"You want to plant some tomatoes with me?"
"What?" Nick sets down his phone. "Tomatoes?"
George grins. "Clay has this planter out back that he never uses. I've never planted anything since the weather in England is ass, so why not? It's going to be fun."
"Why tomatoes, though? They're fucking nasty." Nick wrinkles his nose, but stands from the couch.
"I like them."
"Well, you would." Nick mutters.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Nick laughs and follows George out the back door. "Okay, where the hell is this shit?"
Set carefully on a tarp in front of the planter are two pairs of gardening gloves and some gardening supplies. Small tomato plants sit cheerfully in their plastic cartons.
George hands Nick the red gloves and keeps the blue gloves for himself.
"Hey, why do you get the blue gloves?" Nick complains.
"I literally cannot see the other ones." George deadpans.
"It's not like being colorblind makes them invisible." Nick mutters but pulls on the gloves anyway.
"Okay, so I read a WikiHow on this. Here, loosen up the soil or something." George says and passes Nick a tool.
"Huh? What even is this thing?"
"It's a hoe." George says dryly.
"Like, from Minecraft?"
"Oh my god. You did not just say that."
"What?"
"Hoes are real things, Nick. They exist outside of a fucking video game." George guffaws.
"I knew that." Nick grumbles.
"Sure." George is still bent over laughing. "Stab the dirt or something with it."
"Asshat." Nick says, but complies.
George kneels down beside Nick and they get to work, pulling weeds, preparing the soil, and making little holes that they nestle the tomato plants into. They work in amicable silence, with Nick humming under his breath. Even though Nick misses every note, George still loves it. Nick is easy to be around in all the ways that Clay isn't.
The thought settles uncomfortably in the back of George's mind, because part of him knows that Clay isn't good for him. And even just as friends, that Nick could give him so much more.
"Hey, you got something there." Nick says, snapping George out of his thoughts.
"Where?"
"There." Nick repeats and smears a clump of mud across George's forehead. Immediately, he gets up and sprints toward the woods.
"You're so, ugh!" George groans, but can't help to smile. It's the most alive he's felt in a long time.
(If George had been looking, he would've seen Clay lurking beneath the shade of a willow tree. He would've seen the cruel smile on his face, and the seething jealousy in his eyes. Because Clay is always watching, and always has been.)
—
"George, what's that room at the end of the hall?"
"The one with the passcode lock?" George asks Nick.
"Yeah. What's Clay hiding in there?"
"He has his security system set-up in there, it's really not that exciting." George shrugs, repressing the image of bloodied walls.
"How do you know? Do you know the passcode?" Nick asks conspiratorially.
"I've been in there before, and no, I don't know the passcode." George glances over his shoulder briefly. Clay's at the store, but most of the cameras in the house are equipped with microphones, too.
"You'd think it was Clay's sex dungeon or something." Nick chortles.
Wordlessly, George motions for Nick to follow him into the kitchen. There's a dead spot, for both audio and video by the oven. George wonders how Clay hasn't noticed it after all this time.
"I couldn't get into the room on my own, so I hacked into the cloud that stores the security footage." George feels bad for betraying Clay's trust, but tells himself that he was never specifically told not to hack into the security system
"Dude, how?"
"Honestly, I don't know. I just played around with some shit until it worked." George is an experienced programmer, but he still only knows what he's doing ten percent of the time.
"That's fair." Nick laughs.
—
Clay comes home covered in blood and dirt late that night, a wicked sharp knife dangling carelessly from his fingertips.
"Hunting." He says, even though George knows that Clay only uses rifles to hunt, and it's too dark outside for hunting to even be viable.
"Right." George bites his tongue. He doesn't ask any questions and tries not to entertain any of his own suspicions. He likes it more this way. It's better to not ask questions about things he knows he won't like the answers to. He's not stupid, after all. He knows what's happening even if he can't admit to himself.
Clay presses a bloodied finger to his lip and George nods. It's probably best that they don't wake Nick.
"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." George hears himself whisper. Everything feels like a dream, floaty and inconsequential.
George gently scrubs the grime from Clay's calloused palms and massages shampoo into his scalp. If George wasn't so nauseated, it would almost feel romantic. Eventually, Clay is clean of blood and the pink stained water runs clear. But still, the metallic scent of blood lingers in George's nose. It makes him want to gag.
He lets Clay press a grateful kiss to his lips and tries to convince himself that he can't taste a stranger's blood on Clay's teeth.
—
"George, do you still have access to the security footage from last night?"
"Why?" George feels his stomach turn.
"I don't know, I just heard some weird noises outside last night, so I was wondering what it was."
George can still taste blood on his tongue, and can't forget the blade that Clay held. He can't let Nick see that footage.
"It was probably just the wildlife. The animals are scary around here?" George shrugs.
"You're literally a terrible liar. Come on, what are you hiding? Just show me the footage."
George opens his mouth to protest, to lie, to divert, but nothing comes. He has no more fight left in him. He's tired. Distantly, he recalls that he wasn't always like this, he used to be witty and cunning. He used to be more than just a shell.
"Okay." George answers quietly. "When did you hear the noises?"
"Around midnight."
George scrolls through hours of footage until he gets to the correct minute mark. The cameras in the backyard are night vision, and cast a weird sheen over everything. But still, even in the pitch darkness, the image is clear and distinct.
George presses play.
Thirty minutes pass without a hitch. The raccoon that keeps eating their garbage emerges from the woods and then leaves a few minutes later with a banana peel in its maw. A few palmettos pass in front of the camera. Everything is as it should be.
They watch for a few more minutes and George is about ready to throw in the towel. He wonders if maybe he imagined it all. It's an unnerving thought, but not impossible. His mind has been betraying him lately, after all.
"Wait. The fuck is that?" Nick jabs his finger at the screen. In the distance, a large, dark something cloaked in shadows emerges from the left side of the frame. Another dead spot, George notes. He's starting to wonder if it's intentional.
George squints and tries to understand what he's looking at. It's hard to tell at first, but as the figure nears the camera he realizes it's unmistakably human. A man of Clay's build is carrying what could be a human over his shoulder.
George spares a glance at Nick, who looks frozen to the spot. Both warm sympathy and burning hot anger come over him briefly. It's startling, to feel some variety of emotion.
The figure nears the tool shed that sits snugly between two birch trees and carelessly throws the person to the ground. The sound is muffled, but George can still hear the thump through the speakers of his laptop.
After a few minutes, the man emerges again, with a blade that George immediately recognizes: long, sharp, and sickle-like.
The man then crouches above the body. His back is facing the camera and his facial features are indistinguishable, but George knows it's Clay.
Somehow though, even though he knows, he can't admit it to himself. It's strange that the knowledge that it is Clay can coexist in his mind with the belief that it isn't.
"What the fuck?" Nick is gripping the table with a white knuckled grip.
George focuses back on the screen and realizes that he must've spaced out for a while. The man is starting to saw mangled limbs from the torso of the person in the dirt. Dark patches stain the tall grass and it takes George a moment to realize that it's blood.
"I'm going to throw up." Nick says and George immediately slams his laptop shut. He doesn't need to keep watching to know what's next.
Regret churns in George's stomach. He let Nick see too much, he should've been more careful.
"Shit. I should've stopped playing it sooner." George apologizes.
Nick doesn't answer. He looks pale and horrified. George can't blame him for it.
"Are you okay?" George asks hesitantly. Because Nick is obviously not okay.
Nick hangs his head and curses under his breath. "Get out."
"What?"
"You need to get out of here."
"Nick, I already told you that I'd think about it."
"You need to make up your mind real quick, then. Because you can't stay here."
"I'm fine." George replies weakly. "Everything's okay."
Nick ignores him. "Something bad is happening here, George. I don't know what the fuck that was, but I know Clay is involved with it."
"How? How are you so sure?" George snaps, feeling oddly defensive. "You couldn't even see his face."
"What the hell? Why are you protecting him?"
"I just don't think it's him." George lies. "It can't be him. He was with me last night."
"Whatever. That doesn't change the fact that you can't stay here. It's not safe."
George doesn't answer, because what would he even say? Nick is right. He's not safe here.
"Jesus Christ, why aren't you freaking out? We just saw a fucking corpse get violently mutilated, and you seem fine."
"I'm not fine, okay?" George exclaims. "I just..."
"You just what?" Nick pushes.
George bites the inside of his cheek and thinks it would be a bad idea to mention that he's not freaking out because he's seen so much worse. Because he's done so much worse.
"I don't know." George mumbles after some time.
"You have to get out of here. I'm serious."
"I can't, Nick. I'm sorry." George says softly.
For a moment, Nick looks impossibly saddened. "I can't convince you to come with me, can I?"
"I can fix this." George insists. "Everything's going to be okay."
"Are you insane? You're in denial if you think anything about this is fixable." Nick sighs. "But, if it ever comes down to it, you have me, okay? I promise. I'll protect you."
"Thank you." George whispers. Nick pulls him into a hug and George tries not to cry. "I'm sorry."
—
"George!" A voice hisses. "George, wake the fuck up!"
"Huh?" George slurs groggily. "What time is it?"
The sun is low in the sky and the clouds are awash with the pale orange of an autumn sunset.
Nick ignores him. "Clay's out right now. Come with me, we can leave."
"Where'd he go?" George immediately asks. He frowns and wonders why Clay didn't tell him he was going anywhere.
"I don't know? He just said 'out.' Does it even matter? Just come with me."
"I'm not going anywhere. Just let me sleep." George groans.
"I hate you." Nick sighs. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."
"What are you doing?!" George scrambles out of bed as Nick yanks his external hard drive out of his laptop. George knows the video he was working on probably was corrupted in the process, but he can't bring himself to care. It's not like he's made any content that he's proud of lately.
However, on that drive are hundreds of other files that he actually cares about. Favorite videos that he made before everything became so complicated, pictures of his family—just generally things that he wants to hold on to.
"Giving you an incentive." Nick replies and bolts down the hallway before George can respond.
"What the fuck?" George mutters and jogs after Nick.
When George finds him, Nick is sitting in the gravel at the front of his car, stupid hard drive still clutched in his hands. Clay's car is also parked in the driveway and George wonders if he just got back.
"Nick?" George asks from where he lingers apprehensively by the front door.
"My tires." Nick says lowly.
And that's when George sees it. All four of Nick's tires are slashed.
George approaches Nick and kneels beside him. Carved into the rubber of one of the front tires is a message: Going so soon?
"Clay did this." Nick mutters. "Fucking bastard slashed my tires."
"He wouldn't have." George says defensively. "We can watch the security footage later. I'm sure it was someone else."
"Are you stupid, George?" Nick barks. "Who else would do this? Who else would even know that I was planning on leaving?"
"I'm sure there's an explanation." George says meekly.
"Hey! Everything okay out there?" Clay calls, emerging from the front seat of his own car. He gives Nick's car a once over and grimaces. "Yikes, that looks rough."
"You fucking slashed my tires!" Nick yells, but it sounds strangled, almost like he's about to cry.
The gravel crunches beneath Clay's boots, the distinct sound of a predator stalking its prey.
"What?" Clay laughs. "You think that I did that?"
"I know you did." Nick's breathing is ragged with poorly suppressed rage.
"Ouch. That's kind of rude."
"Stop playing mind games, Clay. I know it was you."
"How?" Clay smirks.
"You son of a—"
"You should head inside, George." Clay turns to face George, his expression immediately softening.
"Why?" George asks shakily. His fingers twitch toward where he has his gun hidden in the waistband of his pants. He's been so on edge lately that he feels like something is out of place if it's not on him.
Clay must see the fear in George's eyes. "Don't worry. Nick and I are just going to have a talk . Man to man."
George swallows and nods. He nearly trips over his own feet on his way back inside.
Nick flashes him a betrayed look and George wants to cry.
George rushes to open his laptop as quickly as his shaking hands can manage. He enlarges the feed from the camera in the front yard. The audio is faint and poor quality, but George can still hear them.
"I'm gonna level with you, Nick. I thought having you visit was going to go a lot better than this." Clay drawls. "I tried to turn a blind eye, but all you've done is cause trouble."
"I haven't done shit."
"Keep saying that. It won't make it true." Clay grins sinisterly. "I invited you because George trusts you. Because I thought I could trust you."
"You're the one here that can't be trusted." Nick snaps.
Clay barks a laugh. "Everything was great until you got here. We were better off without you."
"If you want me gone so much, then why'd you slash my tires."
"You seem so certain that it was me. How do you know that you haven't made other enemies?" Clay sneers menacingly.
"Don't give me that." Nick crosses his arms protectively.
"You're smart, Nick. Smarter than you act, smarter than others think."
"Then, I'm smart enough to know that you're toxic. You're killing George. You're ruining him."
"Shut up."
"He's not eating, he's not sleeping. If you actually cared about him you'd let him go."
"You don't know shit about what's happening here." Clay says. "You have a lot of nerve to try to ruin my relationship, on my fucking land. To try to steal George away from me."
"You know that's not what I'm trying to do here, Clay." Nick grits out. "He's my friend . That's why I'm trying to protect him from you."
"From me?" Clay scoffs. "I've seen how you look at him. I know that you've had a thing for him for years—you said it yourself. But I've been patient, so you have no right to barge in now. Your time has passed, Nick."
"Fine. Just know that when George finally breaks, it'll be all your fault." Nick nearly growls. "I'm leaving."
"I don't think so." Clay says evenly. He lifts up the corner of his shirt, revealing tanned skin and a semi-automatic weapon. "You're a liability. Infatuation left unresolved is dangerous. I've seen it first hand. I lost my sister to it, but I'm not losing George."
"Excuse me?"
"Get it through your head, Nick. One way or another, you're never leaving."
"Is that a threat?"
"No. Not a threat. A threat would be baseless." Clay replies as he points the pistol at Nick. "So, I'd be real careful right now. Nothing about this is baseless."
George's heart feels like it's in his throat and he's sprinting through the house before he can fully process what's happening.
"Clay!" George screams. "Stop it!"
"George?" Clay's eyes flicker towards George momentarily. His gaze is tender yet vindictive. A man scorned is a man to be feared.
"Please. Just put down the gun." George pleads. "We can talk about this."
George wants to scream at Nick to run, but he knows he wouldn't get very far, because Clay has impeccable aim and murderous tendencies.
"Baby. Go back inside, okay?" Clay says sweetly, voice laced with honey, as he flips the safety off. "Make yourself some tea."
George's hands are clammy against the handle of the gun as he fumbles with it. But eventually he has it raised and pointed forward.
"Please, don't make me do this." He dry sobs. Overwhelmed and desperate. "Please. If you love me. Please."
"I'm sorry. I hope you know that." Clay says, but the tendons in George's arm are taut and his grip on his Glock is unwavering.
Nick's breath is shallow, and his eyes are panicked. George sees himself in Nick, back when he had yet to give up.
It happens in both an instant and a dreadful eternity. A shot goes off, untempered and deafening in the crisp November air. Birds erupt from a tree in a whirlwind of darkness and cacophony of squawks.
George feels his knees give out and the sharpness of gravel against his cheek.
In that moment he knows that nothing will ever be the same again.