the other version

back where we started

ᴛᴡ ɪɴ ᴏᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ

⋆

george's arms ache from how tightly he squeezes them around his legs, his knuckle going red-sore from biting his teeth down onto it in an attempt to keep quiet. it hardly works, with his quick breaths unable to be silenced, but it's better than nothing.

his forehead is pressed down against his knees, partially to hide, partially because sitting up would entail hitting his head against the desk that he's currently huddled beneath.

the brit hears footsteps outside his room and shivers, shoulders shaking as he bites harder on his knuckle, tight enough that he could surely draw blood.

he breathes heavier to stop himself from crying, knowing from experience that carbon dioxide is quieter than tears.

george presses his eyes shut when bloody knuckles rap against his door from the hallway, probably leaving red marks on the paint.

the thought makes him overly aware of all the blood in his mouth, and he runs his tongue over his teeth to make sure they're all still there, swallowing the mix of blood and spit that pools up in response.

no gaps in his teeth, so he must've just cut the skin on his gum or the inside of his cheek or something.

or the pain in his nose is to blame, but he doesn't see how a nosebleed would lead to such excessive amounts of blood getting into his mouth.

"i know you're in there." he holds his breath. "you can let me in, and we can talk, or i'll let myself in and won't be so generous."

it's a trap, george knows. he's getting a beating either way, one that will probably leave him passed out, or break the rib that's hardly healed from last time. there is no real option for talking, he knows, so he doesn't fall for it.

he stays where he is because, at least this way, he gets a few more moments of safety before getting dragged and thrown around the house like a helpless animal.

his heart pounds when the bedroom door opens, the voice sounding much more clear as he says, "you left me no choice."

booted feet walk over to the desk, practically clunking from the weight of the shoes, and george tries not to imagine how much it will hurt when his skull is being stomped.

his dad stops right at the side of the desk, feet only inches away from george's curled-up body, and the brit watches the man start to bend down, his face just about to come into view when-

he doesn't sit up with a gasp, but his eyes shoot open and the breathlessness in his chest makes him feel like he should be gasping.

he can still taste blood and looks down to see that he actually had been biting down on his knuckle, the skin broken from the force.

george tells himself that he has to get out of bed and go to the bathroom to wash his hands and probably swill his mouth out, since it will surely be impossible to go back to sleep with the taste of blood lingering behind his teeth (not that he really wants to go back to sleep now, anyway).