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.