Older Us |DNF|

1

The morning starts the same way it always does; with the sound of Clay moving around in the kitchen before George is fully awake.

There's the scrape of a cabinet, the low hum of the fridge, the soft clatter of the spoon in the mug. The sounds drift through the small apartment like part of the weather.

Familiar, steady, expected.

George stretches under his blanket, blinking at the sunlight sneaking through the blinds. The light hits the dust floating in the air, and he can already smell the coffee Clay's making. He checks the clock on his phone: 8:04. Predictable. Clay's always up before him, always moving through the morning like someone born knowing what comes next.

George drags himself out of bed, hair in his face, t-shirt too big. He yawns as he pads barefoot down the short hall.

"You're scowling," Clay says without turning around. "Again."

"I'm not scowling," George says, voice gravelly. "I'm waking up."

"Same thing."

The corner of George's mouth twitches. "You're so rude to me in the morning."

"Only because you're so dramatic about it."

Clay's leaning one hand on the counter, the other holding a mug, dark hair still damp from a shower. The kitchen's small enough that if George steps closer, their elbows will touch, so of course he does.

He takes one look at the mess on the counter and says, "You burned the toast."

"No," Clay says, "you bought bad bread."

"Bread doesn't burn itself."

Clay finally glances at him, eyes tired but sharp. "You volunteering to cook?"

George grins. "Not a chance."

It's the same argument they've been having since college, maybe before. It's the rhythm of their mornings; the kind of familiar that doesn't need effort.

They've known each other since before memory, or at least that's how it feels. Their moms were friends before they were born, neighbors on the same street in their small Florida town. There are baby pictures of them in the same playpen, toddlers in matching Halloween costumes: Clay as a pumpkin, George as a smaller pumpkin. When they got old enough to choose for themselves, they stayed inseparable: same school, same teachers, same walk home, same lunch table.

By the time they applied to colleges, everyone just assumed they were a set. Their names always said together— Clay and George, George and Clay— like a phrase that didn't make sense cut in half.

Now, in this tiny Austin city apartment they've shared since graduation, it still feels like that. The world's gotten bigger, but the space between them never did.

"Coffee?" Clay asks.

George nods, holding out a mug. "Make it pretty for me."

Clay doesn't even roll his eyes anymore; he just pours, hands the mug over, and says, "You're insufferable."

George takes a sip, burns his tongue, and hums. "Perfect."

They sit at the little table by the window, two mismatched chairs, one shared silence. Clay checks his phone, scrolling through work emails. George doodles absently on a napkin, lines turning into shapes, shapes into something soft and fluid.

"You've got that client thing today, right?" Clay asks without looking up.

"Mm-hm. Twelve."

"What's it for again?"