Soft shadows flicker across the wall as the fireplace crackles and sparks. It's cold— for Florida. George doesn't have the heart to tell Clay that in England weather like this is considered balmy.
The flame warms the room and makes it feel more like a home, less sterile. George has his feet in Clay's lap, while Patches lounges on the back of the couch. Ever so often her tail will flick George's nose as if to say, 'Know your place, bitch.'
Suddenly, the tennis match on screen is replaced by a breaking news segment, reporting on a tropical storm approaching the eastern side of the state. On the predicted map, it doesn't look like it will affect areas other than ones directly on the coast, and they're far enough inland that it'll probably be fine.
"Can you step on me?" Clay's voice jolts George out of his thoughts.
"What?" George asks, because he had to have heard that wrong.
"I picked up something heavy last night and think I pulled something in my back." Clay explains before laying face down on the floor. "I want you to basically realign my spine."
"I can't stand on you. I'm not a chiropractor. I'm going to break you or something."
"I trust you."
"This isn't a matter of trust, Clay."
"I trust... that you won't break me."
"I don't." George scoffs.
"Come on, you weigh like half of me, you won't crush me." Clay insists. "I'll even pay you if you want, just get on me."
"That's what she said." George mutters even though it doesn't really make sense. With a grimace, he remembers that the nearest hospital is at least five miles away and prays he doesn't smush Clay's spleen.
"Ew, why are you so squishy?" George wrinkles his nose.
"I'm not squishy." Clay grits out as George moves his feet as though he's mashing grapes. "I'm two hundred pounds of pure muscle."
Suddenly, Clay's back cracks impossibly loud and George is certain that he's just paralyzed him.
"Oh my god, are you okay?" George pulls Clay to his feet and gives him a once-over at an arms length. "I'm this close to calling an ambulance."
"That felt good. Thanks." Clay replies as he rolls his neck.
"Masochist." George mutters.
Clay says something under his breath that George can't quite make out, but it sounds suspiciously like 'Yeah, actually.'
—
"For today's stream, I have George with me." Clay announces to the camera, a bit muffled by the white hockey mask he's wearing. It has a crudely drawn smiley face on it, and is mildly unsettling to look at. "No scams, no pranks. This is real."
"Hi. It's me. George." George says and does awkward jazz hands.
"Since George is literally next to me, we thought it would be fun to have him control the mouse while I control the keyboard and see if we can beat Minecraft." Clay smiles. "Kind of like the Siamese twins video we made before."
They are—unsurprisingly—able to beat the game, despite George accidentally elbowing Clay in the side a half dozen times. At one point, Clay does that dumb yawn-thing and slings his arm over George's shoulders.
"Stop it." George complains, while the chat has an absolute meltdown.
"What? I'm just trying to be efficient with our space." Clay says innocently.
"You're so annoying." George grumbles, but makes no effort to separate himself.
He kind of likes it.
—
When George sees Clay the next morning he has a black eye and a deep gash on his cheek. His clothes are rumpled and dirty, and he's rolling gauze around his knuckles.
"Clay, what the hell happened?"
"Nothing. I'm fine." Clay replies, tone uncharacteristically cold.
"You're clearly not!" George's voice is shrill. "You're hurt."
"I'm dealing with it. Okay?"
"How did this even happen?" George steps closer to Clay and pushes his bangs away from his face. "Let me get some ice for you or something."
"Stop it."
"I'll stop when you tell me how this happened." George answers evenly. "It can't be that bad. Just tell me."
"Maybe it's none of your business. Did you think of that?" Clay grabs George's wrist and yanks it roughly away from his face.
"Clay, let go of me." George tries to sound firm, but it comes out as a whimper.
Clay's eyes are glassy and his eyes are distant as though he's looking through George. "It's none of your business. Did you think about that? You're in my house. What I do in my free time doesn't concern you, George." Clay's grip on George's wrist is tightening to the point where it's starting to hurt.
George feels paralyzed. He tries to pull away, but then Clay grabs his other wrist. He's trapped. It takes all of his effort to not start hysterically crying.
"You're wrong, if you think you have the right to ask me to explain myself." Clay sneers, baring his teeth. He's close enough that George can count the freckles on his cheeks and see the ire in his eyes.
George knows he's probably just seeing things, but it looks like Clay's gums are bloodstained. There's something unhinged in his expression. The man before him is not his friend. For a moment George fears that Clay is going to tear out his throat with his teeth.
"You're scaring me. Stop it." Tears burn behind his eyelids.
This makes Clay falter, enough that his hold loosens and George is able to free his wrists and put some space between them.
"I hurt you." Clay's eyes are focused on the bright red handprints that curl around George's forearms. They'll probably turn to bruises. "Come here. Let me help you."
"You've done enough." George says and scrambles out of the kitchen. He bursts through the front door. He doesn't know if Clay is behind him, but he's not taking any chances. He isn't even wearing shoes and can feel his feet getting cut up on the gravel, but he keeps running until he's at the street, and then keeps going until he can't walk anymore.
It's raining and his hair is plastered to his forehead. He doesn't have his phone on him either. He's thousands of miles from home and he's all alone. He sits on the pavement and hides his face in his hands. He cries until his mouth is bitter and dry, and his tears have dried to a sticky residue on his cheeks.
Eventually, he hears a car in the distance. The rain has stopped, but it's still foggy enough that George can't see who it is until it stops in front of him.
"George!" Clay jumps out of his car and runs across the road. His eyes are red and his cheeks are wet. George wonders if he's been crying, and then hates himself for even caring.
Something cold and shaped like dread settles in George's gut. He's alone. It's just him and Clay. He knows he should run, and yet, he can feel the fight leaving his body. He's too tired to be angry. He can feel himself soften the moment he hears Clay's voice.
"Let me help you." Clay says tenderly and scoops George into his arms.
George wants to scream, to cry, to bite. Instead, he lets Clay carry him to the car.
"Are you mad at me?" Clay asks a few moments into their drive back.
"Kind of." George says, even though he isn't completely sure why. He's upset and hurt, and he is mad at Clay. But something stops him from voicing this.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"Save it for later, Clay." George croaks, trying to hold onto his hurt since it's the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes well up, for some reason. Maybe because he's overwhelmed, maybe because he hates how the moment he saw Clay, he had already forgiven him.
When they pull back into the garage, George gets out of the car before Clay can come around and open his door. He takes a breath and begins to trudge towards the house. His feet start to bleed harder after he steps on a particularly sharp rock. He doesn't even feel it.
"George, wait!" Clay calls after him.
George holds his breath and turns around. Clay is running towards him and George can't decide if he's terrified or grateful.
George's knees give out and he sinks to the ground. "I was so scared." He sobs, gripping desperately at Clay's hoodie as though that will make him understand. "I was scared of you." He whimpers.
Clay picks up George without further warning. George lets his head fall into the crook of Clay's neck, any protests dying on his tongue. Clay is warm and strong and holds George carefully as though he's made from glass.
George screws his eyes shut and tries to pretend he doesn't exist for a few moments.
Clay carries him into a bathroom that has marble countertops and sleek cabinets and sets him down on the closed toilet. He wordlessly rifles through the drawers and starts by gently wiping off George's heels.
Clay talks to him while dabbing at his feet with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. His voice settles like warm honey in George's mind. It's numbing, soothing, pleasantly suffocating, filling all the hollow spaces that George hadn't even realized were left empty.
—
George doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up sunlight is streaming in through the window.
It takes him a few moments to make sense of his surroundings, but then he realizes it. He's in Clay's bed. Clay is sitting against the headboard reading a book.
"I'm in your bed?" George presses his palms against his eyelids and groans. "God, my head hurts."
"You just fell asleep and it was easier to bring you to my room." Clay puts his book down and brushes George's hair away from his face. "I hope you don't mind."
"No. Can you get me an Advil, though?"
"Of course, I'll be right back." Clay returns with a cold glass of water and two pills tucked into a tissue.
George swallows the pills dry and closes his eyes.
"Do you want to talk about what happened?"
"Later." George mumbles and tries to ignore the ringing in his ears and how every shred of self-preservation he has is telling him to run and hide. "I don't feel well."
"Okay." Clay answers quietly, and gently cards his fingers through George's hair. He massages George's scalp with long, deft fingers.
George leans into his touch and immediately feels better. It's easy to forget. It's easy to forget how Clay pinned him against the counter. It's easy to forget the image of blood dripping from Clay's teeth. It's easy to forget the visceral terror he felt. Because right now, George feels cared for and safe.
They never end up talking about it and George decides that they don't need to. He's almost able to convince himself that it never happened, and as long as he keeps pretending, it will just go away. Everything is fine. He'll get through the rest of these two weeks and go home.
(In his dreams, the image of sharp white daggers, slick with blood, haunt him. Pomegranate-colored handprints stain his skin. But everything is fine. It has to be.)
—
The wind is violent and the sky is dark. The storm is aggressive enough that the palm trees which line the highway are bending sideways—but not breaking.
"Looks like there's a storm coming in." Clay says and changes the car's radio to the weather report.
A woman with a pleasant voice announces that the tropical storm has developed into a category three hurricane, and that everyone on the coast should immediately evacuate. Clay isn't on the coast, but he's still within ten miles of it.
"That's not good." George glances nervously out the window. The rain is coming down so hard that he can barely see the street.
"No, it's not." Clay runs a hand through his hair. "We'll be fine, though. I have a generator and enough bottled water to sustain a small county."
"Why? Are you expecting an apocalypse or something?"
"Or something." Clay echoes grimly.
—
"Crap." George groans. The weather lady on Clay's large flatscreen pleasantly announces that the hurricane has worsened to a category four.
"Don't worry about it. I've lived in this house through a category five before, all that'll happen is a few trees will fall down, some flooding in the yard at worst."
"That's not what I'm worried about." George sighs. "They just cancelled my flight."
"Then just book another one?"
"They're all full for the next month." George groans and buries his face in the couch.
"Oh." Clay pauses. "What's the issue?"
"It's fine, I'll just have to stay at a hotel or something."
"Why? Why wouldn't you just stay with me? Do you not like it here?" Clay demands.
"I don't want to impose." George replies tersely.
"You're not. Stay here." Clay says firmly.
"Thanks." George ignores how Clay didn't even ask him if he wanted to stay here. It's not a big deal, and George knows he should be grateful, but it didn't even feel like he had a choice in the matter.
"This will be great." Clay smiles at him and squeezes his knee.
George forces the corners up his lips to turn up. "Yeah. It'll be fun." He tries to convince himself that he means it.
Clay falls asleep on the couch after a few minutes of silence. George is torn between curling up next to him and running as far as he can.
—
George realizes that he must've fallen asleep too, because when he wakes up he's alone on the couch. There's a knitted blanket over his legs, one that looks homemade. Clay probably put it on him. The gesture is small, and yet it makes George's heart warm.
He checks his phone. It's past midnight. His back is going to hurt if he stays in the couch all night, so he decides to head to his room.
A grey Florida Dolphins sweatshirt is folded over the back of the couch—George vaguely remembers seeing Clay in it earlier in the day. George is cold without the blanket so he hopes that Clay doesn't mind sharing.
The sweatshirt is a few sizes oversized on George. The sleeves end past his fingertips and it's long enough that it hits him mid-thigh. He feels kind of stupid, but he's cold enough that he decides he doesn't give a shit.
It smells like Clay. Sweet, yet musky, like a bonfire on a rainy night. Or like honeycomb and fresh timber. The scent of something smokey clings to the fabric. Burnt, but not unpleasant.
The image of Clay's clavicle flashes into George's mind. A thin sheen of sweat clinging to it. He can almost taste the gunpowder on Clay's skin if he tries hard enough.
George tells himself it doesn't mean anything.
—
George wakes up to heavy metal and howling wind. He thinks it's testament to how strange living with Clay has been so far that he doesn't even blink an eye. When George emerges from his room, Clay isn't sharpening blades or doing squats on the coffee table, or doing anything even slightly out of the ordinary.
He's dusting.
It's so mundane that George has to laugh.
The noise must catch Clay's attention because he pauses the music on his speaker.
George opens his mouth to say 'good morning' or 'who the fuck still owns a feather duster,' but Clay cuts him off.
"That's my sweater."
"Shit, sorry. Do you want it back?"
George already has one arm out of the sleeve when Clay replies. "No. Keep it. Looks better on you."
"Are you sure?" George asks hesitantly.
"Keep it." Clay repeats, something dark and possessive in his voice. "You look good."
"It's just a hoodie." George says in a strained voice.
"You look good, George. I mean it."
"Thanks." George swallows roughly. He always feels like he's biting off more than he can chew, without even meaning to. "I'm going to get my—uh, get my laptop."
"Alright." Clay licks his lips, not unlike a predator watching his prey. George forces his eyes away.
"Yeah, so I'll be doing that—fuck." George stumbles as he trips over his own feet.
"Okay." Clay clears his throat, but his voice is low and gravely when he speaks. "I'll just be here. Dusting."
George hurries back to his room and slams the door shut behind him.
He slams his forehead against the closed door a few times. He doesn't want to kiss Clay. He doesn't.
That would just be weird.
—
"I'll see you later. I'm heading out back." Clay tells him while they load the dishwasher after dinner. It's domestic in ways that make George's heart flutter pleasantly.
"Why? It's kind of late, isn't it?"
"I won't be out there long, it's just that the hurricane is going to make landfall soon..." Clay pauses before hurriedly finishing his sentence, "And I want to clean my guns."
"Oh." George says dumbly. "Why can't you just clean them inside?"
"I thought it might make you uncomfortable."
George thinks about it for a second. Sure, at one point he probably would have shit his pants at the mere sight of a gun. But a lot has happened in the past week, and if he's going to stay here for the next month, he's just going to have to learn to live with Clay's oddities.
"I'm fine with it. It was—" George thinks about the way Clay had pressed up against him and whispered in his ear. "Cool. Yeah, it was cool." George finishes lamely and awkwardly clears his throat.
"Cool?" Clay asks teasingly, something knowing in his eyes.
"Shut up." George feels himself flush and turns away.
"Which one do you like more?" In his right hand, Clay holds a sleek, matte black pistol. It has a very streamlined and tactical design. In his left hand, he holds a gun that looks like it has a bit more bells and whistles, with less of a smooth design and more interesting curves.
"That one." George points at the one in his right hand.
"The Glock?" Clay asks. "I had a feeling you would. Personally, I prefer the Beretta."
"Here, I'll show you how to clean it." Clay casually tosses George the Glock. "Don't worry, it's not loaded."
"Wow." George mumbles and examines the pistol gingery. There's something about it that inspires both fear and reverence within him.
"You like it?" Clay has a smug look on his face.
George gulps. "Yeah. It's kind of pretty."
"You'd probably like my rifles." Clay says, but George barely hears him. He can feel adrenaline coursing through his veins and can't tell if he's on the verge of a boner or puking on Clay's shoes.
"I could get you one, if you want."
"Huh?" George blinks a few times and tries to focus on Clay's voice.
"Do you want one? I'll get you one." Clay says casually as though they're talking about literally anything other than semi-automatic weapons.
"That's not legal, Clay." George says.
"Sure it is. Anything is legal in Florida."
George doubts it, but he doesn't say anything.
"You shouldn't, though." George can't help but dance around outright refusal, because he kind of doesn't hate the idea of it.
"Maybe. But I'm not hearing you say 'no' either." Clay smirks. "How's this: just think about it, okay?"
"Yeah." George breathes. He copies what Clay is doing, and applies oil to the springs.
"You handle it well and you look good with it. Really, let me get you one." Clay says once they're finished cleaning and oiling the guns.
"I'm thinking about it." George answers honestly. Never in his life did he ever think he'd even be considering something like this.
"I'm glad to hear it." Clay smiles genuinely. "It'd make me feel good, knowing that you have the means to protect yourself."
"I don't plan on shooting anyone in the near future. Pen is mightier than the sword, Clay."
"Whatever." Clay rolls his eyes playfully and leans incrementally closer.
George's breath hitches.
"Are you scared of me?" Clay asks teasingly.
"I'm not. Should I be?" George's heart is beating rapidly in his chest. He is a bit scared, but he realizes that he kind of likes it. However, the way his pulse is racing is not because of fear.
"You shouldn't." Clay answers, expression open and honest.
Up close, Clay looks young, doe eyed and lively. George can count his eyelashes and see the pale freckles that are dotted across his nose. With just a few inches between them, it's plain to see that Clay is just a twenty one year-old kid. One that fucks up sometimes and is still figuring things out. He's human.
George leans closer and he can feel Clay's breath on his cheek.
"What are you doing?" Clay rasps, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
"I know this isn't the Nickelodeon Resort, but I think you can put two-and-two together." George chuckles softly.
"Asshole." Clay mutters and twists his fingers in George's hair. He angles George's face up, so that they're making eye contact. Even sitting down, George is painfully aware of how much taller Clay is.
Clay grabs at the back of his neck, his hand is large enough that he could probably strangle George with just one hand. The thought is tantalizing and exhilarating.
Clay carefully pushes George's hair out of his face before aggressively grabbing his chin. He's being rough, but George decides he likes it.
"Then stop giving me that dumb look and do something, Clay."
Clay manhandles him onto his lap and pulls him close enough that they're chest-to-chest.
"Shut up." Clay nearly growls and surges forward. He presses their mouths together and it's all teeth and tongue, but it's also kind of hot. Clay bites at George's lip, and when they kiss again, the metallic flavor of blood lingers on Clay's tongue.
George wonders if it's fucked up that he likes the taste.
—
"Hey, guys." George says to the camera. Before the stream, Clay had helped George set up some of his older tech in his room.
Clay is sitting just out of frame, looking at his phone. He gives off the impression that he's not paying attention, but George knows that Clay is watching his every move.
"You guys might not recognize the background." George gestures carelessly behind him. "This is actually the room I'm staying in at Clay's house."
Rain pitter-patters against the window. The storm is getting closer.
"There's a hurricane coming up the coast and I think I'll be here for a little longer than I had expected. So, you guys can expect to see me streaming here for the next few weeks."
In the corner of the room, Clay smirks down at his phone. George wonders if he'll still be here even after the storm passes.