Chapter Text
[London - 1978]
It wasn't meant to last.
It started like all of George's worst decisions did: with a wink, a promise, and a boy who looked like he hadn't slept in days.
The gig was in a sweaty basement club off Kings Road — the kind of place where the walls sweated more than the audience and the floor stuck to your shoes like it was personally invested in keeping you there. George had gone to heckle. He always went to heckle. It was cheaper than therapy and twice as entertaining.
Kirk Brandon was fronting the band that night, all sharp cheekbones and restless energy, sweat plastering his blond hair to his forehead. He moved like someone who knew the world was watching and was daring it to look away. George hated him on sight. Then Kirk looked straight at him in the crowd, smirked, and George felt something dangerous spark in his chest.
After the set, Kirk came straight over, wiping sweat from his neck with the hem of his shirt.
"You've got nerve," he said, voice rough from singing.
"I've got taste," George shot back, tilting his chin up. "You just happen to offend it."
Kirk laughed — loud, surprised, real — and that was it. George was done for.
They ended up sharing chips on the curb outside, grease soaking through the newspaper wrapping, salt on their fingers. Kirk kept looking at him like he was something rare and shiny. George let himself believe it for a minute. Just one.
Then they went back to Kirk's flat. It was small, messy, smelled like stale smoke and damp. Kirk kissed him the second the door clicked shut — hungry, messy, like he was trying to prove something. George kissed back harder. He always did.
Halfway through, when George's back was against the wall, and Kirk's hand was sliding under his shirt, Kirk pulled away just enough to mutter, casual as anything:
"Oh, by the way, I'm married."
George blinked. The words took a second to land, like they had to fight through the fog of want in his brain.
"Come again?"
"It's open," Kirk said with a shrug, like he was talking about the weather or the price of milk. "We're not, like, in love. It's complicated. She understands."
George stared at him. Kirk looked so sincere it was almost convincing. Almost.
He didn't believe him. Not really. But he wanted to.
He wanted someone to want him that badly. Wanted the attention, the heat, the illusion that he was enough. So he smiled, sharp and bright, and pulled Kirk back in by the collar.
"Alright," George said against his mouth. "Complicated it is."
They didn't talk too much after that.
For the next few weeks, George let himself be swept up in it. Late nights at the Blitz, stolen kisses in dark corners, Kirk writing half-finished lyrics on George's kitchen table at 4 AM while George made tea and pretended this was normal. Kirk would disappear for days, then show up again like nothing happened, smelling like someone else's perfume and giving the same tired excuses.
George knew. Of course he knew. But knowing and stopping were two very different things.
One night, after Kirk had left again with a vague "gotta sort some things", George sat alone in his flat, the lipstick-smudged mirror still bearing the faint ghost of Kirk's name. He wiped it off with the heel of his hand, stared at his own reflection, and laughed — a small, bitter sound.
"Stupid," he whispered to himself. "You're so fucking stupid."
But the next time Kirk called, George still answered.
Because some part of him still believed that if he was bright enough, loud enough, maybe this time someone would stay.