Although George agreed to pay off some of Clay's bills, the tenancy agreement they lived under stated that no guests are allowed to live in the apartment unless they were present at move-in and provided all necessary documents. Needless to say, George had no such documents, and in order to keep the landlord away, the two had to split their usage of water and internet down the middle. What this primarily meant was that hot water ran out faster and therefore needed to be conserved, and Clay couldn't just pay more to have it running for longer because it would look suspicious on his usage report.
When he explained all this to George, the Brit shrugged and fully agreed to the terms.
"That means we have to try and do all our laundry in one big heap," Clay added, leaning on the kitchen table.
"That's fine," George confirmed again.
With a nod, Clay pushed off the table and prepared breakfast, after which he took his usual seat across from George.
George considered the laundry issue, trying to remember how many clean clothes he had left and whether or not it would be enough to last until wash day.
"We should bake the bread today," he said, finishing his breakfast.
"Alright," Clay said, already pulling up a list of recipes, "but we have to start soon; it's a long process."
"What kind do you prefer?" George asked, tossing his dishes in the sink.
"Hmm," Clay sang, "I'll pick whatever's easiest to prepare."
"Boring," George said, "I would have gone for a nice sourdough. Or rye!"
"George, we don't have those kinds of ingredients," Clay laughed, still scrolling, "all I bought last night was yeast."
"White bread for a white boy..." George mumbled, curling his lip in disappointment.
Clay wheezed from behind him.
The two began the baking process by unpacking all their ingredients and shoveling pots and pans out of the oven. It was early in the morning, and the two had an entire day to bake.
They followed the recipe to their best ability, taking advantage of the spacious kitchen as they laid out all the ingredients and cookware. Clay was in charge of reading the directions, and George took it upon himself to do most of the mixing. An hour or so passed, and they stopped for a breather as they covered the dough to proof.
"It's like our child," George said, peering at the lump of dough through a layer of plastic wrap.
"What the hell-" Clay laughed, combing his hair with his fingers. George giggled at his own stupidity and turned around, leaning against the counter and exhaling.
They had been working nonstop for a while, and now they had time to chill while the yeast did its thing.
"I saw you bought cake mix, too," Clay said, replicating George's stance at the counter.
"It's brownie mix," George corrected with a smile.
"You wanna make that too, while we're here?"
"Yeah, sounds good."
Clay bent down and pulled a bowl and whisk out of a cupboard while George scoured the fridge. Once again, the boys got to work.
Their teamwork was unmatched, and they had the brownies mixed in under 10 minutes.
The batter was a rich and creamy brown, and as Clay folded it around the bowl, he lifted the spatula and brought it to his mouth.
George stuck his hand out and stopped Clay's motion before he could put any on his tongue.
"Dude, this has raw egg in it!" he laughed.
Clay swatted George away. "Whatever, I just want to taste it!"
He licked a spot on the spatula as George cringed. Clay chewed a little and nodded his head, smiling with content.
"Try it," he said, offering the spatula to George.
"God, no," George said, leaning away from the brown mass dripping off the utensil.
"George, it's fine," Clay giggled, pushing the spatula at him.
Finally giving in, George licked the side of the utensil, swishing the batter around his mouth. It tasted like cool melted chocolate, but pockets of powder still fell onto his tongue.
"You have to mix it more," he said, pushing the spatula away.
Clay huffed and cleaned the batter off onto the side of the bowl before going in for more mixing. George just watched, flicking his eyes from the bowl to Clay's arms, where groups of muscles tensed as he vigorously mixed the mass.
When he was done, Clay attempted to get the batter off the spatula without getting his hands dirty, so he lightly banged the utensil on the side of the bowl. When nothing happened, he hit it a little harder, and then harder yet. On the last smack, the mass finally gave out, but in the wrong direction, and several drops of brownie batter catapulted off the plastic.
Clay bounced back in surprise as if he got shot. A few drops landed on his face, the others scattering over the countertop.
George laughed loudly as Clay regained his composure and wiped his face.
"That scared me," Clay gasped, mid-wheeze.
The comment made George laugh even harder, and he gripped the counter for stability.
"Hey," Clay chuckled, picking the spatula up again, "don't be rude."
He swung the spatula in George's direction, causing more batter to splatter over the man.
George yelped and leapt back, feeling the cold drops on his skin.
"Dream!" he screeched, and his friend laughed evilly.
The rest of the baking process went pretty smoothly, and the batter was poured and shoved into the oven without a hitch. By the time the brownies were baking, the dough had expanded and was ready to be kneaded.
Clay and George washed their hands in the sink, pushing and kicking each other out of the way with hushed giggles.
They turned the dough out of the bowl and Clay gave it a slap, which echoed louder than expected and made both of them sputter in laughter.
George kneaded and spread the dough as Clay sprinkled pinches of flour over the surface. They found a good rhythm and slaved away, chatting and laughing.
Absentmindedly, Clay dusted more flour over the dough, not realizing that George had already finished kneading and shaping it.
"Dude, I just-" George huffed.
"Sorry!" Clay grinned apologetically as George clicked his tongue. He watched as his friend re-mixed the dough, and his grin shrank into a mischievous smirk.
He threw another handful of flour onto the dough and watched as George groaned in distress.
"Oh my God, stop," he said, "you're so annoying."
Clay just pursed his lips and stood back, but not for long before quickly grabbing another pinch and tossing it over the bread.
George's distress only fueled Clay's desire to annoy the hell out of his friend.
George didn't say anything else, choosing to simply scoop up the mound of flour around the dough and toss it at Clay, to which the man shrieked and cowered.
"Hey!" Clay yelled, his glasses coated in a dust of white.
"That's what you get," George grinned and dropped the dough into its pan.
Clay wouldn't give up that easily, though. He reached into the bag of flour and grabbed a fistful.
"No-" George said strictly before his face got obliterated.
Clay doubled over in laughter as George stood motionless, his eyes seething in rage. His pores were filled with white dust, and flour was going in his nose, but there was no way he could be actually angry when Clay looked so happy. The man was on the floor, squatting and unable to hold himself up.
George calmly picked up a dishrag and wiped his face, after which he whipped the rag at Clay. The American screeched and jumped up, rubbing the back of his head.
"Take the brownies out," George said calmly, and Clay complied, opening the oven door.
The kitchen smelled of gooey chocolate and sizzling sugar. The entire atmosphere was incredibly inviting, and George watched as steam swirled around Clay's face as he held the tray of brownies. He smiled as Clay's glasses fogged up.
The bread was the next to be put in the oven, and as the door closed once again, Clay and George stood side by side and admired their work.
"Good thing you got the brownie mix," Clay said fondly.
"Good thing you didn't get bread," George added.
They turned to look at each other and locked eyes, allowing the sense of home to hang in the atmosphere as they shared a comfortable silence.
"You look like a mess," Clay said.
"And you're... surprisingly clean..." George rolled his eyes, "why am I the only one covered in trash?"
Clay laughed again and ran his hands through his hair and over his face to make sure he wasn't wearing any stray ingredients as accessories. George noticed a drop of brownie batter that had dried below his eye from when it flew off the spatula.
"Here, wait," George said as Clay missed the spot.
He reached up and scratched the chocolate off with his nail, smoothing out Clay's skin after it was clean. Clay held his breath but didn't say anything.
George drew his hand back immediately after, nonchalantly dropping his gaze to the counter top as he fought the involuntary blush creeping into his ears. Clay just rubbed the space under his eye and smiled lightly, still looking at George.
"Go get cleaned up," Clay said, turning his attention to the filth on George's clothes.
"Oh yeah, thanks for that," George pouted jokingly.
Clay wheezed and started cleaning the kitchen as George left for the bathroom.
George looked at himself in the mirror and gave a sigh of horror, realizing he looked like a ghost. Flour was clumped on his cheeks and flaked through his hair, and his shirt was speckled with batter and dust stains. He washed his face and shook out his hair before going over to his suitcase and rummaging around for a spare shirt. When he couldn't locate a single thing, he groaned.
Clay poked his head out of the kitchen.
"Dream," George called, "I'm all out of clean tops."
"Hold on-" Clay said with a pause, leaving the kitchen and disappearing down the hall.
George went back into the bathroom and flung off his shirt, goosebumps already rising on his chest. The warmth of the oven didn't reach the rest of the apartment, and the heater wasn't really pumping out enough to keep warm.
George rubbed his arms and walked out just as Clay emerged from his bedroom with a navy hoodie.
He made his way halfway through the living room and stopped when he saw George standing half-nude in the doorway.
He ran his eyes over his friend's chest, slightly distracted by the view. George furrowed his brow and crossed his arms, suddenly self-conscious.
"Uh, here," Clay snapped back, smiling and holding out the hoodie.
"Thanks," George said, quickly pulling it on. It smelled the same as Clay; the deep pine that he was slowly getting used to.
So it is laundry detergent, George noted.
The hoodie was slightly oversized but fit nicely, with the hems falling just past George's palms and hips. He adjusted the hood and aligned the drawstrings, all while Clay watched intently with an unknown look on his face.
"I'll give it back to you after laundry is done," George said, smiling at Clay.
"Oh, yeah," Clay said, "you can, uh, keep it if you want."
"Really?" George looked up, his cheeks growing rosy yet again.
"Mhm, it's a bit small for me."
"Alright, thanks."
"Yeah," Clay rubbed the back of his neck, "it looks better on you anyway."
George grinned and looked away, which was Clay's cue to rush past him and back into the kitchen.
When he composed himself, George peeked in to see Clay remove the bread from the oven and set it down beside the brownie tray. That evening, they settled down in front of the TV with warm glasses of milk and binged the tray of sweets, with George wrapped cozily in Clay's hoodie. George wasn't really a fan of straight up drinking milk, but Clay insisted they do because it was a staple meal. George didn't admit that he agreed; the brownies went fantastic with the milk.
The day was well spent, and the two had definitely earned a break. They watched an episode of some stupid reality show, but Clay could only think of one reality; the one he was living in, in which a new problem presented itself.
The heat of the kitchen had subsided long ago, but the heat in George's fingers as they ran over Clay's cheek was still etched into him.
Even stranger was the clothing exchange. Clay had absolutely no problem giving his best friend a hoodie to borrow. He would have done it any day, with not so much as a second thought, but today, for some reason it felt miles more intimate than it was supposed to be. Sure, it was a hoodie Clay didn't wear anymore, so who cares if he gave it to George to keep, but the way Clay stumbled over his words...
It's just a hoodie, Clay thought.
It was just a hoodie. But the intentions behind it?
Hmm.
Clay thought back to the beginning of George's trip, when they had just begun to share the apartment. He remembered the small flirty jokes and off-hand comments they made towards each other, and how comfortable they were to make. There was no doubt about it, the two were close.
So why did it feel so different now?
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[a/n: omg? 2261 words 🥴 alright alright alright
also do you guys like the small reference I made with the romantic pining and the way Clay's laundry detergent smells like pine? haha so silly]