EIGHTH WONDER; memeulous & imallexx

25; gelid

im a big phat sad machine lately and idk i like busying myself to distract it haha (: we'll see what happens to this when i wake up tomorrow and re-read it

this is too short to be posted to ao3 so thats cool ig

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Looks get warmer, touches get colder.

Hollowed out shells are carved and ghosts are left behind.

Everything gets colder, so fucking cold, and even with the heating on in the middle of the summer, it can't warm the trails that hands have burnt and scarred upon his skin. They're making new paths in other places now.

George wants to be mad. He wants to throw things, break things, break himself, destroy anything he can get his hands on. He wants to be angry, furious, filled with rage. But it's left him weak, and the most he can muster is a frustrated noise that grates his throat when his eyes flood with tears.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have the voice to when it's been stolen in the night, like his voice box was a phantom that wanted to wander in search of a less lonelier soul to occupy. George thinks he would leave himself too – if he could.

It was all left on a thin line between acceptable and rocky, and it's more than obvious George has involuntarily planted his feet on the latter.

Friendship is where it leaves them, as unstable as it is, and George can only watch as the flat is left emptier and emptier each time he gets out of bed.

His bed.

It's only his now, and he suddenly misses the fights over what side they sleep on. He wants to bicker about being the one to charge his phone on the side with the plug socket that night, and to be forgiven with kisses that leave him numb.

He can only watch now, frozen and fighting himself over what he could've done differently so he would still be feeling those hands on him, having those eyes on him, keeping words meant only for him.

He can only watch, empty and void at how quickly the absence of another person tore into him, hoping somehow the flat would be filled with one more person again.

He can only watch when two of his friends come home – though it's not so much home anymore, even to himself – and quickly rush into the bedroom next to his down the hall. George can't stomach hearing that accent again after what he's heard through the walls, but claws at his insides when he kept listening.

There's nothing to do but watch anymore. Maybe he'll freeze in his room, layers clinging to him that feel like winter coats with how heavy it weighs him down, but he knows he can't find the warmth. Maybe he'll just watch what he had before, an outsider to something that's long gone from his grasp.