International Relation(ship)s

Chapter 13

Despite only being an hour or so, it felt like it had been years before he was released from the tight grasp that was First Son Responsibilities and once he was finally finished with all the necessary goodbyes the speed at which he retreated to his room was rather amusing (he might have almost tripped up the stairs. maybe.). So, sporting a stair-shaped mark on his knee which was sure to become an ugly bruise the next day and a horribly nervous smile he fidgeted between waiting on the sofa in his room. And the bed. And standing up. In his defense, clandestine hook-ups with foreign princes weren't exactly something he was experienced in, and Clay did not enjoy being unprepared. But he finally settled on the couch, sitting uncomfortably straight, legs pressed together and back decidedly not rested on the plush cushions behind him. He pulled out his phone, flicking between scrolling through Instagram, his Twitter timeline, his schedule, Instagram again and when the little number at the top of his screen changed to 10:13, there was a knock at his door.

"Clay?" A tentative voice came from the other side, a voice that was soft, uneasy, with a British lilt; unequivocally George. Clay wasn't sure whether he was meant to tell him to come in, or open the door for him, he was royalty, not that Clay dwelled on that part any longer. He opted for the former, pulling it open and standing behind it, almost peeking out as if it were a shield, before slamming it shut, remembering that if anyone was coming along the corridor at this point in time they would have an interesting time explaining why the Prince of England was in his bedroom.

"You look like you're about to bow or something," George commented with a playful smirk and only then did Clay notice all of the tension he had been holding in his shoulders.

Clay rolled his eyes, "Yeah, you wish. D'you find my room okay?"

"I did had to ask Darryl for some help," George admitted with a chuckle,

"Well, you still got here 2 minutes early! Come, let's sit on the couch," Clay grabbed his hand, tugging it harshly as he dragged George, who was stumbling behind him until they were sitting side by side on the plush grey sofa. His head was starting to spin; Clay hated not having a plan and here he was, the prince of england by his side after he spontaneously invited him back to his room without really thinking of how to go about what was implicitly said to happen after. "So," he started awkwardly, picking at a hangnail and watching George's face fall into a smirk yet again.

"'So' what? I didn't come here to talk all night," George rolled his eyes, and Clay felt his cheeks burn hot, flaming red. He wasn't just underprepared for this; he hadn't a clue what to do - It's not like there's a 'How to Seduce a Prince and Not Fuck Up International Relations: For Dummies' is there? (and if there was, he would have surely read it cover-to-cover at least 10 times before this moment. Studying was admittedly a skill he had down to a T. so what if he would use that to his advantage?) George's smirk fell for a second, but Clay's gaze had long been averted from him, it lay heavy in his lap as he attempted to think but all he got out were mangled sentences, incoherent phrases which all just ended up with George. "That was a joke- we don't have to do anything you don't want to! I'm perfectly happy just talking all night if you want!" George added quickly, placing a gentle hand onto Clay's thigh, which prompted him to look up into cocoa eyes with a gaze far too soft for the thoughts Clay had been having.

"Shit- no that's not- fuck. I don't want to talk all night - although I wouldn't mind it just not now that's not what I was-" Clay's rambles ceased just long enough for him to draw in a deep breath "You know what? Fuck it."

Actions speak louder than words, or so they say. So when the words are failing, what better option did Clay have except to show George what he meant?