-George's POV-
I stare blankly at the ceiling, trying to do something, anything, except look back at the opposite corner.
Moving locations wasn't exactly an option after Tubbo's disappearance, so we were forced to stay in the same camp we were attacked in. To return to the very same room, which meant dealing with the aftermath of said attack, a task which has proven harder than I anticipated.
It's so hard to forget it.
Impossible, really, when scenes of it are still scorched into my head, meaning the blanket covering the mess Clay was unable to get out of the floorboards may as well not be there. Almost like it's invisible, when I'm left trying to ingrain into my mind that I won't be able to see it if I look, but it doesn't feel that way at all. That knowledge does nothing to comfort me, not when I can picture enough without a single glance back.
Even though the body isn't there anymore, it feels like it is.
In frustration I screw my eyes shut, trying to focus on the searing flashes of white and grey and everything else that is so, so far from red, but can't help reminding me of it. I've never understood why of all things that I could remember, it would be things like this, but I find myself appreciating it anyway, no matter how gruesome the images are.
It has to be better than the amnesia.
Thankfully, my thoughts are quickly interrupted by someone. They knock timidly from outside and wait for a response before opening the door, a gesture I find sweet when I'm certain that I know who it is already. I'm sure they must be aware of that too, but still choose to knock after what happened. It's left all of us on edge even days later, so we've all been more cautious of surprising each other.
"Again, I was joking," I sigh as Clay enters, fumbling with the collection of flowers in his hand as he tries to close the door behind him. "Well, you should've known better than to suggest it to me in the first place," he wheezes, sticking his tongue out childishly as he resorts to kicking the door shut with his foot.
I manage to yell an apology just before the slamming noise shakes the walls, earning a scream from one room and a string of curses from another.
"Sweet of you to warn me, but you have to do the same for everyone else," I mutter bitterly, shooting Clay a glare. Though my anger doesn't last long when a characteristic "language!" is yelled after the swearing, causing us all to laugh instead.
I hastily pull bunches of flowers out of Clay's hands while he wheezes, attempting to flatten out the petals of barely salvageable ones and throwing long-crushed ones away. Clay seems to take a liking to them anyway, letting me take the remining flowers from him before scooping the pile of deader ones into his arms.
He picks out what looks like a white lily, pulling the already torn petals from the stem. I have half a mind to complain about the pollen cloud he's creating before karma strikes instead, leaving Clay a spluttering mess.
"Not your wisest decision," I smirk, unable to tear the smile from my lips even after I start choking too. "It's always surprised me how someone people are so scared of, and claim is so smart can be so incredibly stupid."
Clay doesn't bother protesting, too busy joyfully destroying the flowers in his hands to spare a thought to my insults. I stare at the flowers in my own, sifting through a few before one in particular catches my eye.
"I think you should have this one, this time," I shrug, adding the special flower to the top of his collection. For a second I think he'll shred it too, but as soon as his eyes catch sight of the red chrysanthemum, he stops.
"If only you'd have known more flower meanings at the time, maybe you'd have taken the hint."
Clay plucks the flower from the pile, twirling it between his fingertips before pushing the stem into his hair. He makes sure to adjust the flower so that it won't fall, balancing it against the shell of his ear. It's something I find adorable to watch, amused by the way his freckles seem to merge as he scrunches up his eyes in concentration.
"Well, if you'd have told me before you gave it to me, maybe we wouldn't have had that problem! Or everything that came after, considering it took me kissing you for you to tell me," I quip, knowing I've said almost those exact words several times before. It's just one of those things my mind has never been able to erase, caught up on the idea of what could've been, had we known sooner. "That was such a disaster..."
"We've never been anything but a beautiful disaster, sunshine."
"Glad you think it's beautiful."
"Well, isn't it?"
I search the scene around me, trying to find something pleasant underneath all the blood and splintered wood. I've always thought this place looks nicer just before dusk, when the evening sun seeps through the planked walls and paints every room in a stripy array of colours I'll never truly be able to see.
That same glow is visible now, bright in our eyes but leaving behind an unmistakable warmth that in the strangest way, feels almost homely. Even more so when it makes Clay look like that, sun-soaked skin bathed in an ethereal glow which even I know is yellow.
And it's then, when he's smiling at me with the name 'sunshine' on his lips that I think maybe, just maybe there's something beautiful buried within this disaster after all.
"It could be better."
"Of course it could be," Clay scoffs, rolling his eyes in that slow, sarcastic way that makes it obvious to me he knows there's things I'm leaving unsaid. "But just because it isn't perfect doesn't mean it isn't beautiful."
I notice Clay has shredded the remainder of the dead flowers and impatiently tug at his sleeve, pulling him towards me. He seems to get the hint, laughing to himself before wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
I'm given roughly three seconds to enjoy the moment before I'm the one being tugged, Clay using his new hold on me to pull me into his lap.
"What was that for?!" I stutter, frustrated moments like these still make me so flustered. "That's what you get for being needy," Clay teases, a stupidly wide grin illuminating his features. "I'm not needy," I grumble, knowing my actions do nothing to prove my point.
"Yeah?" Clay leans forward ever so slightly, and I take the hint, meeting him halfway. I wait there expectantly, letting him routinely trail his fingers down my face, settle at my jaw before cupping it. He offers me a soft smile before pressing our foreheads together, so close our noses brush, and I'm waiting, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation for what comes next.
Except it doesn't, Clay purposely ghosting my lips with a devilish grin, letting me be the one to lean forward just so he can be the one to lean back.
"Still not needy?" he smirks, giggling turning to harsh wheezing once he notices the stunned look on my face. "Oh, and remind me again who was tugging my arm literally a minute ago because they wanted cuddles?"
"Shut up."
"Make me, sunshine."
So impatiently, I close the gap myself. This time our lips meet, and I attempt to suffocate my sigh of content when he's pulling me closer, arms now wrapped protectively around my waist. I'm only fuelling his point and I know it, but something about the way I can feel his lips twist into a grin against mine makes me think I'm the one winning, and I can't find it within me to care otherwise.
There's something so frustratingly addictive about it, how he manages to trap me in these situations and I always end up succumbing to the need to finish what he starts.
Like when he pulls away and it feels too soon, when I'm whining "please, do it again," before I have time to contemplate the words, not that I'd take them back anyway.
So maybe I am needy, overwhelmed by the need to feel the dizzying rush that only he can provide, the one that makes me desperate to be kissed by him and only him. It's the same feeling that makes me aware that he'll be the only person I ever kiss due to this system, and that even if it didn't exist, I wouldn't want it any other way.
Clay, much to my delight, can't seem to find a reason to deny me, pressing our lips back together with what feels like desperation. Then it's me that gets to laugh, ridicule him between breaths when he's the one chasing after kisses, resorting to pulling my bottom lip between his teeth after I try to tease him again.
"Well, I got what I wanted," I sneer, plucking the flower from his hair before leaving my hand in its place. With the other I trace shapes into his cheek, joining freckles into constellations while trying to ignore the numbing sensation tingling my lips.
"As did I," he muses sweetly, at last letting go to add one more chaste kiss. Then to the scar on my jaw, routinely, and I do the same to the mark I made in his forehead. It feels like so long ago and yet so recently that that disaster happened, and I don't know if either option is better.
And yeah, we're definitely a mess and this definitely is far from perfect, but in this moment, I can't seem to care.