TW for brief/unintentional self harm
"I have something for you."
"What is it?" George asks hesitantly when Clay hands him a sleek, black container. It's a bit like a briefcase, or what a musician would carry a flute in.
"Open it. You'll see."
Reluctantly, George undoes the latches on the side. He braces himself for there to be something alive in there, maybe a rattlesnake, maybe a stillborn fetus, maybe the impossibly beating heart of the man that killed himself in Clay's house.
Instead, a pistol is nestled in a bit of foam. It's a G17: matte and plain in appearance, but the words 'I'll always protect you,' are engraved along the barrel. It's a gun that's straight to the point—no frills or whistles—yet somehow its simplicity is what makes it particularly elegant. Reverently, George gently runs the pads of his fingers along the shallow indents of the words. The grip fits his hand perfectly. It feels right. It makes emotion swell in his chest.
"Do you like it? I wasn't sure if you'd be a fan of the engraving since you're more minimalistic when it comes to this stuff."
"Perfect." George whispers and launches himself at Clay, hands clasped together behind Clay's neck. "It's perfect. Thank you."
"Are you crying?" Clay runs his fingers along George's scalp.
"Shut up." George sniffles. "This was just really sweet of you. I love you."
"I'm glad you like it." Clay presses a kiss to George's forehead and George can feel the Clay-shaped space in his heart become just a bit more permanent. "I love you, too. But you knew that already."
"The same goes for you."
"Huh?" Clay looks down the slope of his nose at George, eyes dark and lids heavy.
"I'll always protect you, too." George says. And despite everything, he means it. That's what best friends— lovers— do, right? No matter what happens, remain ceaselessly loyal to each other.
"Will you now?" Clay smirks teasingly.
"Don't be an ass." George says and jokingly slots the pistol under Clay's chin. "It's not smart to insult a man with a gun."
"Pull it." Clay says, hand enveloping George's own and flicking off the safety. "Show me who's boss."
"It's not even loaded." George whimpers when Clay's grip tightens on his hand, willing his fingers towards the trigger. "Right?"
"Why don't you find out?" Clay tilts his head back lazily, exposing the long, smooth column of his neck. "Pull the trigger, George."
"You wouldn't give me a loaded gun." George's fingers hover over the trigger.
"I trust you." Clay answers quietly and that's how George knows.
George kicks Clay in the shin, enough to stun him for a few seconds, and yanks his wrist away and flips the safety back on.
"You're such an idiot." George punches Clay in the shoulder.
Clay laughs and dodges the slap George aims at his face. "Chill. Nothing happened."
"You need to stop trying to get me to shoot you."
"I probably should." Clay pecks George on the lips. "But I won't."
"What's it going to take? Do I actually have to shoot you for you to stop?" George huffs. "This is ridiculous. This shouldn't even be something up to debate."
"You'd never shoot me. You can't." Clay smiles, something sadistic in his grin.
"You don't know that." George protests weakly, even though he knows it's true. Something about that scares him, because he knows if it came down to it, he'd be the one with a bullet in his chest.
"Don't worry." Clay says, and George wonders if he can read minds. "You'd never need to. I'm always going to protect you, remember?"
"I trust you." George let's Clay sink his teeth into his bottom lip. Clay slips his tongue into George's mouth and George goes pliant in Clay's arms. Clay has been his safe space for a while.
"I know." Clay whispers when they pull away.
—
"How have I been?" George wonders out loud as he reads the comment.
Images of blood-slick fingers and matte-black guns flash through his mind. Yet, simultaneously, he can only focus on how loved he feels, how Clay will tangle their legs together in bed and whisper sweet nothings against kiss-swollen lips.
"Great." George answers. "I've been great."
He thinks he means it.
"Yeah. I'm still at Clay's house." George shrugs, responding to the chat. "I like it here."
As George answers more questions, he realizes how much he misses his home. His friends, his family, even his pets, are all in Brighton. The only thing tethering him to Florida is Clay.
And yet he still can't convince himself to want to leave.
—
"Christ, your hair is getting long." George grabs the chode-like ponytail that rests at the crown of Clay's head. His hair is getting closer to mullet length, but not quite long enough to have a solid man bun.
"What, you don't like it?" Clay smirks. "Does this weird half-up situation not do it for you?"
"No. I like it." George likes it more than he's willing to admit. He likes how Clay wears a headband when he washes his face and ties his hair up when they're working in the yard. Most of all, George likes it when Clay's hair is loose and unstyled, curling behind his hair and perfect for George to run his fingers through.
"What if I got a haircut? Would you still like it then?"
"Yeah. It's you, of course I'd still like it." George gives the hair-chode another appreciative squeeze. "What were you thinking?"
"For my hair? An undercut. I probably can't pull it off though, but it's whatever." Clay shrugs.
"You're going to look so fucking hot." George slaps a hand over his mouth. "I mean. Yeah, it'll look good."
"What? You have an undercut fetish or something?" Clay laughs teasingly.
"Absolutely not." George lies through his teeth.
"Sure." Clay looks annoyingly smug. "Want to go into town tonight? We can get dinner and then head to the barber after."
"I'm down, but why tonight? Your hair is already long, what's the rush at this point?"
"Nick's arriving tomorrow and I need to have that fresh cut for my boy." Clay says, voice far too serious.
"You did not just say that." George scoffs. "Ew. Delete yourself."
"Come on, last one out the door is a rotten egg. Speedrun this shit."
"Idiot. I'm dating an idiot." George mutters to himself, but smiles nonetheless.
—
"This just in!" The calm music playing in the barber shop is interrupted by a shrill, female voice. "The remains of Connor Jackson, who is one of the main suspects of being the Florida Fiend, were found just off the coast. Stay tuned for further updates."
—
Clay has barely paid the barber when George grabs him by the wrist and drags him out to the car.
"Explain." George demands.
"What?"
"Don't play dumb. You heard the radio. Remains off the coast." George says hurriedly as he resists the urge to vomit. "That night... was that him?"
"Are you asking me if the man who fucking killed himself on my property was Connor Jackson?"
"Quit stalling, Clay."
"Relax. That wasn't him." Clay says.
"How do you know?" George furrows his brow.
"Because that man was Jack Hill—not Connor whoever-the-fuck!" Clay yells. "I know the man that killed himself in my sister's room, because I fucking hate him! I've wanted him dead for so long and I wasn't even the one that got to kill him!"
"Clay." George says nervously and presses his back against the car door.
"You want to know why? Huh?!" Clay screams. "He killed her! He fucking killed my sister! Is that what you wanted to know?!"
"I'm sorry, you don't have to explain." George tries to say, but Clay is louder.
"He fucking stalked her for years! I tried to protect her, to keep her safe, but I couldn't. The only thing he hated more than the idea of not having her was someone else having her. So he fucking murdered her!" Clay claws at his own arms and George tries to pry his fingers away.
"Clay, stop. You're hurting yourself." George pleads and pulls at Clay's hands.
"Is that what you wanted to know?" Clay croaks brokenly. He buries his face in his hands. Small rivulets of blood run down his arms.
"I'm sorry." George whispers. He knows he doesn't have the full picture, but he doesn't need it. Clay is hurting, and that's all George needs to know.
George ends up driving them back to Clay's house, even though he's sitting on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road.
Clay doesn't say anything until they're sitting in the bathtub together. It was the only thing George could think to do to comfort Clay, but it seems to have worked.
"I'm sorry." Clay says quietly. "I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just hard for me to talk about this."
"It's okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you to that point."
"It's not your fault. I should've explained before. I can tell you more if you want?" Clay says, but he looks like that's the last thing he wants to do.
"It's okay." George says gently. "I trust you. I don't need to know anything else."
"Thank you." Clay smiles at him, small but genuine. "I love you."
"I love you, too." George takes Clay's hand. "I also love your haircut, it looks great."
"You think so?"
"Yeah. It's sexy."
"Shut up." Clay rolls his eyes.
George stares at the water, but then something occurs to him. "Shit. The water. They found that guy dead in the water."
"The Florida Fiend is dead." Clay shrugs. "Isn't that a good thing?"
"That's not the problem. They're looking in the water for human remains now. They're going to scour the coast for more evidence of what happened"
"They won't find anything. At least, not anything of use."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I'll try to say it gently: the body is unidentifiable. I don't want to get into specifics, but you don't need to worry about it."
"Right." George swallows. He decides that however Clay mutilated the body is the least pressing issue he's facing in the grand scheme of things.
Clay motions for him to turn around and George leans into Clay's chest. He lets his eyes close and tries not to think about murder.
—
"Bro." Nick lets out a low whistle and steps out of his car. "Your house is on that big-big shit."
"Land's cheap." Clay shrugs. "Might as well, right?"
"It's cheap in Texas, too. You must be making bank off the YouTube grind."
"YouTube pays well. Twitch isn't bad either." Clay shrugs. "I have a side hustle, too."
"The fuck? You selling vapes to middle schoolers or something?" Nick laughs.
"No, you asshole. Investments." Clay rolls his eyes. "Come on, George is waiting for us inside."
"Sounds like some mafia shit." Nick mutters but follows Clay into the foyer.
"Hey, Nick." George grins.
"George! Don't be a stranger, gimme some sugar, hottie." Nick opens his arms and makes grabby hands at George.
"Is this what you do to girls? No wonder they don't like you." George teases, but returns Nick's hug.
It's their first time meeting in person, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels like coming home.
"Shut up. You act like you guys don't have to date each other because no one else will." Nick laughs.
"You told him?" George hisses and elbows Clay in the side.
"No?" Clay looks at Nick accusingly.
"Are you kidding me? You guys are so disgusting on stream. Clay doesn't even need to show his face for it to be obvious. You might as well just rail each other on camera at this point."
"As if." George scoffs. "You're just jealous."
"Why would I be jealous? If anything—"
"Oh. My. God." Clay groans. "You guys somehow fight even more in person than you do online. I should've known."
"We aren't fighting." George mumbles.
"Sure." Clay smirks.
"God, I'm tired." Nick complains. "Did you know it's a fifteen fucking hour drive? I sure didn't."
"George, why don't you take Nick to the guest room? I'll get started on dinner, or something."
"Sure." George motions for Nick to follow.
"Ew. Y'all are domestic as fuck." Nick fake gags once they're out of Clay's earshot.
"Shut up." George says, because Nick is right. They are kind of gross.
"Not gonna lie, looks like a psych ward in here. Could just be the sleep deprivation speaking, though."
"Guest room isn't much better." George opens the door to a room that is plain and sterile looking. The only thing missing is the bitter scent of disinfectant. "It's better with the blinds open. Here, I'll do it. Clay has these weird high-tech windows."
George approaches the window, but then he's flat on the floor and can't remember how he got there.
"George? Fuck, I'll get Clay." Nick looks scared. It's strange to see an emotion on his face that isn't underscored by cockiness. It reminds George just how young Nick really is.
"I'm fine. I'm fine." George forces himself to sit up and ignores how he blacks out for a few seconds. "Just tripped."
"What the fuck? I literally just saw you faint. Don't give me that bullshit. You're not okay." Nick's eyes are serious and George feels transparent. He wonders if Nick can tell that he's averaging an hour of sleep each night and living off of fun-size boxes of raisinettes from Clay's pantry. "You're already a skinny guy, you look sick."
"I'm fine." George insists even though his piss has become neon green from the amount of energy drinks he consumes. It's not that he can't sleep, it's that he's terrified that something bad will happen while he's sleeping. Or how he can't close his eyes without feeling the coldness of Clay's pistol at the nape of his neck.
"Dude..."
"Drop it, Nick." George gives him a steely glance. "Clay is making dinner. We're going to go eat with him and everything is going to be fine, okay?"
"Please don't make me regret keeping this between us." Nick sighs.
"I won't." George promises, but even he knows it's an empty one.
—
"You're shorter in person, Nick." Clay says at the dinner table. "You're definitely being generous saying that you're 5'10."
"You act like George isn't, like, 5'8 at best." Nick huffs.
"Whatever." George sets his fork down. Immediately, Nick kicks him in the shin and sends him a pointed look. George ignores him.
"Hey, George's height is great." Clay says, somewhere between joking and possessive. "I love it. Ten out of ten."
"You're such an idiot." George smiles, and laces their hands together across the table.
"Excuse me while I—" Nick fake retches into his soup.
"Douchebag." Clay snorts. "Cut it out."
Nick flashes Clay the finger and George feels vaguely like a middle school teacher.
—
"You have a gun?" Nick glances at the Glock sitting casually on the couch, and then back at Clay's face. "Since when?"
"That's actually George's, but yeah. I have a few." Clay shrugs. "I forgot to ask you, what's it been like in Houston after the election?"
"What the fuck? You can't just say, 'yeah I have weapons' and then start asking me about Joe Biden."
"Why not? It's not a big deal. I have some. I gifted George one. It's fine." Clay replies placidly.
"It's not a big deal, I guess. I just thought you supported gun control." Nick says accusingly. "And what's with George? He's literally British."
"I support gun control and I own guns. They can coexist." Clay answers simply. "I don't get why you're being so weird about it, though."
"Because you literally don't need to own guns, Clay. This is how school shootings happen—people that don't need to have guns have them anyway."
"I'm not going to shoot up a school, dumbass." Clay says lowly. "And I have a right to protect myself."
"From what?!" Nick exclaims. "Fucking armadillos?"
Instantaneously, Clay is in Nick's face, pressing him against the wall. "Have you considered that it's none of your business? I've been through things that you don't know about, Nick. Things that you're not going to know about."
Nick glances at the gun, before snapping his eyes back to look at Clay.
"What?" Clay smiles, but there's something sinister about it. "You afraid I'm going to shoot you."
"No." Nick says immediately, because it seems wise not to antagonize the Armed Man. This isn't his friend, this isn't Clay. This is a man that Nick has never met before and prays he will never meet again.
"Exactly. Because I'm a good gun owner and wouldn't shoot someone that I care about." Clay grins manically and carelessly snatches the gun off the couch. He points it at Nick's chest.
Nick doesn't know much about guns, but he thinks that Clay just flipped the safety off.
"Clay, what the hell are you doing?" George looks tired and is wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt. He probably just woke up, but a fire burns in his eyes and he holds himself straighter than Nick has seen since he arrived.
"Nothing." Clay says simply, but doesn't lower the gun. "I'm just proving to Nick that I'm a good gun owner."
George steps in front of Nick and lets Clay rest the gun on his sternum. "I don't care what you think you were accomplishing, but you can't just point guns at your friends."
"What's it to you?"
"Huh?" George takes a step back towards Nick, but the gun follows.
"You have a thing for Nick? Is that it?" Clay sneers.
"Are you insane? No. He's my friend. And he's supposed to be your friend too."
"Prove it, then. Tell me you love me."
"Put the gun down." George answers just as coldly.
Clay seems like he isn't going to waver, but then he gives the gun to George who immediately pockets it.
"Come here, Clay." George whispers.
Clay towers over George, but bends down so he can hide his face in the crook of George's neck.
"I love you." George says. Clay starts crying.
Nick feels uncomfortable and afraid. Because what the fucking fuck.
"I'm sorry." Clay turns to face Nick, eyes red with tears. "I'll be back in a bit. I'm going outside to cool off for a little while."
"You shouldn't be alone right now." George grabs Clay's hand on the way out the door.
"I'll be fine." Clay insists, green eyes watery but sincere. He presses a tender kiss to George's forehead. "Nick is probably pretty shaken up. Please make sure he knows I apologize."
"I will."
—
"George. You've got to get out of here. Let me help get you out of here. I can take you back with me to Houston or something. All I know is that you can't stay here." Nick says hurriedly as soon as the door closes behind Clay.
"Why? Clay isn't dangerous."
"Don't tell me you actually believe that. He just pointed a gun at the both of us."
"It's complicated..." George trails off. "Clay has some issues, but he's not a bad person. And he wouldn't have pulled the trigger. I can promise you that."
"How can you say that? He's clearly unstable. Normal people don't have violent outbursts like that."
"You're shaking." George says.
"No, shit!" Nick screeches. "I'm fucking terrified!"
"I'm sorry." George sighs. "Clay feels bad, too. You know?"
"I don't know." Nick deadpans. "I don't know what to believe."
"It's okay." George pulls Nick into a hug.
"I don't even know who you are anymore." Nick admits. "The George I know would never own a gun. The George I know would've left this place a long time ago."
George feels himself freeze. He opens his mouth to respond but no words come. Nick is right. Even George doesn't recognize the man in the mirror anymore.
"George let me get you out, please . You're dying here. You're going to kill yourself if he doesn't kill you first." Nick pleads.
"I'll think about it, okay? That's all I can give you right now."
Nick looks worn and defeated, but he nods solemnly. "Okay. At any moment, if you decide you want out, I'll be here. I don't care if I'm in Texas, I don't care that I've known Clay longer than I've known you. You're my best friend, and I'll love you forever, okay?"
"Okay." George says even though he knows he's already made the wrong decision.