this is the place ⇝ george x will

7

George can hear the sixty-second countdown begin, echoing from downstairs to the landing where he stands, hand on the cool railing. His third can of beer is nearly empty in his other hand. Everyone is chanting downstairs, the warm sound like a dense, sweaty crowd.

He still can't find Will.

"Will?" He calls out, voice loud and startling in the emptiness of James and Fraser's upstairs part of their apartment. There's no response.

He pushes open the door nearest to him, and Will's not there. The door hits the wall and bounces back.

He panics, because it's nearly midnight and he doesn't know what he wants in any scenario, or where Will is. He runs to the next door, the next, the next. Until the last door rattles forcefully open by a gust of wind and George realises that the balcony door in that last room is open, cream curtains blowing against the soot-black London sky.

He trudges forwards into the room, wind catching him off guard as he reaches the open door. It feels like he's walking underwater as the curtain blows back in such a way that Will's tall silhouette fills his vision. He's facing away, and he's taken off his jumper, bare arms against the railing and watching the busy city road down below.

And it's been so long since it's been like this. Too long since he's approached him with any kind of intent. George can't help but just admire him for a long few seconds because, in a few minutes time, he could've fucked it all up and he'll never see Will again.

"Will?" He says quietly, padding onto the damp wood balcony. The wind is a gale, so George slides the door shut behind him. They're isolated outside the flat, and the countdown downstairs hits forty, muffled behind glass and doors.

The latter turns to face him, jolting out of his daydream. "What're you doing here, love?" Will asks, voice soft and gentle. "It's almost midnight. Go back to the party."

The nickname pangs in his chest. George had missed his voice. "Well, you are the party," he says. "It's a bit shit down there now."

"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Will says with a grin. "But seriously, go back inside. You'll catch your death out here."

"Guess you'll have to watch me die then," George says, looking up at him with a smile. Will laughs at that.

There's a comfortable silence accompanied by the wind.

"So, I heard you and Mia broke up," George adds. "Sorry to hear that."

Twenty.

"You know very well that neither of us wanna talk about that right now," Will says with a grimace. He checks his watch. "Twenty seconds, eh? Isn't your New Years' kiss waiting for you downstairs?"

"No, I don't have one," George admits. "I've never had one, actually."

Will is shocked at this. "You're lying."

"I'm not," George says.

"Well, I'll be damned. That's bloody depressing," Will says. "That can't happen this year." The countdown hits ten, and the chants from downstairs get louder, more insistent. His heart thuds rapidly in his chest as he and Will stand opposite each other on the balcony. Five.

"Yeah? Kiss me then," George says, a surge of confidence shooting through him just as the chants get louder and louder.

And Will doesn't say anything in response, he just leans down just as the clocks strike midnight, cups the side of George's face in his hand and presses their lips together like a crescendo, like the recapitulation of a sonata. There are fireworks on the London horizon and all around them, and there's mindless cheering from downstairs about something or another, but George doesn't care, because Will's a bloody good kisser. His hand slides to the side of George's neck, kisses him harder like the world is ending at that moment. He kisses with force and fights against his lips, but also like George is exquisite, like a precious artwork in a gallery.