwardly, feels his breaths coming short.
“I’m, uh,” he mumbles, stutters, “I’m gonna... go, I think.”
And he’s gone. Only this time, it’s Bob he’s left behind—not vice versa.
--
Paul [9:42pm] what. the fuck. is wrong with you.
Ringo [9:42pm] George, mate. I think you like him 👍
John [9:43pm] you left him in emotional purgatory with notjing but your jacket and a fuvking toast crust
George buries his head in his hands and groans. It comes out more as a wail of immense self-pity—because how fucking stupid could he get?
The only thing he’s been wanting—for nearly a month, mind you—and he has just exceptionally cocked it all up.
He hadn’t meant to run. He hadn’t meant to be afraid. But he was, wasn’t he? Not of Bob—never of Bob. But of what it meant. That it wasn’t just some warm crush anymore. That it had become real. Real enough to ruin.
The group chat sends more messages, but George waits for something from Bob. Anything.
Though, deep down, he knows he won’t get anything.
He clicks on their chat, scrolls through some messages. Looks at the gallery of all the pictures they’ve sent. Bob showing off his new mug, a picture of one of his cats, the curtain rail still broken in the background. There’s pictures of Bob in a queue at Costa, miserable expression on his face, hat pulled over his eyes. A picture of Bob in a field, a daisy tucked behind his ear.
The sight has George’s stomach in knots.
He begins to type out a message—but it’s all wrong. He deletes it, and restarts, watching the group chat notifications pop up all the while.
George [draft, unsent] i didn’t mean to run.
No. Too blunt.
George [draft, unsent] i panicked. but not because i don’t feel anything.
No. Too vulnerable.
George [draft, unsent] i think i’d like to kiss you back, if you’d let me.
No, no, no. He tosses his phone onto the sofa and huffs, frustrated with himself. He looks across the room, gaze drifting over to his bookshelf, the empty spot where the guidebook was before. His phone buzzes again, and he picks it up, mind working at speed.
Ringo [9:51pm] You’re going to need to sort this out
Paul [9:51pm] it sure as hell won’t sort itself out.
George rubs his face and lets out a pathetic sob. He knows they’re right—but knowing doesn’t make it any easier to fix.
--
The next morning, George parks his car further down the road so Bob wouldn’t see him coming. He probably wouldn’t be awake anyway, it’s too early for that. That’s if Bob slept at all—George knows he didn’t.
He lingers outside the flat, the flower pot in his hands feeling like a lead weight. His hands are clammy with sweat and he holds it tighter out of fear of dropping it.
He doesn’t want to ring up, that’s too embarrassing, humiliating. And if Bob is asleep, he wouldn’t want to wake him, would he? He half convinces himself to turn back around and flee down the road before anyone can see him.
But his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he knows it's Paul telling him to stop being a fucking coward. So he closes his eyes, presses the buzzer.
The speaker crackles, and Bob’s voice is like static through the shitty thing.
“Sorry, out of hours right now,” comes a low voice.
“It’s George.” The words tumble out before he can stop them. “I’m sorry.”
He waits, feeling like he’s teetering on the ledge of a high-rise building. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, grips the pot tighter. What if Bob tells him to piss off? What if he throws the pot back in his face? But Bob doesn’t say anything more and the static cuts dead—but the door buzzes, and George pushes it open.
When he reaches Bob’s door, he's already waiting in the doorway. George stands just in front of the doormat, hiding the flower pot behind his back, meeting his eyes but not quite knowing what to say. Based on Bob’s appearance, George guesses he hasn’t slept; he looks like hell. His face looks almost hollow now, lips chapped, eyes rimmed with sleep—or maybe tears.
George holds out the flower pot, an unnamed apology. An offering.
“An oxeye daisy,” he mumbles, averting his gaze. He swallows the lump settling in his throat. “They symbolise new beginnings.”
Bob looks at George as if he can’t believe he came back. He takes the flower pot, holds it close to his heart, and George thinks he sees his bottom lip tremble.
When George meets his eyes, he finds himself drowning in the exposed emotion there. Bob’s eyes are glossy, and he looks up at George through clouded lenses.
Bob doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then, “Fuck you,” he rasps, voice breaking like a thread pulled too tight. There’s no venom in it—only hurt, and something more fragile underneath.
George’s throat tightens. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words barely holding together.
They stand there in the hush, the daisy between them like a peace offering neither quite knows how to accept. Not pressed, not dried out and brittle. Alive. Blossoming.
Bob’s hand finds George’s wrist—tentative at first, then certain—and he pulls him over the threshold like he’s afraid he’ll vanish if he waits too long.
George stumbles forward, breath caught, and his arms find Bob’s waist. It feels like muscle memory. Like coming home.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, pressing the words into Bob’s mouth with a kiss—gentle, searching, aching.
Bob exhales softly against his lips, a shiver in it. He shakes his head, but doesn’t let go. He pulls George in until there’s no space left between them.
And, as George holds him tight, he realises how deeply Bob has been rooted in him all along—quiet and stubborn.
It just took time to bloom.