Note: this chapter contains strong language, as well as graphic depictions of self-harm; mental health issues; grief and loss.

———

Michael tosses and turns in his bed, struggling to find a position which is comfortable to him. His head is working overtime, thinking of all the horrific ways in which Madonna could be planning to have him dead by the end of the next game. His eyes snap open; his heart pounds painfully; leaving him short of breath. No matter how much he tries, he cannot settle. If falling asleep were the objective to a game in itself, he'd be dead already.

Similarly, in room 025, George is laid awake in his bed, too, with only his white T-shirt and his yellow jogging pants on. He misses the knocking from the room next door — Andrew's nightly attempt in room 024 to keep his buddy awake and annoy him. It's such a simple thing, but to hear it once more would be a dream come true for him. He stares up at the ceiling, with the darkness clouding his vision. Tears fall silently and freely from his eyes; he makes no attempt to stop them — even when they slide into his ears and down to his neck; and they tickle at his skin.

Life feels so empty for poor George now. He knew that it would eventually be the case, where one of them would leave the other behind. He just didn't imagine that it would be like this. He replays the final moments between them in his head — the way Andrew smiled so vacantly at him before he was shot will forever haunt him. The fact that Andrew sacrificed himself so George could spend longer with Elton is enough to bring tears to the eyes of anybody with half a heart. All Andrew wanted was for his best friend to finally be happy — for him to feel accepted, even if only for a short time. The ultimate sacrifice for a friend to make; one which costed his life.

"Go back out there and start our band for me. Go and live the dream to make sure you have plenty to tell me when you come and join me again."

The final plea ringing in his ears; mingling with the otherwise deafening silence sends him over the edge. He slams his eyes shut, using his hands to block his ears in a bid to rid the repetitive sound of Andrew's voice from his head. Alas, it remains, torturing the poor soul for hours to come. He lays alone, in the dark, sobbing his heart out for nobody to hear; until insanity drives him up out of bed. He walks to the wall — the one connected to Andrew's room — and sheds tears as he knocks at the hard surface in front of him.

"Andrew," he begs, knocking harder. "Come and tell me you're sick of me causing a racket! Come and shout at me, and tell me my singing is awful! Tell me—Tell me that!—" He breaks down, his hand going numb from hitting it against the wall; he slides his back against it, until he hits the floor. His crying is so hard, that he struggles for air, as he forces his head into his hands. "Tell me you're sick of my noise, Andrew! ... "

There he stays, for a time which feels endless to him, enveloped in the never-ending ache of grief. Once his screams have subsided, they are replaced with nothingness. He sits slumped over, not moving; not reacting; with very few thoughts in his head. His eyes slowly move up, until he sees the sink on the other side of the room. It's as if his mind becomes possessed for the next few moments, as George rises from the floor; and he walks slowly over to the sink. There, he leans his hands against the bowl, looking at his reflection in the mirror as best as he can in the dark. He barely recognises himself — just the last 24 hours has changed everything. He glances down, seeing his razor sitting in the holder with his toothpaste and toothbrush.

"Do it. Go on; you'll feel amazing — like you're in control," Andrew's voice tells him, inside of his head.

Almost instinctively, George's hand outstretches, grabbing hold of the shaving device. From here, he closes his eyes, not wanting to be witness to his own attack. He moves the razor — through guesswork due to his impaired vision — towards his arm, holding it there for a moment. With a quivering breath and a shaky hand, he presses it to his skin at an angle, slicing it across his arm; feeling the release of crimson blood running from the self-inflicted wound.

This is when he tunes back in with what he's doing, and he opens his eyes to see his own skin weeping red. He hisses, unsure on what to do next — until he hears a knock at his door. It catches him off-guard, as the memories, of his best friend hitting the other side of the wall the last few nights, send him into a trance-like state once again.

"Andrew ... " he whispers, still woozy from what he's just experienced. He trudges to the door, seeming to forget about the bloody mess he's created, opening it to reveal Michael.

"Oh my god George!" Michael whispers in shock. "What have you done!"

Despite knowing deep down that Andrew isn't alive anymore, George still feels immense sadness that it wasn't him on the other side of the door. He stares at Michael, emotionless. Sweat drenches his forehead; his eyes begin to water as they adjust to the sudden brightness from outside his room. A headache begins to brew, from the amount of crying he's done the last few hours.

"George, you need to get this cleaned up." Michael barges into his room, using the light from the corridor to see clearer. He spots the razor in the sink, with George's blood dripping from it; the dried blood looking like disgusting rust forming on the metal blades. "Oh, fuck," he continues under his breath, running the faucet to drain some of the evidence. "George, come over here."

George barely responds; his lips are parted slightly to breathe, and his eyes are half-closed as if he's in a daze. "I want Andrew back ... " are the only words he speaks.

"Listen." Michael takes George by the shoulders, forcing them to make eye contact. "Andrew isn't coming back. I know it hurts. I know it does. But you need to keep going for him."

George turns his head away from Michael, to hide his face as he starts to cry again. "I can't do it anymore. If I lose, I don't even care anymore! ... "

"Come on and get a hold of yourself, buddy," Michael demands — trying to adopt the attitude of 'be cruel, to be kind'. He drags George over to the sink, running his raw, opened skin under the faucet to clean the large cut he's created. "Come on. You need to rest up for later. It's already 5AM. Lights come on in an hour and a half." He shuts off the faucet, before ripping some of George's white shirt from his body with his teeth. He wraps the material around his arm, tying it into a knot to secure the position. "There. Don't take that off. You need to let it heal over."

The events of the last twenty-four hours finally starts to catch up to poor George; his mind becomes overwhelmed, causing him to go lightheaded. From sheer exhaustion, he begins to collapse to the floor — though Michael catches him before he falls fully. He lifts George upright, pulling him over to his bed. George tumbles straight onto the mattress, his sweat-covered hair flopping against the pillow. His cross-shaped earrings dangle down from his ears, just touching upon the bed where he lays.

"Even if you only get an hour of sleep," Michael speaks — aimed at George, although he can't hear. "It's better than nothing. Poor guy." He closes the door to the room to rid the light; then takes a seat on the floor by George's bed, leaning his back against the bedside table. With his head bowed, Michael falls into a light sleep by his fellow teammate's side.

*

An hour and a half later, the partygoers are awoken by the loud fanfare which blasts through the tannoy.

"Good morning players — this is day five! Please make sure you are ready for the day, so we can ensure a prompt start to the next game!"

George groggily opens his eyes, having no recollection of what occurred just a few hours before. He feels a sharp stinging on his arm; when he looks down, he sees some of his shirt tied to it, with brown stains adorning it. He tries hard to remember what happened to cause this, but before he can dwell too much, he spots Michael — somehow still sleeping — on the floor hunched over.

"Michael?" he mutters, shaking him to wake him. "Wake up."

Michael judders awake with a start, automatically assuming George is Madonna. "Stay away!" he cries, holding out his arms ready to fight. Once he realises it's only George, he relaxes. "Shit. Sorry George. How are you?"

"What happened?" George looks around his room, for any kind of clue to help answer his question.

Michael shakes his head. "I came to see you. You'd injured your arm badly," he lies, in the hope that he doesn't remember harming himself. "So I helped you clean it up. You were too tired."

George furrows his brows, trying to picture anything in his mind other than the darkness that surrounded him during the night. "I don't remember ... all I know is that Andrew isn't here. And my head kills."

"You can rest after the next game," Michael reminds him. "We need to get ready for the day." He stands up from the floor, before heading to the door. "I'll see you at breakfast though, okay?"

"Sure thing." George watches as Michael leaves the room, once again leaving him alone.

*

"Morning Michael," Elton greets at the table he's sat at, with Freddie and Whitney.

"Hey," Michael responds, his eyes swollen from tiredness. "How did you guys sleep?"

"As good as you can, considering," Freddie says, heaving a sigh. "You look tired, Michael."

"I had a rough night." He takes a seat, placing his coffee cup on the table. "Just be kind to George when he gets here. His night was way worse than mine."

"How do you mean?" Whitney interrogates. "Is he alright?"

"I found him in his room last night," Michael explains. "His arm was bleeding. His razor was in the sink with blood on it. I think he harmed himself because he can't cope with Andrew's death."

"Oh the poor thing," Freddie whimpers. "How is he this morning? Have you seen him?"

"He doesn't remember doing it. He was ... really weird last night. Almost as if he was possessed. But he's ... as okay as he can be, this morning." He takes a sip of his drink. "He barely slept like me though, so he looks a lot more tired than I do."

"Bless his heart," Elton comments, tears in his eyes. "If it's hard enough for him losing Andrew, I just hope I last a little longer for him. He needs somebody."

"Let's hope that Madonna goes today," Whitney remarks. "After all, she's a threat to us now — just like Prince was."

Moments later, George comes through the door to the room, looking just as withdrawn as he did the day before. He takes a seat with his group, not speaking a word to any of them.

"Morning, sweet," Elton smiles pitifully to his lover. "It's good to see you." He places a kiss upon George's temple affectionately.

"Hi Elton," he responds weakly. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." He places a loving arm around George, bringing him closer to his chest. "But you're here now, and that's what matters."

"We all love you George," Whitney tells him.

"We really do," Freddie agrees. "So much."

George forces the most convincing smile he can muster, as he looks at all the friendly faces full of support for him. "Thanks."

The heartfelt moment between the five players is interrupted by the tannoy.

"Players, please follow the team members to your fifth game!"

~~

Poor George! It's lucky Michael helped him though. Who will win the next game? ...