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George knows. Deep within him, he knows Sapnap has always loved him. And he can feel the string of control he has over the man in his hand. He should say he's never been cruel with it but that would be a lie. He's pulled on it, tugged at it, for his amusement more times than he can count. Especially when he was younger and more callous to the bleeding heart that he held in his hands.
George also knows that the tugs of amusement on the string and the crushing of the heart within his palms have led to a layer of glass, breakable yet sharp, forming over Sapnap. He's seen it in the harsh words and the lack of closeness and he knows that it's his fault. He's tried to fix it, but again, there's only so much of the control over the string he's willing to relinquish. So he watches— watches as Sapnap draws back behind walls that are imperceptible to everyone but him. And despite it all, he knows within him that Sapnap cares and loves him.
He doesn't do anything about it. He feels the stirrings of change in his own feelings within himself, slow but gradual, over the years, eroding the hard rock of his heart. And yet, he won't say a word. He knows he'll regret it eventually but George has always been better at wishing for things in retrospect.
He feels the pangs of jealousy every few days, knows that the string of control, the invisible thread that he holds that leads straight to Sapnap's heart slips a bit further away from his hands as time passes. It's a bitter truth.
But he also knows they're destructive. Plain, awful, explosively destructive. No amount of fixing talks and steady conversation will change that. It might save their friendship but it will never save more. George knows they're bound to go nuclear at some point - destroying everything around them and leaving each other in ruins. He'd rather not.
So he stays silent. He stays silent and deals with the pangs of yearning and jealousy that plague him late at night when he can hear Sapnap's light voice as he talks to people on the phone. He grits his teeth and swallows down the urge to know who, what, where— he'd take just this little bit of control and comfort over the lack of everything after they would eventually, predictably, devastate the world around them.
It's not like Sapnap has said anything either, but George would have to be blind to not realize. And despite the former's jokes, he is very far from that. George wishes Sapnap would never say anything. He wouldn't know how to stop himself from placing his hands onto his cheeks and tugging him close. Bits and jokes and innuendos and gags and mutual agonies of teetering the line of this isn't just friendship are things he's used to, and he's sure Sapnap is as well. But the allowance, the open admittance of wanting more— George doesn't know if he'll be willing to stop himself from giving into his weakness.
He doesn't know the person he's protecting through all this— himself, Sapnap, their work, their friends— it's all just the same. He knows within him it won't work, knows it'll end up ugly and jagged with words that may end up giving gashes deeper than they can heal, even with the shared past.
Maybe they'd be a supernova, but God, he knows they'd be a glorious one.
George gives himself some leeway with the liberties he takes— he's allowed this. And he's allowed to exploit the age of their friendship and the exposed nature of it. He can lay in Sapnap's bed and run his hands on the pillow and hold his body close enough to kiss and it’s just a joke, it's just a story for the next stream, it's just funny and it definitely isn't agony when he sees the film of hurt enter Sapnap's eyes before he looks away for a second and the layer of glass, or is it steel, wrapping its way around his heart. And every time George allows him his little liberties, he knows the collateral is Sapnap's heart. And yet, he is selfish. He's allowed this. He's allowed this because when he loses the invisible threaded coil around his fingers to someone else, this is all he'll ever have.
It doesn't ever make it easier though, to see the hurt in his eyes. George tries, through cruel jokes, again and again, to maybe, just maybe, desensitize himself to it. It still shreds his heart like the very first time he saw it, in his half-empty flat in London as he muttered a throwaway rebuke.
Sapnap is talking about some YouTubers they used to watch as kids. They're on stream and he's barely paying attention to the words, focused on his swirling thoughts. He's asking George if he remembers them and he answers noncommittally. He vaguely remembers that they used to be together. He doesn't care, not anymore at least.
Sapnap asks, in between questions to the chat, “Do you think they still love each other?”
George knows it's not about them. But his thoughts and his present have a great way of crashing into each other, unknowingly and unexpectedly. It still feels like it's about them.
He probably takes too long to answer. He knows Sapnap is looking at him expectantly. He answers, his mouth dry and wording each bit like it might hurt if he spoke louder, or clearer, “Yeah. As friends.”
Sapnap is looking right at him. He can't meet his gaze. George thinks if he looks up now, Sapnap will know the truth and the ruse will be up and it'll be a new beginning but that means the bitter end of it would be that much closer.
George can't help it, however. He looks up. He meets Sapnap's gaze, with his eyes and eyebrows scrunched, as if he's trying to read George, and he can feel his own eyes gloss over with a light blur of water. It's so unlike him to get emotional. And yet, here he is. On stream. With thousands of eyes on him. It's so ridiculous he could laugh at himself. Maybe later.
George says, way after the conversation should've ended, after way too long a pause to be normal, but he says it anyway, “I think they love each other still.” He pauses, watching Sapnap's eyes and how they widen for a second before softening. “As friends.”
And there it is. The same look of hurt he's used to. It's so quick yet he knows it's there in the downward tilt of his face and the way his eyes flit away, far away from anything George. George wishes it were easier, and he wishes it was different, but it can't change the way he can feel the thread between them slipping from his fingers.