Make Up for Lost Time

Prologue

"I can't believe you're actually leaving."

"Me neither." A 14 year old boy clutched a guitar in his hands, turning to the other next to him on the bed. His friend sat looking at the floor, his face neutral except for the small smile he wore more out of courtesy than genuine happiness. "George?"

"Yes, Will?" George said, lifting his head to meet his gaze.

Unsure of how he should phrase his words, Wilbur let his hand fall from the guitar's neck and to the space between them, some centimetres away from George's hand. He hesitated to move again, afraid his actions might be misunderstood. But, if what he wanted was to convey his feelings before he left, then would it really be misunderstood if they held hands? Just this once?

"George, I... There's something I've been meaning to tell you. Something I want to tell you." As quickly as he finished his sentence, Wilbur rushed to say, "Not now though."

"Huh?" The confusion in George's voice hurt Wilbur—mentally kicking himself for ever bringing it up—and he continued on to ask, "Then when? If you don't tell me now, you may never get to tell me!"

"No," Wilbur said confidently and took George's hand in his, "I won't forget. It's important to me and I will never forget it for as long as I live! It's just that...right now... " He stared into the boy's brown eyes, hopeful and expectant but for what? What was he hoping he would say? Whatever it was, Wilbur was sure it wasn't what he wanted to say right now or ever. "When we meet again, George. I'll tell you when we meet again."

His heart skipped a beat when George squeezed his hand tight. His breath got caught in his throat as he looked into his eyes again. "Promise? You promise me we'll meet again?"

"Yes, I promise I'll tell you—"

"—No!" He squeezed Wilbur's hand tighter, the taller boy flinching a little at his friend's sudden strength. "I don't care if you tell me or not! Just promise me we'll meet again!" In an almost silent voice he whispered, "Please?"

Desperation? Determination? Those two words seemed to clash in Wilbur's mind as he tried to understand George's words and his face. He was hurt. That much he was certain of and almost instinctively Wilbur reached his hand up to tuck a lock of hair behind George's ear, usually held back by a small, butterfly hair clip Wilbur had given him as a thoughtful joke after noticing it had grown longer and George refused to have it cut. Then he went to cup his cheek, lingering seconds more than he thought appropriate between friends. That's all they were anyway. Just friends.

But George didn't seem to mind much to Wilbur's delighted dismay. He stayed where he was without moving, without interrupting Wilbur until the hand on his cheek disappeared, resuming its place back on the guitar's neck. He caught himself before he accidentally leant forward to follow the hand's path, settling to turn away and sit with a flustered mind and rosy cheeks.

The sound of the guitar being plucked softly mixed with gentle strumming filled the room. Both boys closed their eyes as they listened to Wilbur's song, an improvised tune George has only heard him play a few times privately. He smiled. This was a song only he knew. A song only Wilbur ever played for him. The song he'd play whenever one of them was happy or sad, lonely or together. But only for him. He played this song only for George and that made him feel special. Special and loved.

Moments passed, time ticked away and soon it was time for Wilbur to go back home. Everything was prepared for him to move to America which was why he was able to visit George one last time the night before. But even as they stood in the doorway of George's house ready to bid the other farewell, neither of them could bring themselves to utter those final words.

"You won't forget me, will you?" George asked feebly, fidgeting with his hands.

Wilbur smiled, fighting the urge to hold his face again. "How could I? You're my dearest friend!"

That seemed to have done the trick to lift George's spirits a little. Smiling sadly, he raised his head and said, "And you're my dearest friend, Wilbur."

"I'll never forget you, Goggles," Wilbur half-whispered with a grin. The nickname he gave George had stuck around since they were in primary school. At first it was a slightly teasing and unintentional mispronunciation of George's name, but now it was more a term of endearment and one that caused George to blush.

"Of all the times to call me that you chose now?! How unromantic," he joked.

"Unromantic? Would you rather me read a poem to you and swear an oath of my undying love for you?" Wilbur half-joked.

"Ahaha, no! But I wouldn't mind you coming back to me one day."

"Don't worry," he said to George's puppy eyes, "I will come back. One day."

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A date marked on a calendar read in capital letters: RETURN HOME :)

He had been counting down the days or at least most of the days to this date. Obviously, he had no control over when he could return when he was younger, but now that he's 24 and has a successful career as a Youtuber, streamer and musician, it was about time he went back home and returned to his roots. Returned to where he had come from and see for himself all that has changed since he moved. But more importantly, he wanted to return to the one person whom he had left all those years ago, 10 to be exact.

Smiling at the boy's face in his mind, Wilbur took a long look at the apartment before shaking his head. Miserable. Not like all his memories here were bad—he had met many different people and made many memories, good and bad, with them here in America—but they were nothing compared to the sight and sound he was so eagerly excited for once he set foot on English soil again.

He wanted... No, he needed to return home and see his dear friend once again. His dear friend, George.