George has overcome the riches and the tight kept tendencies of his family finding a rag tag team of street racers. After learning the ins and outs of Las Nevadas, he's come to decide that joyriding is a newfound freedom. But with all the aftermath...
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"Thought you were mine, love." Love, or the lack thereof Issac Dunbar
So, maybe the overplayed tune in the club was a little far fetched. Someone has most likely died at a party, George had heard the horror stories in movies and on the news. It was what sparked a little anxiety into his heart when leaving in college to go tear it down with his rich acquaintances. They would pay for fun, for fights, for booze, more than booze, George never payed for sex. That never appealed to him nor did he need to pay someone to sleep with him, they asked quite diligently without the aspect of money.
That being stated, George liked to party in college. Well, he liked to drink in college. Free expensive liquors stolen from parents of whoever started the rager. Oftentimes cheap beer spiked with something else or other, George never cared. He liked not thinking about anything with a bunch of other prestigious people who knew exactly how he felt. The pressures of being born into the family he lived with. How horrible and cruel it was to be rich. Then when that finally took its toll he could feel awful about how well off he was and sympathize for the people that scrabbled to make ends meet. To be conclusive on George's past, he'd discovered his drinking problem early. When college ended, so did the drinks. Nothing more than champagne or martini at parties. Burning into Las Nevadas had skidded his chances of staying that way completely out.
Now he drank for fun, to rid himself of nightmares, to not think of anything, to feel in control of something. It wasn't excessive, and he'd never be considered an alcoholic, but it was still bad enough for Dream to find concern in him. That's all he ever did really.
"No, I like this song." Strong hands led George off the top of a high class table in the Casino. Ushering him away from their friends and through the long throng of people. "Where we going, Dream?"
"On a drive, baby," he seemed tense underneath the mask. He'd been uptight since him and Quackity returned from the sector meet up. After negotiations, and to George's surprise, no racing they had managed to draw up an alliance. In a week there would be a sector wind even held in the center of Las Nevadas, and Dream had barely spoken to him about it.
"Baby." George dragged on, stumbling over nothing in particular. Dream's grip tightened on his waist to guide him through the kitchen instead of the front door. It wasn't one of his best moments, being drunkenly led outside by his boyfriend. One George feared was cross with him about something. "That makes me feel weird."
"What does?"
George would have answered but the air hit him like a semi-truck. The breeze that blew through the streets was turning slowly, the end of summer in sight. He thought about snow. Snow falling in his vision. Ice nipping at his nose. Frosted breath. The pavement beneath his fingers as he looked up into the sky. Blood. Pain. Cold.
"I hate the snow so much." It was a drunken whisper but Dream still halted at it. Grip loosing and tightening all within a moment. He was so warm, George wanted to sink into him.
