South London Forever // George Karim

-trail mix and typewriters [Taylors version]-

Freddie stretched her arms above her head with a yawn, feeling her joints crack at the movement. Her fluffy socks were no longer bulky with bandages and her feet didn't pulse painfully each time she stepped forwards.

Instead, she had pills in the cabinet to take every morning and night, and she was only allowed to sleep for a few hours at a time, then she'd be woken up and asked questions to make sure her brain wasn't collapsing in on itself. It wasn't too bad, and she doubted her brain was about to turn into mush, but there's something very surreal about being woken up in the dead of night by Lockwood asking you what type of toothpaste he buys. Freddie proceeded to tell him off about how gross mango was, and then went back to bed. It was safe to say George was sent down next.

"Hey there, has Ant fed you yet?" Freddie asked the movement around her feet, and when Chai jumped up, paws scratching at her knees, she plodded over to the door and began scooping the gross smelling chunks out of the tin.

She patted the golden retrievers head and continued, pulling the sleeves of her jumper [yes, she had to wear jumpers to bed because the attic really was that cold] down over her hands.

Freddie wondered if it was rude to steal George's squeaky puffer jacket.

Said boy was pottering around in the kitchen already, despite the fact the paper girl hadn't even come round yet with news of the latest ghost attacks and updates on the litter of kittens she'd adopted last week.

"Hey Georgie boy?" Freddie asked, moving to stand in front of the crackling fireplace, the backs of her fluffy pyjama pants warming up. "Do you like cats?"

Her hand was opened with his own soft one and he gave her a glass of something cold. That was unusual. No tea. He went back to whatever he was cooking, no that the stove was on, or the crisp morning air smelt like scrambled eggs and bacon. "I don't know."

"How do you not know if you like cats or not?"

A cupboard creaked on its rusty hinges and a jar was opened. "Well, Jamie took in a cat off the street once, but he wouldn't let me pat it. I think it gave him rabies in the end, so that was probably a good thing... But to answer your question, I don't have enough evidence to have an educated opinion about whether or not I like cats, so... I don't know."

Freddie blinked in surprise. It was rare to George to ever speak about his childhood, which, fair enough, really. She still wished he would open up sometimes though. On reflection, she was hiding a lot too, so she really couldn't complain. She trod carefully instead. "Is Jamie your..."

"Brother," George supplies, his voice light. There was the sound of something like pebbles or dog food being tipped into a bowl. "He's a mechanic, moved in with my gran a few years ago cause his apprenticeship was closer to her house. He had the right idea."

Freddie stepped over to him and rested her chin on the top of his curly hair. She liked being taller than George. "You moved in with us instead."

She sipped the drink that was making the tips of her fingers cold. It was orange juice, and not the artificially sweet, bottled stuff from the store near the park, it was fresh. Freddie rested her other arm on George's shoulder. "I like you two a lot more then my gran," he said, leaning into her a little as he cut something up at the bench. "Plus, you don't smell like cigarettes and ink."

"Your gran sounds cool," Freddie said, and reached to try some of whatever George was dicing.

He smacked her hand away, "Do you want to lose a finger?"