The Breaking Point
The house was quiet.
George climbed up to the attic, his body aching, his skin burning, his patience worn to a thread so thin it was ready to snap. Every inch of him hurt—his sunburnt skin felt stretched too tight over his bones, the grime clung to him like a second, filthier skin, and the air was thick, suffocating, stifling. Phil's ailment certainly didn't help. It reeked. It was a nightmare to have stuck on his skin.
He sat down on the stiff, creaky bed, dug his fingers into his hair—
And shattered.
Tears welled up hot and fast, slipping down his sun-scorched cheeks before he could stop them. A choked, pathetic noise escaped him as his chest heaved, and suddenly, it was all too much. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hands trembled, and his entire body curled inward like a dying flower.
The heat. The never-ending heat. The sunburn that stung with every tiny movement. The dirt, the fields, the stench of animals, the infernal flies buzzing in his ears, landing on his skin—
The outdoor toilet. The lack of plumbing. The humiliation of it all.
The absence of everything that made life bearable.
No internet. No electricity. No order. No sense. No escape.
And no one who understood.
No one in London had ever truly cared. He had acquaintances, social obligations, people who spoke to him because they had to, because of his name, because of his money. But no one who looked at him like he mattered. No one who truly saw him. His father sent him away without a second thought. The city went on without him, as indifferent to his absence as it had been to his presence.
And here? Here, he was just as alone. Even more so. He was a stranger in a world that had no place for him, surrounded by people who didn’t understand him, who couldn’t understand him. He might as well be speaking another language. He might as well not exist at all.
He wanted to go home. Back to London. Back to civilization, where people weren’t covered in dust and sweat, where his bed was soft, where his bath was warm, where he could disappear into his books and let the world carry on without him.
Instead, he was here. A prisoner of the past. A ghost haunting a world that didn’t make sense.
A quiet knock at the door made him freeze.
“…George?”
Phil.
George, horrified, tried to smother his sobs, wiping at his face frantically, but it was no use. His eyes were already swollen, his breath still uneven, his shame thick in his throat.
The trapdoor creaked open, and Phil stepped inside, pausing when he took one look at George.
And sighed—but not out of frustration. Not out of annoyance. It was soft, almost aching, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of understanding. The kind that came from someone who had seen this before, from someone who knew pain when he saw it.
Without a word, he walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough to be there but not close enough to smother. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and for a long, terrible moment, they just sat there.
George wanted to speak, to say something cutting or scathing or dismissive—but nothing came. His throat was too tight, his exhaustion too heavy. He felt wrung out, drained, utterly defeated.
Then, finally, Phil spoke, voice quiet, gentle. “Rough day?”
George let out a shaky, broken laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
Phil nodded, his expression warm, understanding. His shoulders eased, his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he was preparing to pull George into a hug but stopped himself just short. Instead, he simply leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, exuding an open, quiet patience—an unspoken invitation for George to crumble if he needed to.
George inhaled sharply. “I—I hate it here.”
Phil didn’t argue.
He just nodded again, calm, patient. Like he understood, in a way no one else had.
“…It’s different,” Phil admitted, like that was an understatement. “And I know it’s not what you’re used to.”
George squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching as a fresh wave of tears threatened to spill over. His chest ached with the effort of holding it all in, but it was useless. A strangled sob escaped before he could stop it, and his fingers curled into the rough fabric of his sleeves. "It’s awful," he choked out, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with exhaustion and something dangerously close to despair.
Phil didn’t try to convince him otherwise. Instead, he sighed softly, his expression filled with quiet empathy. He reached out, hesitated for only a moment, then gently placed a hand on George’s shoulder, his grip warm and steady. "I won’t tell you it’s easy. And I won’t tell you you’ll love it here. But I will tell you that you’re not alone in this, George. And I’ll be here, as long as you need me to be."
George let out a bitter breath. “Good. Because I won’t.”
Phil chuckled, then reached out with a gentle, calloused hand and wiped George’s damp cheek with his thumb. The touch was soft—too soft. A kindness so unfamiliar, so foreign, that it sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing through George’s chest. He flinched, not out of rejection, but because it hurt. His skin was raw, sunburnt, aching, and yet—
Yet the worst part wasn’t the sting. It was the way Phil did it without hesitation, without cruelty, without expectation. Just warmth. Just care. Just something George had never known from a father’s hand.
The lump in his throat grew unbearable. His breath hitched violently, and before he could stop himself, another sob broke free, more desperate than before. He curled further in on himself, trembling.
Phil didn’t shush him. Didn’t scold him. He just kept his hand on George’s shoulder, steady, present, unfaltering. “It’s alright,” he murmured, voice thick with quiet understanding. “You don’t have to hold it in.”
With that kind invitation, George practically jumped at him, clutching onto Phil’s shirt as if letting go would mean losing his last tether to reality. A fresh, shuddering sob ripped through him, raw and desperate, and he buried his face into Phil’s shoulder, shaking, gasping, clinging. His breath hitched violently, his entire body trembling with the force of his emotions.
Phil didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around George, steady and strong, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. “I’ve got you,” he murmured softly, holding him close. “You’re alright, son. I’ve got you.”
And that—
That only made George cry harder.