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Chapter Text

“Are you ready to meet your partner?”

Looking just-off camera (it was a novel sensation, having to avoid looking at the camera and not directly into it), George nodded once. It was hard to hide the slight shake in the frame of his body, nor the way he rolled his feet from the toes to the heels; at least the production crew did not seem to particularly mind.

On any other occasion, George would have found himself lost in the wonder that was the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane with its crimson seats, gilded walls, and shimmering chandeliers. The room was very much designed to awe its audience as much as, if not more than, whichever show was meant to grace its creaking-floorboards.

Instead, George Clarke’s sole point of focus were the comparatively ashen-grey off-stage curtains, which currently concealed the dancer chosen to play the role as his partner for the upcoming series of Strictly Come Dancing.

Not bad as West End debuts go.

The camera crew were attentive, asking him to shift his footing or to alter the lighting every so often – and yet, George's eyes continually strayed back to the curtains, as if hoping for a sneak peek; it was difficult to tell whether the slight movements of the cloth were a ghostly breeze from sources unknown or the movements of his partner to-be.

All of the anticipation was enough to wound him…which he supposed was the point – to get him used to the tension, and accustomated to noticing every painful breath that left his body whilst he waited; after all, he’d be subject to this torture routinely once the show began, except with far more cameras and pairs of eyes dissecting every single flicker of his eyes and tremble of his body.

At least he wouldn’t be alone under the spotlight.

“Alright then George, I think it’s time,” the production assistant – whose name already escaped George – called out with no special enthusiasm to her voice. Dressed head to toe in what could only be described as ‘corporate,’ her face was schooled in an expression just as neutral as the palette of her clothing. “Can we get the cameras rolling please?”

Several more seconds passed, accompanied by a murmur of cameras whirring; George could feel every single grain of sand fall through the hourglass as he waited, each one like an irritant on his skin; clenching his hands into fists behind his back did nothing to speed up time, much to his mild disappointment.

The anticipation was practically unbearable.

“So! George Clarke. I am delighted to confirm that your partner is…” she called out loudly for the benefit of the recording, voice much more upbeat than before; if she did continue to speak, however, George didn’t hear it.

His heart seemed to override all ability to hear as soon as the mystery figure strode out from behind the curtains – and thankfully, it was not a face whom required an introduction.

Harry Lewis.

Seasoned dancing professional. One time Latin world champion. Two-time winner of Strictly Come Dancing. And for the last three years, the obsession of one George Clarke.

So not just ‘anyone’ then.

It was a credit to George’s years of streaming that his mega-watt grin didn’t flicker like a lightbulb on the brink; instead, he forced his brittle smile even wider, until it took up the lower-half of his face. Meanwhile, his heart didn’t just drop into his stomach – it plummeted right onto the creaking floorboards between his feet.

“It’s lovely to meet you!” George cried out as he strode forwards, arms outstretched, hoping beyond all hope the blatant lie wasn’t caught easily.

If it was, Harry didn’t show it. Instead, the blond returned the smile, which was somehow even wider than it looked on the TV screen.

He was more attractive in person, too, George’s mind couldn’t help but confess. Indeed, Harry’s was the sort of face that could launch a thousand ships.

“Likewise!” Harry cheerfully replied, his diamond-blue eyes glinting in the spotlight.

George had almost forgotten the cameras were even there by the time Harry had met him halfway across the stage, his arms already open for a hug.

As George easily folded himself into Harry’s embrace, breathing in the seductive notes of Harry's apple and pine aftershave, there was only one thought currently circulating round and round his mind like an out of control merry-go-round.

Oh fuck.

George had been excited for Strictly at first.

The opportunities to appear on mainstream TV had been dripping through slowly (not dissimilar to blood through an IV) thanks to his steadily-growing profile as a streamer; out of all the offers he’d received however, it was Strictly that seized his attention the most.

It wasn't just the premise itself; certainly, the idea of learning how to dance intrigued him, and it was logical from a marketing point of view too.

At least, those were the words of his head; his heart offered a whole different reason entirely.

For George Clarke, the very name ‘Strictly’ was synonymous with Harry Lewis – the only man whose smile outshone all the glitter in the show’s costume department. Joining the show as a contestant meant he would be propelled to within Harry’s orbit; even saying something as simple as “hello” to the object of his affections would make it all worth it, George reckoned.

We often look up to the stars in the night sky to marvel at their beauty; if given the chance to admire them up close, would you turn it down?

It hadn’t been so much of a ‘yes’, and more a ‘when do we start?’

As emails were sent backwards and forwards with all the swiftness of swallows swooping through the skies, George’s mind couldn’t help but wander; each daydream featured a different silhouette as his dancing lead, and there were many to choose from.

Already, one of the show’s producers had tentatively asked whether George had a preference of partner – since the show were keen to represent all forms of dancing, and same-sex couples were more common than the media would have you think.

George had stated his lack of preference with little hesitation, a reminiscence which now served to taunt him harshly.

In truth, he would have been satisfied with any of the Strictly professionals; each possessed a particular quality which stood them out. It was a credit to the casting team that the Strictly ensemble was truly rich and diverse in its talent. None of them stood on each other’s toes (metaphorically, or literally)

If Arthur Frederick was considered the King of Ballroom, then Freya Nightingale was its Queen. As for the Latin dances, few could rival Talia Mar with their moves – except perhaps Chris Dixon, for he was the quickest professional on their feet. When it came to choreography for any dance, Elz was practically magical with the routines she wove.

None of his daydreams dared to cast their token all-rounder Harry Lewis in the leading role – and now, his sanity would pay the price.

George thudded his head hard against the door as soon as he arrived home, his head having truly committed to memory every nanosecond at Drury Lane.

Of how Harry looked, smelt, and felt.

No swear word seemed quite able to summarise just how he felt in that instance; indeed, all George could confess to feeling was that maybe desires are far more dangerous than at first they seem.

Dreams often have an expiry date, but regrets do not.

If only his overactive-imagination could have prepared him for the reality that was to follow.

The rampant speculation on social media didn’t help.

As soon as the news was broken of George’s casting, the internet seemed to lose their collective marbles – not that the internet could claim to possess many in the first instance, that is.

Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and Tumblr (especially Tumblr) was flooded with discussion and discourse, reposting the announcements with all the excitement of a toddler hyped up on sugar; George scrolled through all of the reblogs, edits, and rampant speculation until his finger began to ache from the repeated action of it all.

Whilst his lips had quirked up into a wide grin upon noticing the first comments, it slowly drooped as his evening’s reading continued. By the time the sun had set below the horizon, his laptop the only light illuminating the room, George’s mind raced with an altogether different emotion entirely.

Fear.

As glad as he was of their support, the sheer volume of reactions was almost smothering – reminding him of just how many pairs of eyes would be watching.

How many people he had to make proud.

Regardless, the fracture lines had been set – and the internet inevitably shattered in a similar fashion upon the announcement that Faith Kelly would also be joining that year’s line-up.

It was hardly news to George; Faith had already confessed the news a fortnight before his fated meeting with Harry, showing off her first pair of dancing shoes to him on a video call. He'd been over the moon at first, but now he felt deeply for Faith - knowing just how heavy the pressure felt on his own chest, it wasn’t a pain he’d wish on anyone in the world.

The comments were largely positive, though one question sat on all their lips’ – just who would George be partnered with? The query was painted across the comments section on each video, to which George could only reply with a knowing smile and a sidestep towards the next question.

The production team had made clear their stance on spoilers, not that George needed any reminders.

Besides, it wasn’t as if the audience were close to guessing the truth. It was only the stray voice or two within the masses which suggested a male professional, though such comments were easily drowned by the sheer quantity of posts suggesting he’d be partnered with one of their female professionals.

Nobody in that small minority saw fit to suggest Harry – thinking that Chris or Arthur would be far better fit for George.

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or mildly disappointed.

George was sure of one thing however – there’d be one hell of a shitstorm, and the show’s publicity team had left him stranded without an umbrella.

Chapter Text

The date for the launch show rehearsals had been circled (several times, and in different coloured pens) in his calendar for weeks – but despite all the anxiety it induced, George had frankly no idea how to prepare. It’s not as if there’s a “Dancing on Live TV for Dummies” guide available in the shops (or at least, not one right now; George had always fancied becoming an author, and he could always write some sort of guide after his time on Strictly).

Instead, George was left to his own devices.

Already, he’d stacked his fridge with protein yoghurts, bought a pair of practise dancing shoes, and pre-filmed a bunch of videos – enough to cover the first few weeks of Strictly. It had been an unintentional decision, but one that spoke volumes when it came to George’s confidence; he didn’t see himself in the show past week five, at best.

Let alone promenading along the beaches of Blackpool.

Whilst the preparations filled some of his dwindling free time, it did not account for all of it. Upon finishing his last video, George found himself with three days until the first rehearsal date, and with little to do but wait.

Time seemed to pass with all the swiftness of a slug.

Not even a day passed before George reached for his laptop; it was part boredom, part curiosity that fuelled his fingertips as he typed Harry’s name into YouTube, and lined up several of his highest-rated dances to watch. He’d settled into the chair with a drink and notepad, with every intent to focus - though it did not last long.

Barely half an hour later, George slammed the screen shut and blindly tossed the laptop aside, an unyielding and boiling surge of anger coursing through his veins. Any mild curiosity he’d felt at learning what kind of mentor Harry could be like was quickly overridden with a teeth-clenching and snarling sort of jealously that left his jaw aching. It didn’t sit right, watching Harry strut across a dancefloor with somebody that was not him; it caused George’s fingers to curl into a fist, whilst his stomach only felt more nauseous, gnawing at his insides like a wild animal.

It was jealousy, plain and simple – but not of the romantic kind. It was the snarling, seething, and ugly sort – like a cauldron bubbling over, leaving its viscous and toxic potion all across the floor.

In a (vain) effort to calm himself, George rose to his feet, and walked across to the windows; his flat offered an almost-panoramic view of London, almost peaceful despite the hum and thrum of activity that was acted out every day on street-level. Usually, it never failed to ground George, reminding him he was but one of hundreds and thousands. This time, no calm could be found; all George could think of whilst idly scanning across the familiar skyline was to wonder where Harry might be.

Defeated, George rested his head against the glass; though it felt cool beneath his skin, but did nothing to cool his temper.

Objectively speaking, George knew he had no right to the strength of the emotions he felt. Such videos were proof that George was not the first to be tucked in Harry Lewis’ warm embrace, and statistically speaking would not be the last.

Like most forces of nature however, George’s emotions could not be held back. All he could do was ride out the storm.

The day arrived with far less fanfare than expected, but with just as much nervous energy as George expected. His bones shook with all the shivers of a deep-seated cold, but the only sickness he felt was of the nervous kind.

As his stomach was not up to the challenge of stomaching much food, George instead travelled earlier than expected – he arrived at the dance studio twenty minutes early, both hands trembling under the weight of the bags carried by each.

Pushing open the door with his foot, anxious eyes mapped the room; the mirrors that covered each wall only served to make the room look larger, and more filled than it was in reality.

He couldn’t even summon a smile for his face as he fully entered the room. The heightened state of anxiety meant George was more than fully aware of more than half the room glancing at him with looks ranging from mild confusion to amusement – but it was not their approval he sought.

Just as he opened his mouth, George found his eyes glancing away almost involuntarily, whilst his throat squeezed itself shut; it seemed his nerves would not even handle a simple “hello.” Instead, George headed towards the closest wall, and sagged his weight against it heavily. 

Whilst their curious gazes slid away to the next celebrity to walk through the doors, George’s nerves did not abate; like a siege at the city gates, his anxiety only grew. Even if he’d wanted to run out the door, he didn’t think his legs could survive the arduous journey.

It was only when a familiar face burst through the door, a disinterested look on his face, that George’s nerves abated – for his nerves were now swallowed up by a new emotion, and its name was dread.

Just as the newly dark cloud that loomed atop George’s head threatened to swallow what remained of his dwindling control, he noticed Harry’s eyes seemed to flicker across the room – until they settled upon George.

Harry smiled, and immediately strode across the room to where George stood. Without even realising it, George couldn’t help but smile in return – it felt just like the sun breaking through the clouds on a rainy day, promising warmth and that he was here to stay.

“Good morning George,” Harry greeted warmly once he was within arm’s reach, though his eyes flickered down to the bags held in George’s grasp. “Why all the drinks? Trying to bribe the judges?”

George couldn’t help the awkward laugh that slipped out his throat. “I didn’t know what you liked,” George internally chided himself, all too aware of how timid he sounded. Clearing his throat, and shifting his feet from side to side – an awkward sort of dance – George held his hands upwards, almost expectantly, and tried to continue in a firmer tone of voice. “So I brought a few things you might like?”

Emphasis on “tried to.”

His eyes flickered to look over Harry’s shoulder, internally cringing at the way his tone of voice ended somewhere in the range of ‘only dogs could hear.’ When he did look back at Harry a few seconds later, it was to see his smile; Harry’s lips were curled up at each corner, and there was no amusement to be seen sparkling in his eyes. “That’s very kind of you,” Harry’s voice quietened ever so slightly, underlined with surprise and a gentle warmth, like the spring sun on your skin. “I’ll take a Pepsi if you don’t mind?”

Nodding dumbly, George pulled the beverage in question from his bag, and held it out to the other man; his attention was far too caught up in Harry to notice the thickening crowd that was gathering in the background, their eyes all trained towards the front of the room.

Instead, his attention was reserved solely for Harry.

Tucking the can into his grasp, Harry brought both hands back to his chest, almost cradling it against his chest.

Whilst the connection of their eyes had not ceased, their lips now failed to move – but not out of a lack of things to say. George was sure everyone could hear the whirring of Harry’s thoughts, just like a creaky treadmill, desperately searching for the right words to say.

“Shall we-“

“Should we-“

Both men paused upon realising their synchrony, and promptly descended into a state of laughter. Whilst George’s laughter was careful, and more restrained, Harry’s seemed to originate from the depths of his chest, for it was a seemingly endless sound that only egged George on further.

Just as the pair caught their breath, their eyes met once more – and the giggles began all over again.

Though his eyes were crinkled almost shut, George couldn’t help but notice and admire the way Harry bit on his tongue (in a vain attempt to cease his laughter), and his lips were parted enough to reveal glimpses of pearly white teeth; similarly, George’s ears piqued up upon listening to the gruff yet unrestrained chuckles from Harry’s throat.

It only made George giggle more, if only to spur Harry’s laughter on further.

Still, it could not last.

“If Harry and George could pay attention please?” A loud and slightly strained voice called out, which almost immediately put a stop to their laughter; both men’s eyes flickered to each other once more, biting the edges of their cheeks to muffle the giggles threatening to spill out again, before they both turned to face the front.

The production lead continued to read from their clipboard, though George easily tuned the lecture out; instead, his attention was drawn by the gentle waft of apple and spice of Harry’s aftershave. A flicker out the corner of his eye confirmed Harry was now stood considerably closer than before.

A sinful temptation, now within arm’s reach.

George was all too aware of the irony to be found in there somewhere – he wasn’t just within arm’s reach of the object of his desires, he was to be paraded on his crush’s arm for the entire country to watch every week.

Either I’m the luckiest man in the world, George commiserated, or the damndest fool.

After swallowing down the nerves (which lingered like a sour taste on the back of his throat), George turned his head slightly, and looked across to Harry’s eyes – only to be met with crystal blue irises staring back into his. Whilst it is often maintained eyes are the mirror into the soul, Harry’s seemed fogged over. It was more his eyebrows that betrayed how Harry must have been feeling – they were downturned, not in the sense of fury, but more in a state of inquisition.

As if George Clarke were a puzzle to Harry Lewis, one he was determined to figure out.

With George’s own curious gaze now caught by Harry, George felt there was but one course of action left open to him. Without a single second’s worth of hesitation, George winked.

George kept his gaze steady, to gauge Harry’s reaction. In response, the blond’s lips seemed to quirk up one final time, before his head turned back towards the presentation - his cheeks now painted the faintest shade of pink.

For the first time that morning, a new emotion unfurled through George’s body, travelling across each synapse until he almost felt drunk on the sensation – and it was called satisfaction.

“Alright then,” the Production Lead’s voice had seemingly grown tighter the longer they’d spoken for, and this seemed the first moment genuine relief seeped into their tone. “If I could please ask the pros to find your celebrity partners, and to run through your chosen move.”

George didn’t need to look far, since Harry hadn’t strayed from his spot. Still, the other man seemed to look both left and right, even raising a hand up to mimic a set of binoculars, causing George to snort with laughter.

Already, he could tell laughter was a common sound to be heard around Harry Lewis. George just hoped his lungs were up to the job of keeping the laughter going.

Before George could retaliate, a voice from the side intervened first. “Still at it with your usual antics?” Arthur asked, his voice more flat than the ground upon which they trod. It was coupled with an almost-derisive look, which was seemingly shared with several of the production staff.

The blond man seemed to shrug off the comment with a rehearsed ease, and the sort of smile you’d practise in the mirror. “Someone’s got to be the funny one around here,” Harry quipped back almost instantly, raising his voice for the benefit of the room.

A chorus of groans echoed in response, though the exasperated looks of the dancers seemed almost fond. Arthur just rolled his eyes, and turned towards his intended dance partner.

Instead of chiming in, George remained quiet, curious to witness the dynamic backstage; it seems an entirely different show played backstage to the one that aired on TV, and George was still learning his lines for it. Or rather, trying to figure out what his lines even were – and just how long his guest role may last.

Only when the faces of his peers turned away did George notice how Harry’s face fell, ever-so slightly; the corners of his smile faltered for a fraction of a second, whilst his shoulders slumped in what could only be defined as defeat.

It didn’t sit right with George one bit.

“So what move are we doing then?” George asked abruptly, taking a step closer to Harry. It caused Harry’s head to swivel around, by which time his face had been drawn into a more neutral expression, all traces of emotion vanished from his ocean-blue eyes.

His mouth opened and closed a few times, before any sort of sound escaped. “W-we’ll be doing this move. Here, watch me do it first, and then you have a go, yeah?” A faint ghost of a smile briefly tugged on his lips. “I promise it’s not as bad as it seems.”

George nodded, stepping backwards at the same time – silently drawing Harry further away from the crowd, and back to the side of the room, their own form of sanctuary. Without question, Harry followed. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

And with that, the lesson began.

Harry outlined the miniature routine several times, both his and George’s movements; his eyebrows disappeared up to his hairline as he realised just what it involved, namely assisting Harry to spin multiple times, before tugging the other man close into a tight embrace.

As the other man demonstrated the moves, George could only watch in silence. In all the emails, posts, and episode rewatches, none of it had felt real – until right now.

Shit ShIT SHIT-

“Alright then,” Harry eventually decided, oblivious to George’s internal panic. “Time to put it all together.”

He raised his arm in the air expectantly, in anticipation of their first dance.

George had always heard of all noise fading into the background, but he’d never truly experienced it until this moment. His own hand reached out slowly, cautiously.  Harry seemed to watch with a look of amusement. “I promise I don’t bite,” he assured, though the timid smile was quickly consumed by a wolfish grin. “Much,” he finished.

The smile did nothing to calm the waves currently rocking inside George’s stomach, it only propelled them to rise and fall with even greater intensity – though, he had little choice.

He took Harry’s hand, and wrapped his fingers around tight; Harry’s skin was warmer than he expected, and his hand seemed to hold onto George’s with a similar firmness.

It felt just right.

And George knew, without even a ghost of a doubt in his mind, that he didn’t want to let go.   

Chapter Text

In what felt like the blink of an eye, the day of filming the launch show had arrived – accompanied with a relentless drizzle from ash grey clouds that loomed overhead. George grumbled under his breath at the sight, unsure whether to consider the clouds a harbinger of doom or merely the sign that life in London was proceeding as usual.

Regardless of either, he had a call time to meet…which he didn’t meet, strictly speaking.

Having quickly exhausted almost all forms of distraction he could find that morning (for boredom and nervousness were the twin beasts clawing at his insides, preventing any real form of restfulness), George called for a taxi to take him to the filming studios; the journey was just as mind-numbing as he’d expected, the people-watching along the way providing no real distraction from the growl at the back of his mind reminding him of just what awaited at the end of the line.

By the time George arrived at the studios, the rain had only grown in its intensity; each raindrop hammered down upon his skin like a bullet, every single one of them.

With his bag held above his head as a poor attempt at shelter, George ran towards the studio. By the time he reached the reception desk inside, his trainers were soaked through, leaving watery footprints in his wake. As a result of the taxi, he’d arrived two hours before the call-sheet had his name printed out with its bleak black ink –

Not quite sure what to do with him, security let him pass through with only a shrug of their shoulders.

It left George Clarke with an all-together new problem, however.

Just what to do now?

He couldn’t exactly practise on the dancefloor – for without Harry Lewis, he’d only be standing empty, spinning around a ghost. Neither could he get dressed, as the hair and makeup department hadn’t even arrived at the studios yet. With few options available, George had been taken to his dressing room armed with a steaming cup of tea, and quietly (but firmly) instructed to stay put, almost like a disobedient dog.

George didn’t bark, or put up much resistance, but neither did he touch the tea. Even now, his stomach lurched and rolled more furiously than if he’d been on the high seas, leaving his skin with a slightly green twinge.

It's a shame it's not musical week, George silently mused, I already look the part as Elphaba.

At first, he inspected his dressing room – though it was closer to a cupboard than a “room” in terms of its dimensions. It was sparse in its décor, leaving George occupied with only his thoughts – and given how the recollections of his rehearsals felt like faint and distant memories, his anxiety only seemed to grow and grow.

It didn’t take long to reach breaking point.

Like a firework shooting up in the sky, George eventually shot up from his chair, quite unable to sit still a moment longer. It took two steps to reach the door, and a half-hearted push on the door to enter the corridor. After his eyes flickered left and right, George chose to head down the left corridor and explore.

(He was a Doctor Who fan after all – and one episode had been enough to teach him the dangers of turning right)

He traversed what felt like a rabbits’ warren of corridors, identical in their beige walls though with different hives of activity occurring in each. Racks of clothes sat out by each wall, and George couldn’t help but reach out and drag his fingers along each; his fingers encountered a myriad of textures, both smooth and rough to his skin, and he couldn’t help but wonder which might bear his name.

Lost in his distraction, George didn’t notice the figure that crept up to him until she stood practically within arm’s reach. “George!” A familiar face called out. “Where’ve you been hiding?!”

George couldn’t hide the grin that crept across his face as he turned around to face the speaker. He might have been short on friends in the studios, but he was endlessly thankful that Faith Kelly was one of them. 

Though she was only dressed in a hoodie and joggers, he knew that Faith would stun on the dancefloor later - her skin seemed destined to be adorned in sequins, though he doubted it could shine brighter than her delighted smile.

Both ran towards each other, simultaneously wrapping each other in the tightest of hugs. It was no forced affair, either. It was genuine warmth between the pair. “Oh George it’s all real now,” her words were slightly muffled from where she spoke into his shoulder. “We’re competing against each other now.”

“There’s no competition,” George remarked dryly, pulling back slightly so as to look down towards her face. “You’ll win in a heartbeat. You look gorgeous. I on the other hand look like a bedazzled beaver.”

Faith couldn’t hide the loud snort that escaped her throat, and she pulled back to laugh properly, covering her mouth with her hand. “A handsome beaver though,” she conceded with a sharp smile, and a sly wink.

The lump in his throat didn’t seem as tight as it seemed before, and George found himself able to smile a little more.

“Have you met my partner yet?” Faith asked, gesturing behind where she stood – to the man that George only just realised had been present for this entire encounter.

Anonymity was not a luxury possessed by either George or the man in question; an introduction was far from necessary, for George knew immediately just who Faith’s partner was.

Chris Dixon.

World Quickstep Finalist. Two-time Strictly Victor. British National Champion three years running – and, George noted objectively, more handsome than the TV screen gave him credit for.

Perhaps there just weren’t enough pixels to do him apt credit.

“I’m Chris,” he introduced himself smoothly, his dulcet tone of voice like silk to George’s ears. Charm rolled off him in waves, aided with a smile that somehow managed to rival even Faith’s - not with its brightness, but with just how natural it felt. He was the sort to set at ease, and whose inclination seemed always to laugh no matter how dark the nights might seem.

“Pleasure to meet you,” George introduced himself warmly, no lie on his tongue. “I’m George Clarke.”

A snort escaped Chris’ throat, and his eyes seemed to almost sparkle in response. “Bold to assume I don’t already know who you are.”  He inclined his head forwards slightly, towards where the other professionals stood in a group down the corridor. “They were fighting over who’d get cast with you.”

His eyes flickering towards the group, George noticed their vulture-like gazes trained on him – though quickly shifted them away again, like vampires evading the rays of the sun. “And you didn’t join the fray, I take it?” George asked, turning his attention back to Chris.

If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Chris was stood closer than he’d been before.

To the side, Faith exclaimed, though George’s attention was fully ahead towards Chris – whose cheeks had turned the shade of a spring rose. “You know I can’t possibly say that in front of my partner!”

Faith raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms across her chest. “You’d better fucking not.”

Just as George snorted in response, Chris caught his eyeline once more – and nodded rapidly, earning himself a sharp elbow to the side from Faith. “Ow, that hurt!”

“It was meant to,” Faith rolled her eyes, though with humour and not malice underlining her words.

“Now, enough sabotage for one day,” Chris groaned aloud, though not before offering George a wink (though he was not sure whether it was friendly or flirty in tone). “Good luck on the dancefloor.”

Though the tone of voice was joking, almost fond, it sent shivers down George’s back – for it was a reminder of just what was to happen later that night.

“See you later!” As soon as Chris and Faith escaped from his line of sight, (though not before Chris sent George another look over his shoulder as he parted) George’s shoulders sagged, and the quiet desperation from earlier returned – with the volume dialled right up.

It was a quiet, lonely sort of walk back through the corridors, despite the hive of activity they had now become; crew members flitted between doors with all manner of items clutched in their grips, though George could only watch mutely with an ever-growing sense of dread.

It was nearly time.

Eventually reaching his dressing room, George closed the door behind him – and sagged against the flimsy wood. It was not the silent retreat he’d been hoping for. Phantom voices managed to poke through the cracks, snatches of a million conversations George couldn’t even begin to catch up with.

Nor could it conceal the sound of footsteps, which halted right outside of his door. “They said you were here already,” a voice said out of nowhere, a voice which caused George to startle. It was a familiar voice, though with an unknown edge to it, coloured with an emotion George couldn’t pin a name on. “Can I come in?”

Harry, he can’t see me like this-

Lifting his head hard enough to give him whiplash, George fled from the door across to the other side of his dressing move (a move which took only three steps). “Alright,” his voice broke as he spoke.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a blond shaggy mess of hair, coupled with an inquisitive gaze. “Everything alright?” Harry asked, closing the door behind him.

George shrugged, not quite able to name the cocktail of emotions bubbling inside of him. Certainly, fear had George trapped within its grasp, but there were other tendrils too – the nausea was climbing up his throat, whilst dread weighed down his feet, and it was only the adrenaline coursing through his veins that kept him standing.

In lieu of an answer, George stood silent.

Harry’s returning smile was thin, far from the usual broad laughter George was used to – the very sight of it struck George like a minor chord, for something was just off-

“You’re nervous too,” George blurted out, unable to restrain the deduction to the confines of his mind. It incurred no wrath, no frenzied denial, merely the ghost of a smile that could tell no lies.

Sagging against the door, Harry’s shoulders seemed to slouch. “Yeah I am. Filming doesn’t get any easier.”

Before George could swallow it down, a snort escaped his throat; now there was a sentiment he could agree with wholly. “Can we go over our steps one last time maybe?” He asked tentatively, already leaning forward with anticipation. “I feel like I mess it up every single time.”

Harry smiled – and this time, it was no mockery, but a genuine grin.

“Just think of it as discovering a new way to perform it.”

The launch show was both better and worse than expected.

It passed as both a blur and slow-motion; by the time he’d found himself in Harry’s arms (which felt like the jigsaw piece he’d always been missing), George was forced to let go and to continue the group dance.

Whether it was the euphoria of the moment, or due to the nerves finally having been vanquished, George’s self-critic had seemingly been silenced; though he was aware of the mistakes he made in performing the routine, there was no defeating internal monologue to accompany it. 

Instead, there was only joy - and there were no judges to burst George's happiness like a balloon.

“And remember,” their host Stephen Lawson called out, once all the couples had assembled on the dancefloor together to film the outro. “Keep dancing!”

George didn’t expect for confetti to fall from the ceiling, specks of silver and gold flittering to his feet like autumn leaves. Instead of dancing as the rest were doing, George stood stationary, his eyes too busy scanning the room, and he couldn’t hide the laugh that escaped his throat. “It’s beautiful,” he yelled to Harry over the sound of the crowd.

Turning to his left, George found that Harry was already looking towards him – much in the same way as he’d looked at George right back at their first rehearsal. There was none of the furrowed eyebrows from before, however.

Maybe he’s solved the puzzle. Maybe he’s content he knows who I am.

Harry smiled. “It really is beautiful.”

After a second or two, George turned his eyes back to the chaos, and towards the other couples he shared the dancefloor with. For a brief moment, his and Faith’s eyes met – both wearing mutual expressions of ecstasy, for just how on earth had they found themselves in this position?

As the crowd’s applause eventually died, George couldn’t help but think that it was not an end – but rather a beginning.

But the beginning of what?

There was only one way to find out.

Chapter Text

His bedroom did not echo with the sound of rain battering harshly against his windows. Instead, George awoke to the sound of an entirely different sort of storm, wherein the wind was replaced with words (though its impact could be just as devastating). Even in the few seconds it took for him to slowly flutter his eyelids, clearing the dust that still trapped his eyelids shut, his phone vibrated and beeped with enough texts to wake the dead.

There was certainly no resting in peace on Sunday morning.

As he lay in bed, eyes staring up at the ceiling, George questioned whether it was wise to even look; social media might have provided the platform from which George had made his name, but it was a poisoned chalice all the same.

The comments could build you up and then break you down as often as changing tides - and all thanks to the nature of the internet. No one soul could simply ‘tame’ the internet. The virtual world offers the illusion of anonymity, emboldening people to declare their opinions (for better or worse) on any website they deemed fit – and just as people could be kind, so kind, they could be unspeakably cruel.

Though his body felt relaxed at first beneath the soft linen duvet, the constant assault on his ears only caused his limbs to slowly stiffen.

It wasn’t so much fight or flight, and more wishing to bury his head like an ostrich.

The alerts only continued as George slowly sat up into a slouch, eyeing the phone with a wary look. Curiosity, as it always does, won out in the end.

His hand reached out and picked up his phone with all the caution of approaching a snake; with a stronger grip than strictly necessary, George swiped up to unlock his phone, closing his eyes almost on reflex; it took considerable effort to open them again – and they only grew wider as he realised the content of such messages.

Overwhelmingly positive.

All the usual platforms were filled with messages ranging from shock to joy and sheer unbridled delight – it seemed the internet was thrilled two of its darlings had been partnered together for the upcoming series, with only one of ten comments veering towards the negative.

George was more than happy with that kind of ratio; the internet could be far more cruel, after all.

Whilst the sun began to dawn outside, its light spilling across the horizon and setting it ablaze, a small smile similarly dawned on George’s face. He continued to scroll through the texts and the comments, switching from platform to platform - but the comments remained largely positive, as if each was infected with the same sort of virus.

One clip in particular caught his eye - from the thumbnail, it was Harry and George upon the dance floor. His fingers drifted across to a video clip, and pressed play; across his screen, the sight of Harry and George dancing together played out.

It wasn’t a long clip; indeed, it had barely begun it had already ended.

And yet.

George was entranced.

It seemed unreal, the sight of himself dancing alongside Harry – his eyes immediately clocked the errors he’d made, but as soon as he caught sight of the wide grin across Harry’s face, and the way he seemed to hold tight onto George, it was enough for George’s concentration to derail itself almost entirely.

He pressed play again.

And again.

(And again).

The pairing made national headlines by Monday; their names were seemingly painted across every tabloid and trash magazine, using more ink than all of Britain had to offer.

George could see why the producers had double checked he was okay to perform with a male professional. This time, the words were not so kind - though the sting didn’t linger so long and nor as deep, thanks in part to the protective and warm defensive barrier the internet’s support had provided him with.

By the time Monday dawned, it was with none of the same reticence he’d felt weeks ago before the launch show rehearsal. A different sort of virus had infected George, a seemingly inability to stand still whilst he prepared for his day.

It’ll certainly come in useful for the weeks to come, George reasoned.

It was with a broad smile on his face and a skip in his step that he walked towards the dance studio, all the while his eyes drinking in the sight of the new neighbourhood. In spite of the usual London grime and grease George was accustomed to (just like a bad smell), there seemed to be an almost well-loved aura to the street he walked along – through the windows of each coffee and charity shop that was strung along the road like a string of fairy lights, George spied all smiling faces.

The dance studio was no exception; he’d barely walked in before being whisked up a side staircase to the very top floor.

George entered the studio slowly, still unsure of what exactly to expect – though wherever his eyes fell in the room, it all seemed to fit just right. There were firm wooden floors, a mirror along the furthest wall, and a collection of chairs stacked towards its very end. The illuminating light bestowed a warm sort of glow, giving the studio a warm sort of feel.

He paced the room slowly, taking in every inch. George’s pine-green eyes couldn’t help but flicker across the room, taking in every scratch, every scrape, and every blemish – for despite all its imperfections, it seemed just right.

It was using the mirror that he spotted the single figure that stood at the doorway.

“Fuck!” George swore sharply, raising a hand to clutch at his chest as he turned on the spot to face the door. “Don’t scare me like that. You’ll be the first pro to actually kill off their partner!”

Harry chuckled deeply (the sound of which already caused George’s heart to patter in his chest like rain upon a roof), and strolled straight into the centre of the room – with all the confidence that demonstrated just why he belonged on a floor such as this.

Whilst the back of his mind raced, scrambling for just the right words to say (though with every second longer he spent in Harry’s presence, the words only seemed to grow harder and harder to find), George’s eyes flickered down to the objects cradled in Harry’s grasp – the sight of which reminded George of a rehearsal not too distant in the past.

Two wine-coloured cardboard cups, the steam wafting gently from each.

The other man glanced down. “Oh yeah! I thought it was my turn to bring the drinks,” Harry looked down, as if he’d forgotten the drinks were even there. “It was a mocha you liked, right?”

The corners of George’s lips seemed to curl upwards of their own accord. It was with a tentative hand forward that he stretched out to accept the gift from Harry; as their fingertips brushed, George hoped beyond hope that the flush he could feel crawling up his neck wasn’t visible to Harry.

(It was)

“Thank you,” George eventually stuttered out, his eyes fluttering back down towards the cup. Despite the burning warmth seeping through the cardboard, enough to leave blisters on his hand if he wasn’t careful, George still couldn’t quite believe its existence. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Glancing back up, George noticed that Harry’s eyes were still firmly trained on him. The blond man shrugged, taking a long sip of his own drink before offering a reply. “I wanted to.” Just as he opened his mouth in reply, he noticed that Harry’s eyes seemed to flicker to look over George’s shoulder.

When Harry stepped back, it was enough for the smile to drop from George’s own face. Just as he prepared to turn around, the creaking sound of the door sounded.

“Hi you both!” A friendly – yet unfamiliar – voice called out. “I’m here to film your first session dancing together!”

George didn’t bother to turn around, instead shifting his gaze back to Harry. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to notice the slight shift in the other man; his shoulders had hunched up ever so slightly, whilst the smile that had now dawned on his face seemed almost brittle. Internally, George frowned at the sight – he’d thought Harry’s smile on the TV to be beautiful before, but now it seemed almost hollow.

Now, he found that he far preferred Harry’s real smile.

“Alright,” Harry interrupted George’s musings with a cheery and upbeat outburst. “Let’s get into this week’s rehearsals. Have you ever heard of the Quickstep before?”

He shook his head, whilst trying to ignore the mumbles of the camera crew in the background – desperately trying to pretend it was just them two, and them alone.

Such concentration meant George never questioned any further the drink he held in his hand, namely just how Harry even knew it was his favourite – given he’d never told the dancer himself – but all the little details seem to fade away in the face of such a beautiful distraction.

By the end of day one, George had remained hopeful.

By the end of day two, the hope had since perished, and left in its wake was the sensation of mild panic and desperation.

He’d not even reached the end of day three before turning his back upon the dancefloor and storming across to the side of the room. With his head held in his hands, George sagged against the wall and slid down, eventually settling in a thud upon the floor.

George couldn’t bear the prospect of looking again in the mirror – thinking he’d be bald from how often he’d tugged at his hair in vexation. “Why can’t I get it?” The question was almost ripped out his throat, so harshly it was spoken. It took all of George’s restraint to not give into the sob that threatened to arise from deep inside.

A slight clearing of the throat drew George’s eyes upwards.

There Harry stood, his arms crossed, and without even a droplet of sweat gracing his forehead; George meanwhile knew his forehead was decorated with a crown of it.

Even during this instance of (not-so) quiet desperation, George’s mind couldn’t help but wander; his eyes drank in the sight of Harry greedily, cataloguing every expression that flickered across the other man’s face.

“Why do you care this much? It’s just a competition.” Harry spoke softly, shrugging his shoulders whilst he spoke. Though his dancing partner spoke with an air of carelessness, George was not convinced - it carried an air of curation, and George was sure there was more that lay beneath the surface than it seemed.

Besides, it wasn’t a game to him.

Either of them.

George didn’t want to coast through the weeks, with only a smile and a half-arsed attempt at learning more than just the steps - he wanted to savour the experience, to know just what it felt like for his muscles to ache from dancing, and to relish the roar of the crowd after a dance well done.

To feel like he deserved it.

To feel like he deserved him.

Besides, he needed to make the most of the experience, of being by Harry’s side – for their relationship very much had an expiry date.

“It’s not just a competition though,” George finally spoke, having mulled over the words for a minute until the finishing sentence was just right. In the silence, Harry hadn’t spoken once, seemingly content to wait for his response. “It’s a special opportunity, one I’ll never get again.”

George turned his gaze up towards Harry again, and stumbled to his feet (he blamed the last few days of dancing, which already injected his muscles with the sort of ache that lingered just like a cold). “I don’t want to let you down, or me down. I came here to dance, and I’m going to fucking dance, even if it drives me insane.” He paused, before continuing in a dead-pan tone of voice. “Which it probably will.”

As George fell quiet, he resisted the urge to glance away from Harry – it felt important to keep his gaze upon the other man, to be sure of his dancing partner’s reaction.

Not for the first time in their short acquaintance, Harry smiled what seemed to be a genuine smile – and his stance seemed to relax. “Okay then,” his tone of voice was injected with an emotion George couldn’t quite pin down, just that it lay somewhere between approval and appreciation.

Harry held out his arm, with his palm facing upwards; it hovered in place without so much as a quiver, or even a sign of hesitation.

“Let’s dance,” Harry spoke with the sort of conviction that would inspire anyone to follow them to the ends of the earth – and George was more than willing.

He smiled, and took Harry’s hand without question nor hesitation.

The last time George had arrived at the filming studios, the atmosphere had been excitable, electric even – and whilst the energy this time seemed almost identical, the electricity seemed slightly more tangible this time.

A bit like the electric chair.

This sensation didn’t seem lost on his fellow contestants; each face he passed by in the dressing rooms smiled widely though, or perhaps it was merely artfully drawn on by the makeup department.

George smiled and greeted all of them warmly, but couldn’t help but silently draw a divide between himself and the rest – for they were his competition at the end of the day, and what was Strictly but a popularity contest?

Already, the media were making their speculations, placing their bets – just waiting to see which way the dice would fall. It rankled George up the wrong way, making him feel he possessed as much agency as a counter on a checkers board; the slight discomfort he felt didn’t fade, and only continued to irritate him like sand in his shoes.

Though, all his thoughts seemed to subside until his eyes settled on a familiar pair that were travelling in the corridor ahead of him. “Faith! Chris!” George called out loudly, causing the pair to turn around and flicker back to him; it filled him with satisfaction to see their eyes mutually light up, and both hurried across to greet him. “How’d practise go this week?”

The pair answered in synchrony, though with different answers.

“It went great!” Faith exclaimed, her teeth dazzling through her open smile.

“It went…alright,” Chris teased, with a sharp grin that quickly betrayed his humour.

In a flash of light, Faith turned to her side and levelled Chris with such a deadly glare that even Lucifer would look sheepish – though Chris cowered only mildly. “Not funny,” she spoke menacingly, before turning back to face George with a rather more cheerful look. “What about you, how’s it been for you?”

Just as George opened his mouth to speak, all the words seemed to dry up on his tongue.

How could be put the past week into words?

Rehearsals with Harry the past week had both been more and less intense than he’s expected. Whilst Harry could be a taskmaster at times, it was not motivated by malice or a trip for power – but instead by George’s confession to truly be the best he could be in that competition.

It was hard to grow resentful of Harry, for he was overly generous with his praise – he heaped it upon George with spades, leaving him beet-red almost every single time.

“It was alright,” George eventually shrugged.

Before Faith could reply, a voice called out. “Over here! We’re ready for you!” The call came from nearby, though given how steadily busier the corridor had become – it seemed to be one of the major veins within the circulation system that was the Strictly studio – it was difficult at first to detect who had spoken.

A quirk turn of the heads, causing the trio to resemble meerkats, meant the group eventually spied a particular hair and makeup artist currently waving her hand in a frenzy. “Must be them then,” Chris responded dryly.

“It’s far too early for me,” George remarked dryly, sliding up to stand alongside Chris. “Last time, she called me pretty much half an hour beforehand, and I was out in five minutes.”

Both men turned simultaneously towards Faith, mutual shit-eating grins on their face; with her infinite patience, Faith only rolled her eyes at them in response. “Very funny. Play nicely boys,” she spoke in a dead-pan tone of voice over her shoulder, already walking towards the attendant artist.

The pair stood in the corridors until the door shut, though its click was barely audible over the clock beat thrum of the creature that was Strictly Come Dancing. It left George stranded with Chris in the corridor, and still with too much free time before the show.

George didn’t have to think long before turning to face the dancer. “When will you get called?” he asked Chris, out of mild curiosity as well as a desire to not let their conversation grow stagnant.

“We do our own makeup,” Chris explained, mimicking the action with his hands. “Fancy chatting with me while I get mine done?”

The invitation tempted George. He nodded in acceptance, to which Chris’ smile seemed to grow inches wider in response.

Neither man attempted conversation as they travelled through the corridors, until George found himself inside Chris’ dressing room; it was almost identical to his dressing room, except its neighbours seemed far more boisterous.

“This place has got the energy of a high school,” George’s eyes rolled hard enough that they could have unscrewed themselves from his eye sockets. “Or, the ones you see on the TV anyway. God knows if any of it’s true.”

It caused Chris to laugh - the sound ringing out nicely, cutting through the noise.

Whilst Chris settled into the central chair, George sidled up to the side table and rested his weight against it. Even though his back was to George, Chris’ expression was still crystal clear in the mirror – and George was all-too aware of the way in which Chris’ eyes flickered back up to look at him.

If Harry hadn’t been on his radar to swallow his attention so wholeheartedly, then perhaps George’s heart might have spared some room for the blond dancer sat in the room – but the only musters he could feel in that moment for Chris were solely of the friendly variety.

It wasn’t love he direly needed, it was friends.

“So come on then, how are you feeling?” Chris asked, whilst he busied himself with the various jars and brushes lined up neatly against his mirror. His tone of voice seemed almost distracted, but his frequent glances using the mirror to look at George affirmed his attention.

The brunet sighed heavily. There was something indescribable in Chris’ almost-practised slouch and causal tone of voice which rallied against George’s sensibilities – encouraging him to lay down his guard, to trust Chris. He didn’t so much speak as he did allow the words to escape his throat, which had sat there for quite some time.

“I’m terrified,” George confessed, dropping the smile from his face.

It was not surprise that flickered across Chris’ face, but instead a look of sympathy. “It’s normal, I swear.” He reassured, reaching for a comb and dragging it through his hair. “It’s something we’re used to with this job, supporting our partners. You’re not the only one, I promise.”

Often when deep in the well of despair, any rope of reason that might be flung down is ignored at first; George’s mouth parted as if to offer a response, but he simply could not utter a word. He didn’t just lack the words, it was as if the entire world had run dry of them.

“But you don’t want Harry to know, do you?” Chris continued, turning around on his chair to face George directly.

George nodded mutely. He couldn’t quite articulate the sheer desperation he felt to do Harry proud, to conceal the nerves he felt, to be better than anyone Harry had ever danced with before. He didn't just want to be better than the rest, he wanted to ruin Harry utterly - so when he next deigned to dance with someone that wasn’t George, all Harry would think of was George’s rough callouses against his skin.

To his surprise, Chris didn’t laugh, or joke. Instead, his expression melted into something softer, almost intimate. “I won’t tell, I promise.”

“Thank you,” George whispered softly, a grimace of a smile appearing on his lips. In turn, the dancer offered a similar look, before turning back around to his desk and continuing with his makeup.

It wasn’t a tense silence that now echoed through the dressing room, far from it. The air seemed to crackle with warmth and safety, just like a gentle fire. Whilst Chris busied himself with his makeup, George retreated into his thoughts. It was a comfortable companionship, just the two of them.

It therefore took George by surprise upon noticing just who was stood in the now-open doorway, without uttering a single world.

He flinched. “Harry?”

The man in question was leant against the doorframe - suggesting his appearance was not sudden, and he’d been observing for at least several seconds - and his lips were tugged downwards, not quite a grimace but neither was it a neutral expression either.

“Didn’t expect to see you here George,” Harry eventually spoke, clearing his throat as he did so. It wasn’t voiced as an accusation, instead muddled confusion - as if his brain was still catching up to what his eyes laid witness to.

Chris’ chuckle interrupted the pair, though he didn’t turn around from his chair. From where George was stood, he noticed Chris’ smile in the reflection of the mirror, and how it shared more than a few similarities with that of a shark. “It’s my fault Haz, he was chatting with Faith and I when she got called away. We figured we’d bring things back here while I got ready. You don’t mind, do you?”

Harry remained silent.

George gulped. The air wasn’t filled with tension per se, but it was uncomfortably lukewarm.

“Harry,” the brunet spoke up quickly, immediately relaxing upon noticing how Harry’s eyes flickered back to look at him. “When’s our turn to practise?”

Harry’s eyes flickered downwards, as if lost in thought. “Oh yeah, the practise, I forgot. It’s in twenty minutes. Come on then.” Before George could even blink, his dancing partner fled from his spot and down the corridor.

It didn’t leave him much time to say goodbye to Chris – and as George left, he never spotted how Chris’ eyes widened in understanding at just what he’d witnessed.

George’s feet trembled as they trod upon the dancefloor. It felt unnatural, the complete lack of noise whilst he and Harry travelled to the centre of the room under the cover of artificial darkness.

Somewhere in the background, Stephen Lawson’s distinct tone could be heard making his introduction – not that George needed to listen along. He knew exactly who was on that dancefloor, and for a single second, he wished it would swallow him whole.

He didn’t just feel out of his comfort zone, George felt out of his entire safe solar system – this was a new world unlike any he’d ever experienced, whilst Harry seemed to glide through it all with ease.

Glancing out the corner of his eye, George noticed Harry’s seemingly calm façade. Even if the other man was able to conceal his nerves under a dazzling smile, it was still a world that Harry seemed to fit right in with his looks; after all, Harry was not just handsome in the modern sense – his was a timeless beauty, just like the bright glow of the moon or the endless horizon of the sea.

Though, George would later wonder just which parts of himself Harry had cut off to be the jigsaw piece that fit in.

“And now, dancing the Quickstep,” Stephen’s voice was louder this time, and the audience’s applause already seemed to filter through the studio – even though Harry and George had only just made it to their starting positions.

He swallowed the bile that climbed upon his throat, but did not say a word. His mind was already racing in overtime, repeating each step over and over.

Wait, what step is first? Oh fuck I can’t do this-

A squeeze of the hand took George by surprise. His eyes glanced to the left, where he met coolly calm ice blue eyes. “It’ll be okay,” Harry mouthed silently, his lips barely moving.

George didn’t need to wonder why Harry was silent in his comfort; he was all too aware of the microphone pinned to his lower back. Indeed, his mind had taunted him with the myriad of ways his performance could falter and fail, and the microphone pack seemed a suitable candidate.

All George could do was nod in reply before the familiar music started up.

It was a song he’d become quickly attuned to, though the live orchestra offered a slightly different take on it. George had no time to question the slightly different tempo, nor the crooning notes already being launched out of its singer Arthur Hill’s throat.

George’s eyes met Harry’s.

Four. Three. Two. One.

“And move,” Harry spoke loudly enough to be heard over the music.

And so they did.

It was with the constant narration of Harry’s voice that the couple danced across the room. “Slow, slow, quick quick slow,” was the firm instruction he repeated aloud, whilst mouthing his praises as the pair travelled across the room in a flurry of movements.

Halfway through, George no longer fought the smile that broke across his face, as his body seemed to move almost of its own accord; the routine wasn’t exactly muscle memory, but he remembered enough, and Harry’s firm push and pull was enough to keep him on the right tracks.

By the time the music drew to a close, George realised he was panting – though it couldn’t be heard over the roar of the crowd’s applause. Allowing his shoulders to sag, weary from the stiff frame he’d suspended his silhouette in, he similarly noticed how the balls of his feet ached from how quickly they’d moved. George’s entire body ached – and yet, he’d never been happier.

His ears winced with how loudly the crowd cheered – but despite its ear-shattering volume, and the presence of his friends in the audience, the only face George cared to seek out was Harry’s.

Harry wore a blindingly bright smile, and gave George no notice before launching himself at the other man – and wrapping George firmly in the tightest of hugs; the pressure was enough for George to forcibly exhale, and it meant he could offer no reply when Harry mumbled into his chest. “Well done! I knew you could do it.”

Where he stood, on the centre of the dancefloor, tucked tight within Harry’s arms, George realised he would stand there forever if he could.

The realisation was like a punch to the stomach.

Fuck.