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“Wait, back up,” Lando says, “so you think he’s breaking up with you because… he didn’t invite you to the wedding of some cousin who lives in…”
“Koh Samui,” Georg e supplies, aware he sounds just a little bit deranged, jumping to conclusions.
“Right, that,” Lando says. “And the only reason you know that Alex got an invite is because you saw the email come in while his phone was unlocked and face-up on the counter while he was in the bathroom.”
“I was making dinner,” George adds.
“And it’s been two days since and he hasn’t talked to you about it,” Lando says. “And you couldn’t bring it up to him because it meant you would expose yourself for being a nosy little bastard snooping on his phone.”
“I wasn’t snooping,” he protests weakly. It’s technically true; it isn’t George’s fault that he happened to be at the right place at the right time, Alex’s phone lighting up with a curious Gmail notification on a random Saturday. It feeds into his two-months long anxiety anyway, the nagging voice at the back of his head that keeps asking, it’s been two years, why hasn’t he introduced you to his family? Then, the realization: he doesn’t know anything about Alex’s family. He’s only ever mentioned them in passing and never given a straight answer every time George thinks to ask. Deflect, change the subject, distract him with kisses that turn more heated – that’s always been Alex’s modus operandi, and George feels stupid that he’s only noticed the pattern now, when he’s fallen too stupid in love, too afraid to ask.
Alex has a late shift at the clinic tonight, and that gives George the chance to drag Lando for what he says to Alex is a night out but is really an excuse for him to safely freak out. They’ve just celebrated their second year anniversary a month ago, and George has every intention to make it one of many, hopefully until they’re both old and wrinkly and smelling the weird way that old people do, but he’s beginning to worry that he’s getting ahead of himself. He’s scrutinizing every day of the last two years, hoping he doesn’t make a fool out of himself, hoping he doesn’t find it – the evidence, that all along, George feels more than Alex does, and all along, it’s never meant to be serious.
“Really,” Lando raises an eyebrow, skeptical, “You really think he’s not serious? Just a two year casual cohabitation?”
“I could be reading this all wrong,” George says.
Lando rolls his eyes, not unkindly. Probably George will benefit more from asking someone who’s idea of a relationship is flirting over three time zones through blurry pictures of an ear, but Pierre and Yuki are way too honest, and he’s hiding from the possibility of being hit with the truth.
“I can’t believe that between the two of us I’m the one who has to say this but like, are you even sure he’s coming to the wedding? It’s a cousin, right? How many of us are even that close with our cousins?” Lando says. “Like, I like my cousin Barry, but if he invites me to a wedding that’s happening all the way in, like, Koh Samuel or whatever I will just send him my well wishes.”
George resists the urge to correct him. Koh Samui. He’s seen the pictures on the internet, the beautiful island just off the Gulf of Thailand with its famous rock formation, as big as a house, coming together to form an even smaller collection of islands, a heaven for diving and snorkeling. He’s seen the venue, a stunning beachfront resort, booked off for the entire family for the whole weekend. It’s the kind of wedding that George can only really dream of, a tropical fantasy that would put him in decades of debt if he ever attempts to make it real.
George spends the remainder of the night getting intimately acquainted with the bottom of his beer bottle, frustrated that Lando doesn’t seem to be getting the magnitude of the issue. He walks home a bit tipsy, annoyed and still filled with pent-up energy, half-sure that he’ll end up running his mouth once he comes home.
Except when he opens the door, he finds Alex asleep on the sofa, still in the clothes he wore to work this morning, half-eaten Indian take out on the coffee table, snoring with Moo Deng on his chest, smothering him with her fluffy orange fur. All the fight in George just evaporates, replaced with nothing but mush.
There’s barely room on the sofa, and George knows trying to slip in will make it worse, but – there’s no other logical response for this, he thinks. It should be a crime to let Alex sleep alone. Someone needs to cuddle him at all times, show him the love he deserves.
He climbs on the sofa, doesn’t have room to sleep on his back, but just enough space to slot his side into Alex’s back, spooning him from behind. Moo Deng stirs in her sleep but doesn’t wake. She’ll sleep through an Earthquake, unless someone shakes a bag of treats two rooms away.
He inhales the familiar scent of Alex and dreams of happy things – Alex, his laughter hidden in his chest, his hair in his hands, a feeling that feels like permanence or acceptance, like a light left on.
*
Moo Deng wakes up first, six o’clock on the dot, yowling at them like she hasn’t been fed in two days. George has a crick in his neck and his back hurts from curling in like a shrimp all night, but Alex mumbles something ineligible and buries his nose into George’s armpit and now George is faced with man’s worst dilemma: feed cat, at the risk of waking God’s perfect angel in his arms, or let cat starve, to keep God’s perfect angel content forever and ever?
Moo Deng graduates to screaming.
“Fine, fine, ” George says, and tries his best not to shake Alex in his sleep as he side-steps him into the closet where they keep Moo Deng’s food and other miscellaneous trinkets collected over the last two years hidden. Her screams turn into the sweetest little chirps as she runs over to follow George, so excited that she skids over the carpet and hits her head into one leg of the table with a loud thud. George looks over, alarmed, but Moo Deng is already up and zooming into the gap George leaves open and dives nose-first into the bag of dry food, completely unharmed.
Jesus. It’s six in the morning.
He supposes it’s true what people say about orange cats.
He fishes Moo Deng out by the scruff of her neck, which isn’t easy considering she weighs almost four kilograms, and as she hisses in protest with kibbles stuck to her fur, George attempts to scoop a healthy portion into the cat bowl. Moo Deng gets too excited and pounces on the scoop before it even touches the bowl, and the kibbles spill over with a clattering of sounds. “Moo Deng,” George chastises, but it’s too late; Moo Deng crunches on the kibbles on the floor happily, and George wonders exactly who she takes after to be such a deviant rascal. He certainly did not raise her to be this way.
The ruckus of the morning finally wakes Alex up, and when George wanders back into the living room he’s sitting up on the sofa, hair sticking up.
“Morning drama?” he asks, playful, but his voice is still rough from sleep so obviously it just sounds endearingly hot.
George shakes his head. “She dove head first into the bag.”
“God, that little gremlin,” Alex laughs.
It’s funny how George has become such a cat person, since meeting Moo Deng. He grew up with the family dog, an overgrown golden retriever who’d seen its better years long before George was old enough to understand the concept of loving a pet. The cat distribution system matched him with Moo Deng on a rainy day; he found Moo Deng sheltering for warmth inside his car, had almost started the car when he heard a very loud meow and searched for the source for twenty minutes until he decided to pop open the hood of his car and came face to face with Moo Deng’s dirty scabies-ridden face, and just had to take him to the vet.
Alex was the vet in charge at the time and two years later, Moo Deng is a fat, healthy cat who acts as all orange cats are advertised – batshit insane crazy – and he no longer lives in the apartment he used to nurse Moo Deng back to health in.
It’s a slow Sunday; Alex has no shift at the clinic and George’s taking a rest day from his usual run club after last week’s half marathon. They’ve built a routine to make the most of the day before the Sunday scaries hit for George: complete as many chores as possible before eleven, cook a simple brunch, eat in front of the TV, and finish the dishes before twelve. And now they still have a whole day to just exist in the space that has become more theirs than Alex’s in the span of three months. They move almost on autopilot, piling up the pillows on the pull-out sofa so they can watch How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies – an ongoing quest to find a movie that can make Alex cry.
Halfway through, Alex interrupts the movie to say, “I’m going back to Thailand, next week.” He’s coming off as too casual which means – there isn’t anything casual about it at all. “It’s for a cousin’s wedding.”
George does his best impression of someone who’s only known about this just now. “Oh, my. What happy news. Is it going to be in Bangkok?”
“No, it’s in Koh Samui? Not sure if you’ve heard of it. It’s like, a more lowkey version of Phuket,” Alex says. “No less beautiful though.”
“You’ve been?”
“When I was super little,” Alex says. “Hasn’t been there in years though, obviously.”
“I’ve never been,” George keeps his eyes on the TV, neutral. “Never been to Asia at all, really.”
There, an open invite. If Alex doesn’t get on it, George isn’t sure he knows how to deal with it. He doesn’t push, though, letting Alex fiddle with the popcorn bag, eyebrows knitted in the way it usually does when he has something that he just can’t seem to find the words for.
“We should make a trip out of it next time,” Alex says, shutting the door closed. “It’s a bit sudden, I know it must be hard to take time off at such a short notice.”
“I can try,” George says, too fast. The look on Alex’s face is – well, it’s not good.
“It will be even prettier in August,” Alex says. “We’ll go in August, I promise.”
Alex must know, surely; he hates being serious, always so good at finding the excuse to goof off, diffuse the tension with an easy smile and a joke or derail the conversation completely. George knows what he’s doing. He’s so mad at Alex, at himself, for having expectations, for thinking that after all this playing house, he'll finally get a glimpse into that part of Alex’s life.
“No, Alex, I don’t want to go in August,” George snaps, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice. He regrets it immediately. He can hear it, Alex’s mouth curling in distaste, the same words all his exes used to describe him: too needy, too clingy. Too much.
“George,” Alex says, but there’s no heat in it.
“Sorry, I just. You don’t have to invite me, just because I’m,” your boyfriend, George wants to say, but it sounds so silly , so juvenile. “Just. Let me know if any of this is too much, okay? I’ll back off.”
“No, Jesus,” Alex says. “Do you think I’m – George . We’ve been dating for two years. Do you really think that I’m not – “
“I don’t know anything about your family,” George says. “I’ve brought you to meet Cara, Benjy. You spent last Christmas with us at King’s Lynn and I – don’t even know your mother’s name. Or any of your siblings.” He searches for Alex’s eyes, hoping what he’s feeling is reflected back. “I understand that families can be difficult. I know. But you need to tell me if this is something that you’ll never – if we’re not like that. Yet. Because the more you keep it to yourself the more I’m – “ he stops, helpless. The more I’m gonna think you don’t want me in your life like that, but it sounds meek, desperate.
It’s hard for Alex to be earnest, George knows. He’s an action guy, apologizes by making him breakfast in bed instead of saying sorry, writes heartfelt notes and buys you big buckets of flowers instead of wishing you happy birthday. It surprises him when Alex reaches over and squeezes his hand. “I should’ve said,” Alex says. “I never wanted you to feel like you couldn’t know me, or like I was keeping things from you.”
Vulnerability from Alex comes in little doses, so George waits, letting him stew in his thoughts before sighing, something deep-settled in his chest. “My family’s – not the easiest bunch to be around,” he offers at the end. “Sometimes it’s more trouble than it’s worth to bring anyone to meet them.” He smiles, rueful, and George squashes down on the thought that maybe Alex had brought someone before and it hadn’t gone well, scaring him off. It’s ridiculous to feel jealousy over someone who may or may not have existed.
Alex brings George’s palm to his mouth, not kissing it, just keeping it there like he needs to be holding it just because. “Let’s make a trip out of it,” he says, bright suddenly. “Come with me.” He turns to face George, and George can’t help it, his own smile mirroring Alex. “Come with me to Thailand.”
“We should take a week days before the wedding, explore the country a bit more,” Alex says. “We can land in Chiang Mai first, rest in the mountains. Then head down to Bangkok, try all the Michelin guide restaurants so I can show you how much they suck compared to all the local favorites, then make a pit stop at Pattaya before heading to Koh Samui.”
This is how Alex’s like when he’s excited, George realizes. It’s like a dam’s been opened, and now Alex can’t stop making plans, recalling everything he loves about the country, how he wants to show George all of it. It’s a beautiful look on Alex; he’s never seen Alex looking forward to something this much.
“Alex, slow down, I’ve only got like, five days of PTO approved,” George chuckles. He has his laptop in front of him, several tabs open as he compares prices between hotels and airlines on different websites. “Can we talk about the budget first, please? To save time I think we should take direct flights, but it’s almost twice the price, so I think we can save up on the accommodation and stay in capsule hotels for a couple of days. There’s no other charter to the island so that price is fixed – why are you looking at me like that?”
Alex’s head is tilted, his eyes incredibly fond, just watching George. “Is this what you’re like when you’re at work? All – taking charge, planning, that’s so hot , Georgie.”
George blinks at him. Here’s the thing: they both get turned on by competency. George is highly efficient and methodical, wishes he could be more like Alex’s easy adaptability, a little less structured, but gets the job done anyway. It’s their line of work too, probably, with George’s success hanging solely on whether the planning is executed perfectly, and Alex not being even the same species as his clients. Except for the rare occasions where George brings lunch to Alex’s clinic, they never see each other in a – formal setting.
“No, talk to me more, Georgie,” Alex says, and it’s the voice he uses when he wants to get something out of George; when he wants George.
“Well,” George licks his lips, “I’ve got it down in a spreadsheet.”
Alex moans.
So, no, not much planning gets done that day.
*
Or any of the days after, really.
*
He’s secured a pitch with his first Fortune 500 company to organize a three-day launch event and it’s all hands on deck for the rest of the week, working on the presentation. He comes home when Alex is already asleep and by then doing any more planning is the last thing he wants. It gets pushed to the back of his mind until he gets an ad from the Thai tourism board while scrolling on YouTube shorts and then he realizes, it’s less than two weeks to the wedding.
“Shit, Alex,” he half-yells; Alex is in the kitchen, making them both coffee, “We have to book the tickets, like, now.” He’s already scrambling for his laptop, reopening the closed travel tabs, cursing himself for getting so side-tracked.
Alex emerges with two mugs of coffee, sits down next to George. Moo Deng hops on his lap. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.
George stares at him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, like he just made plans for a regular stroll in Hyde park. “I got it,” he says.
“You mean, you booked the tickets and hotels already?”
Alex nods. “Something like that, yeah.”
George squints at him. He’s acting very – casual, like planning for an overseas vacation is something that he does everyday. They’ve gone on trips before, and George is always the one who organizes everything. Alex shows up and pays, even though George always insists they split; Alex always forgets to document the bills, distracts George when he tries to audit their finances at the end of the month. He almost doesn’t believe Alex.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it, okay?” Alex grins, clearly seeing his skepticism. “You’re always complaining about how I make you plan everything every time we go somewhere, so why don’t you relax and be a good little travel princess for once?”
George can’t hide how much he’s charmed by this. He’s such a – control guy, infuriating type A who needs to be reminded to trust his team, sometimes. Alex is always happy to let him lead; pick the restaurants, the movies, the vacations. He can’t lie that it feels good to not make the effort for once, let Alex lead him into his world, the part of Alex he’s so excited to learn more.
So he closes his laptop, lets himself sink into the sofa as Alex presses him down, barely avoiding crushing Moo Deng underneath him, who yelps and scurries away, and swallows his questions in Alex’s kisses.
In retrospect, he shouldn’t have overlooked the kisses. Step one in Alex Albon’s evil art of deflection: get George horny enough to forget, an entirely unfair strategy; George will always fall for it.
*
His suspicion surfaces when Alex had the taxi driver drop them off at an unfamiliar terminal in London Heathrow Airport. He glances at Alex, but he looks completely at ease, like he’s been here countless of times. He wheels their shared luggage past security checks, where George doesn’t even get asked to empty his Hydroflask, past a check in counter bearing no airline logos, where a woman in a business attire takes their luggage without sticking a tag to it, and leaves without giving them their boarding passes.
George stares after her, dumbfounded.
He only manages to keep calm until after Alex takes them both to a lounge, where the waitress greets Alex by name and brings them both a hot towel for refreshment. After that, he is no longer calm.
“Alex, what the fuck .”
Alex unrolls the hot towel, like all of this is completely mundane and usual to him. “It’s just a hot towel, George.”
George can physically feel a nerve twitching in his forehead. “Alex, did you blow your life savings booking us first class tickets?”
Alex gasps in mock offense. “You think I’d be so irresponsible, Georgie?”
“What in the bloody hell is all this then,” George hisses, gesturing at the table, where his own hot towel sits untouched.
Alex shakes his head, still grinning. “Just use your hot towel, Georgie.”
George grumbles, but he does unroll the towel and press it to his face. It is really nice. In the time it takes for him to soak his face in it, Alex has managed to make a trip to the buffet and presented an assortment of nibbles on a plate proudly, like he’d just been hunting and gathering.
Fruits, tiny croissants, crackers. He offers a strawberry to George, and it’s so absurd that George doesn’t know what to do but to let Alex feed him.
“What?” Alex tilts his head at him. “You’re looking at me like – “ he gestures at his own face, scrunching it up. George supposes it’s his impression of George’s confusion.
“Not that I’d ever think you’d be that reckless,” George says seriously, “But just tell me you haven’t run yourself into a mountain of debt trying to afford this? Please?”
Alex waves his hand, dismissive. “It’s a family favor,” he says, but he’s not looking at George when he says it, which could mean a thousand things when it comes to Alex. Even two years isn’t long enough to guess all of his tells. George bites on the questions sitting at the back of his teeth.
Alex owns their apartment in South London, which should be a sign already to the kind of family that he’s connected to, but if Alex is part of the clan of the British aristocrats that run in George’s business circle – he should’ve met his family by now, probably. Strangely, he gets reminded of the stupid ads he sees on TikTok, the bite-sized vertical films about being sold to a secret mafia billionaire.
George waits patiently for a call to board, but it never comes. Instead, the same sharp-looking woman who took their luggage fetches them from their table and leads them to the bridge that leads straight to –
George has never been in a private jet before, but this is probably what it looks like. Instead of rows of cramped economy class seats, he’s greeted with a sprawling carpet that opens to more legroom than he knows what to do with. The seats are plush leather sofas that convert into a flatbed at a touch of a button, a long mahogany table bolted to the floor for serving dinner with a vase of beautiful cala lilies as the centerpiece. Soft jazz music plays in the background from an honest-to-god old-timey gramophone in the corner, the selection of vinyls stacked on a drawer underneath it.
George tries to act like this isn’t his first time. The fact that Alex settles into his seat with ease makes him self-conscious suddenly.
It’s only after they’re safely in the air that he finally finds his voice. “So your family is like, filthy rich.”
Alex shifts in his head, not looking at him. “We’re comfortable.”
George sits up straight, fails to hide the accusatory tone from his voice. “That’s exactly what a super rich person would say.”
Alex shrugs. “Oh, hey, free-flow champagne!” he says, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a pristine bottle of Dom Perignon. George tries not to read too much into how Alex just magically knows which drawer he should open to get the appropriate tall glasses fit for champagne. “Want some?”
George is fully aware he’s gaping at him. Opening and closing his mouth like a koi fish.
“Oh, why the bloody hell not,” he mutters, reaching out for the glass, finally entertaining the very real possibility that he really is being sold to a mafia billionaire CEO.
*
Two days before departure
“What did you say the cousin’s name is?”
Once upon a time, George will have more opinions about having a Formula One driver lounging in his apartment, eating a piece of toast. When Lando said he’d be bringing a friend over to help him pack, George didn’t expect it to be McLaren driver Oscar Piastri. He wonders if Oscar feels as bewildered as he is, having his date interrupted by a surprise house visit for moral support, but if he’s bothered he doesn’t show it. And so George ends up telling an audience of two about his current life crisis – not knowing what to wear to a beachside wedding.
When people hear that George is an event planner, they think he’s doing weddings, like he’s in Bride Wars or 27 Dresses . When George explains that he mostly does corporate events, the spark dies a little in their eyes, like they couldn’t think of anything more boring or mind-numbing. There’s some truth in that; planning a 3-day workshop for an investment banking company and hearing the words return on investment and low-hanging fruit for days on end is quite depressing, but the after party – nobody parties harder than the white collar guys who know they can spend the company’s dime to get spectacularly drunk on a work day. That being said, his wardrobe then consists mostly of suits, slacks, and shirts in maybe five colors, if he counts it right. He’s never had to dress for the beach; no one in his circle has ever been rich enough to throw a destination wedding.
Until Alex, apparently.
George has to concentrate really hard to say the name. He’s been practicing it in his head endless times so he doesn’t say it wrong; he probably will, though. “Wattanabongse,” he says. “Her full name is Sirivannavari Wattanabongse – but guess what her nickname is.”
Lando blinks at him, eyes blank. He probably didn’t even catch the full name.
“Benz,” George deadpans.
“Like, Mercedes Benz?”
“Apparently so.”
Oscar nods. “Thai nicknames tend to be creative like that. My sister’s into Thai dramas – one of her favorite actors is called Newyear.”
“What,” Lando says. “One word?”
Oscar nods again.
“Okay,” Lando says, clearly not comprehending it.
George pulls out the only pieces from his wardrobe that fit the theme, throwing them on the bed. Three slacks, two in a sad beige color, the other cream. A matching cream blazer, a purchase for when one of the clients wanted a “everything but black” party. Two shirts, one pink, one a light blue. Oh, he hasn’t even thought about shoes…
“Wait, did you say the last name is Wattanabongse, like, Thai racing driver, Prince Wattanabongse?” Oscar says. Lando’s shaking his head, no recognition, and George is barely listening. “What, you didn’t know? He was the first Thai driver in F1. He used to go by just, like, Prince Wattana, but I’m pretty sure that’s a royal last name.”
George snorts. “Sure, and I’m obviously Prince George.”
“Why do you even know about this anyway?” Lando asks. “Such a nerd.”
“I just like trivias,” Oscar shrugs. “What’s your boyfriend’s last name again?”
“Ansusinha,” George says absently, a name he’s thought about a million times.
“Huh,” Oscar says, “Where have I heard that before?”
*
In the plane, Oscar sends a text that will go unread until after the private plane lands. It’s a link to a news article. The headline says, Kankamol Ansusinha to Return to Thailand Amid Succession Crisis Rumors.
He accompanies it with his own commentary: Your boyfriend wouldn’t happen to be related to this specific Ansusinha, would he?