George suddenly roused and sat bolt upright.
“Everyone else, apart from us, is a bunch of boring, miserable fuckwads.”
Phil and John were amused.
“Still alive are you, Gorgeous?” asked John.
George looked disgruntled.
“Of course I am” he slurred “I am a party animal. I’m still here.”
“Barely” muttered Phil out of the side of his mouth. John sniggered.
“I wanted a big party. A huge big party, you know? With drink, and dancing, and sex…”
“Georgie, we had a party yesterday.”
“Yes, I know” he said emphatically “But I wanted one tonight as well.”
“But George” said Phil, determined to be the voice of reason in spite of George’s inherent unreasonableness and his own drunken state “Everyone’s gone home.”
“Yes” George spat “I know that too. That’s why, everyone else apart from us” he banged his glass against the floor for emphasis, inadvertently spilling half of its contents “is a bunch of boring, miserable fuckwads.”
“This isn’t anything to do with the fact you didn’t get any last night, is it?” Asked Phil, trying (and failing) to look the picture of innocence.
“I could have, if I’d wanted to.” he replied sniffily.
“Georgie, even crazy Caro wouldn’t. And she’s obsessed with you. Still.”
“Yeah, well” George suddenly looked shifty and wouldn’t look at John. “I gather she’s found out that I’m a- what’s that delightful phrase of yours? A dirty Bothie.”
John was outraged but Phil was puzzled.
“George, I’m sure she knew already- didn’t she say something to Jane about it being only natural for Catholics, and it didn’t matter as long as no-one knew?”
“No, no I’m absolutely certain she didn’t. Terrible bigot, that ginge is. No more Georgie for her, that’s for sure.”
“Too right” concurred John, clinking cups with George.
George relaxed, satisfied in the knowledge that neither Phil nor John suspected the real reason he wasn’t sleeping with Caroline anymore. They were right about her anyway; she was insane, he was sure, because he certainly hadn’t given her reason to think he was in love with John.
“How much have we drunk?” Phil asked John, interrupting George’s drunken reverie.
“Er… 2 bottles of red wine and half a bottle of gin-”
“You know what that’s code for, don’t you Lucy?”
“No George, I don’t know because it’s not code. And don’t call me Lucy.”
“It’s code for Not Enough.” continued George blithely, “Drink more.”
“We can’t drink more Georgie” John waved an empty bottle “we’ve run out.”
“George Graham does not run out of drink.” George said, rather muffled because he’d dived under his bed, crawling out triumphantly holding two obscenely dusty bottles which were so dirty John and Phil couldn’t tell what they were.
“George, you knob, you’ve got crap in your hair” slurred Phil, clearly not impressed “and I’m not drinking either of those. I don’t know what they are. Knowing you it could be anything from lighter fluid to the fermented blood of virgins.”
“Your fermented virgin blood.”
“Fuck off.” Said Phil, still unimpressed but too drunk to apply any real vehemence.
“Anyway, Lucy, they are neither of those things, they are” he wiped them on his T-shirt “some 1858 something something port-”
“Might as well be Virgin’s blood. Port’s grim.” Interrupted Phil.
“And some brandy I stole from my mum’s cabinet. You drink that, Phillius. Me and John will have the port.”
“Is that my T-shirt you just dirtied Georgie?” John asked lazily, pushing some cups towards George.
“What? Oh. Oh yeah, sorry.” George pulled off the garment in question and threw it at John “There you go. Phil will wash it.”
“I will not.” Grumbled Phil.
“You will. When you’ve got the guilts in the morning. Isn’t Lucy a maid’s name anyway?”
“Shut your face, George. And give me a drink.”
“There’s a good girl. Drink up.”
Two hours, six brandies (for Phil), and three very long drawn out ports (for John and George) later John and George were suddenly hit with the awareness that Phil wasn’t very conscious. George had noticed he was sleeping and poked him in the cheek, and Phil fell off his chair. He was so out of it, in fact, that he didn’t even complain at this, he just snored a bit more loudly.
“We should probably put him to bed.” Mused George, looking down at Phil’s prone body from his vantage point reclining on John’s bed.
“Yeah probably” John agreed “but I can’t be arsed to carry him all the way to his room.”
“He’ll probably be a dead weight anyway. We could put him in my bed.”
“Good plan. Let’s do that.”
With much grunting, struggling and two near misses where Phil was almost dropped on his head, John and George half-dragged half carried Phil across the room to George’s bed, where they dumped him without ceremony and divested him of his flip flops and his belt. John, having borne most of the weight, collapsed back across his own bed with a sigh, his feet still resting against the floor. He watched as George tucked Phil in with uncharacteristic tenderness and then putting a bucket and a glass of water next to the bed.
“You really like Phil, don’t you?” John asked George, as he crossed the room.
“Not as much as I like you.”
“Yeah well, ok, maybe I like him about the same as I like you.”
“You wouldn’t tuck me in and set me up for the morning like that.”
“I would too” said George, standing with one leg either side of John’s. “Anyway, you can hold your drink better than she can. And you’re stronger than both of us so chances are you’d have to make do with us building a nest for you on the floor.”
John laughed “That would do for me anyway.”
“As long as I was tucked up in it with you though, yeah?” George’s voice was a bit croaky and uncertain for once as he looked down at John fondly.
John laughed again, nervously this time, having just noticed that George was standing above him, practically straddling him and not wearing a shirt.
“Uh yeah, something like that.” uttered John, deciding the best course of action was to drink some water. They had both had a bit too much alcohol. Unfortunately, John sitting up so suddenly unbalanced George who stumbled backwards. John instinctively caught George by the hips, and found himself short of breath as his face was millimetres from touching George’s bare chest.
The silence between them was thick and portentous, broken only by Phil’s drunken snoring and their heavy, nervous breathing. John didn’t dare look up at George lest he be unable to control himself and do something they both later regretted. He couldn’t though, bring himself to remove his hands from where they rested on George’s hips, half on bare skin, half on low slung jeans. No underwear, he noted to himself before mentally kicking himself. Scott was right. It was a fucking foolish idea to fuck your roommate. Even more so if they were anything like George. Yet he still hadn’t moved, despite the fact that his now dry mouth and throat meant that the water he’d wanted would be really welcome.
George giggled, a sound John had never heard him use in the bedroom.
“Your hands are, ah, really warm.” He said, sounding as uncertain and as aroused as John felt himself.
John took a deep breath and George jumped as it brushed across his chest like a touch.
“Georgie-” John began, leaning back slightly and moving his hands. He didn’t get very far though as George caught his hands with his own and moved them back to where they’d been.
“No.” He said hoarsely “No John. Don’t- don’t run away from this.”
John turned his head to the side and looked at Philip, lying in George’s bed blissfully unaware, snoring like a five year old.
“Look at me John.” George’s voice was firmer now but John didn’t dare do as he said.
“Look at me.” He repeated, whispering, and John couldn’t help but respond to the pleading note in his voice.
When he looked up, he found George staring at him intently.
“George, we shouldn’t do this- ”
“Why?” asked George softly, contrary to the “We fucking should” John had been expecting in response.
“Because- ” John struggled to remember why it would be a Bad Idea to have his wicked way with George right there and then. “Because we share a room, it’s just not a good idea. We’re living in a house together next year. It’ll make things awkward.”
“It won’t. It’s fine.” said George, leaning down a bit awkwardly, his breath on John’s face, smelling faintly of ribena for some reason “I promise.” He murmured as their faces moved close enough for them to kiss.