Note: this chapter contains some strong language.

———

The majority of the rest of the day is silent. George and Michael spend hours apart, not having much to say to one another. Both are overthinking about the idea of either leaving, or being dead in twenty-four hours. Neither of them have any hard feelings for one another — they know they've both done what they can in order to survive up to this point. In fact, they both feel closer than ever; having come so far.

It reaches 7PM at long last; the day has been a very long one. George finally gives in, standing up from his curled-up position on the floor in the main function room; heading to Michael, who is sat in the same position on the other side of the room. He takes a seat by his side, acknowledging that Michael doesn't appear to want to talk much. Although, George feels just as numb himself.

"What the fuck is this? ... " Michael murmurs rhetorically. "How did we get here, George? ... " His trance is interrupted by these thoughts, as he looks at the Greek-English man by his side.

"Through the want of a better life." George's lip begins to tremble as he recalls everything he's seen in the last six days. "Through the desire for stability."

"Do you ever wish ... that you could make the choice to still be broke?" Michael asks him.

"If it meant having Andrew and Elton back ... I'd give away everything." His eyes fall to his legs; held up to his chest with his arms. "I guess we all learned that lesson too late."

"We weren't to know what this party would be about." Michael tosses his head back, blinking away the tears that have formed in his eyes in the last few seconds. "Because if we had, none of us would have taken part. Let's face it."

"The only blessing to come from this was meeting the others in the group," George points out softly. "I mean, wow. You guys really made it better than I could have hoped a series of death games would be."

Michael finds light humour in George's comment. "Well, we certainly made the most of our time together, didn't we?"

A single tear falls freely from George's eye. "I just wish it didn't end like this."

Michael looks to his friend, placing an arm around him. "Me too, buddy. But I'm glad you and I stuck together too, even with everyone else losing the game."

George makes eye contact with Michael, his irises shiny from how welled-up they've become. "Yeah," he sniffles. "So am I."

"And no matter who wins or loses tomorrow," Michael explains, "We both did the best we could, and we both did amazing. And whoever makes it out of here ... has to keep the other's memory alive."

"How do we do that?" George furrows his brows in confusion.

"If I don't make it ... go find Harper, and be an uncle to my daughter," Michael pleads. "Tell her I sent you; and tell her I'll always love her; and that I'm sorry. Tell her to find love again in someone who can raise my baby girl and make her happier than I could. Don't let her hurt over me for too long."

George nods, understanding the assignment. "And if I don't make it ... please find my parents, and tell them how much I sacrificed to try and give myself a better life. Tell them I sent you; and tell them Yog and Andy say hello. And that I found love; and that I've gone to be with my two favourite people forever."

"I'll try to remember all that," Michael chuckles softly. "Where's the nickname Yog from?"

"Andrew used to call me it. It's kind of meant to sound like the way you pronounce the first syllable of my real name." He sighs; the name has a strong sentimental value to him now. "Andrew used to struggle to pronounce Georgios when we first met, so it made it easier for him. It's also short for 'Yours Only, George'. We used to say we were the only friends each other had. I would have given Andrew the nickname too, but Yog sounds a little nicer than Yoa."

"I guess that's true. I'll remember specifically to use that name," Michael reassured him. "As long as you remember what I asked you."

"Of course." He extends his arm out for Michael to take. "Deal?"

Michael takes George's hand, shaking it in agreement. "Deal."

*

"Players, please be prepared for lights out!"

"I guess this is the last night together," Michael states matter-of-factly, as the visibility of the room gradually decreases. "For one of us, the very last night."

George would rather not think about this. "I know." The pair are still sitting in the same spot as before; they've been too emotionally and physically exhausted to dare move. And besides, it's not as if there's anybody else to go and mingle with. George looks to his friend, "You haven't said much about Whitney since the game."

Michael remains silent for a few moments; the flashbacks to earlier on in the day flooding back, like a raw, open wound being struck before it's had chance to heal. "It hurts."

"I hope you don't hate me — for hiding away until the end of the game after I tagged you," George states remorsefully. "I-I just did what I had to, to survive the game."

"I know. All three of us were in the same situation." Michael's voice is barely above a whisper now. "If you'd heard what she said before she died ... "

A brief pause. "What did she say?"

"She said I should go and be with my wife; and that there were no hard feelings. Then she said ... " Michael holds his hand over his chest, "She took my hand, and she kissed me. And then she forced my hand to her chest — right where her heart was — and she tagged herself with my glove and said I had touched her heart. From beginning ... to end."

"Oh my god ... " George gasps, the irony of Whitney's final words leaving an impression on him. "So she ... she purposely tagged herself so that she'd lose and you'd get to stay alive?"

"Yeah ... and she knew I'd always remember that if I lived. She knew what she was doing. She wanted to leave her mark to show what she did." He closes his eyes, in shame. "And man, it worked. The survivor's guilt is real."

"I feel the same ... " George admits. "I just can't believe Elton and Andrew came to see me last night, and didn't stay like they promised."

Michael looks to George; though the lights are out now, he can still just about see him due to the fire escape lights being switched on. He doesn't answer at first, because he doesn't want to upset George by being blunt in what he says. He opens his mouth once; but closes it again in contemplation. "I—Well, maybe they'll come back tonight."

"I hope so," George sighs. "I don't want you to think it was my imagination. I saw them."

Michael chooses not to respond to this, because he knows that it is only his imagination. Judging from the last three days — and everything that's happened to poor George — it appears he's experiencing some form of mental disorder as a result of Andrew and Elton's deaths. It must be traumatic, to be best friends with somebody essentially your whole life — only to watch them be murdered right in front of your face. It makes sense to Michael, though tragic, for George to be so mentally unstable. To hear voices and see people who are not there; to have harmed himself and not remembered later on; to be acting possessed in the night — it's almost reminiscent of schizophrenia. It's an extremely unfortunate circumstance, but Michael still adores George just the same as when they first met.

"It's getting late," Michael says, in an attempt to change the subject. "Maybe we should be going to bed now. Tomorrow is a big day."

"I ... I don't want to sleep." George bows his head, leaning his face against his knees; and using his arms to shield the ball he's formed himself into. "I can't. I might have the nightmares again. I can't do it."

"You had nightmares, George?" Michael frowns, having not known about this before. "You never mentioned that."

"I thought I did," he replies. "It tends to just be flashbacks from when Andrew and Elton died. And I see it all over again ... in slow motion. The way the bullet went into Andrew's head ... and the blood ... the emotional goodbyes ... the smile that Andrew gave me, and he looked me in the eyes, and ... the way Elton died in my arms ... all of it ... "

"It must have been horrible to watch," Michael mutters sympathetically. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that ... twice."

"Andrew's death was so drawn-out because of everything we said to each other before it ... Elton's was too sudden, because I didn't even see him get eliminated. It just happened."

Michael nods in understanding, even if it's not so visible in the dark. "I know. I couldn't even imagine what it's like to lose a best friend after knowing them for a lifetime."

"We met when I started at school in England," George recalls. "I was new in the class, and my teacher asked who was going to look after me. Andrew raised his hand instantly. We've been inseparable since ... well, until three days ago."

"How come you came to America?"

"We thought if we came to America, we'd make it big," he explains, huffing in defeat. "My parents moved here spontaneously. They didn't believe I was actually going to move to America with Andrew — but when I did, they realised they'd miss me too much. So they asked us to live with them and be like a family unit ... with Andrew."

"Did Andrew get along with your parents?"

"Not at first. My parents said he was a bad influence. But eventually he grew on them." He smiles as he remembers Andrew getting into all kinds of trouble back in their teen years. "He was the only friend I ever really had — and I never brought any of the girls home that I used to date, so they welcomed the company I chose as long as I went to church with them."

"And that's why you hid your sexuality? ... Because your parents wouldn't have liked it?"

"That's it. Shit, isn't it? I spent my whole life on the outside world scared to show who I am. I come into this place and feel freer than I ever did out there." He shakes his head, at the injustice. "And people wonder why I'm so fucked up."

"You're ... not fucked up," Michael assures him, "You've been through a lot. It's amazing that you're still fighting on."

"I made a promise to try," George reminds him. "And tomorrow I get to have one more try."

"Both of us have one more day to try." Michael blows air from his nose, unsure whether to laugh or cry. "But hey ... promise me, if you're the one to make it out — you'll be yourself, no matter what others say. If people don't support who you are, that's on them."

"I'll do my best," George responds. "But if you're the one to make it out, you have to promise you'll keep your marriage strong. Even if it means telling your wife about Whitney."

"I promise." Michael looks up, at the pitch-black haze covering the walls and ceiling surrounding him. "If you wanted, we could just sleep in here tonight. If you have the nightmares, I'll make sure I'm here to help you."

With some contemplation, George nods — although Michael can't really see this. "That would be helpful."

Michael stands himself up, and uses the light from the fire escape sign to guide him towards his room — so he can grab some blankets and pillows for the main function room. Upon returning, he spreads everything out on the floor to create a cosy resting space.

"Here. Lay on this." He takes George's hand, for the purpose of guiding his friend to the bedding. "Should help us to sleep at least a little, tonight."

"Thank you," George speaks graciously. "Thank you for everything."

"Hey, it's no problem." Michael settles himself within the blankets alongside George. "I love you, man. But no homo, right?"

George chuckles at this — the first sign of amusement he's expressed since his world got turned upside down. "It could be a little bit homo. But I won't push it any further." He closes his eyes, in an attempt to get a better night of sleep tonight. "Night, Michael."

"Goodnight George. Wake me up if you start having those nightmares, okay?"

"I will."

Despite the fear of what's soon to come, the pair eventually drift off into a deep sleep — with the mystery of the unknown looming in their dreams.

~~

Chapter twenty! Who's going to win this?