Work Text:
Clay’s on his back porch reading when the drops first start to fall, leaving dark little circles on the pages of the novel in his lap. He goes inside, if only to save the book.
The rain isn’t a surprise, especially given the previous onslaught of humidity over the last week, and he revels in the sound and smell coming through his open window as always.
He paces absentmindedly around his living room, book forgotten, and keeps the front door open when he realizes the rain won’t blow in and soak the carpet. Even with the heavy cloud cover, he can tell the sun is starting to dip behind the houses on the opposite side of the street.
The house is never as quiet as it is now: between his siblings, his parents, his cat and himself, there’s always something going on. Now, though, he’s alone in the pleasantly empty rooms.
Aside from the soft, mottled bundle that’s rubbing against his leg and chirping at him, of course. He scoops Patches up, holding her gently to his chest and twirling her fur between his fingers, as he continues to make laps between the windows. The sidewalk quickly darkens, the trees begin to sway in the wind, and a distant roll of thunder promises a noisy affair for tonight if it doesn’t blow past them. Patches starts to squirm, and he lets her hop to the floor. She beelines for his parents’ room.
He wishes ‘date night’ would coincide with strategically-planned sleepovers more often. He quite likes the blanket of soft stillness that has settled over the house.
He sweeps his gaze over the street through the front picture window one last time, and heads upstairs to finish his chapter.
---
It’s verging on entirely-dark outside and the storm has started to pick up when he meanders back downstairs for water and to lock up the house, but something has him stop and zone out with his gaze loosely fixed on the soaked pavement as he stands in the front door. The white noise lulls his headspace into a contented, slow wandering, and the smell of wet concrete fills his lungs, deep and earthy in a way he realizes he skips over far too often whenever it rains. He idly promises himself he’ll pay better attention to it.
He’s snapped back to his place in reality when he realizes that the figure he’s been staring at as they hurry across the sidewalk past his house is familiar. He shouts out the screen door before he can think:
“George?”
“Clay!” He halts in line with the path leading to his door.
“Why are you out? It’s thunderstorming!”
“Really? It hadn’t occurred to me!” He shouts over the din, his hair plastered to his forehead. They both jump slightly when a particularly loud thunderclap sounds above their heads. Clay finds himself staring, his typically-swift train of thought quietly derailed by the boy standing on his front walk. He wouldn’t be surprised if he were blushing, and his stomach’s gone all wobbly. He’s long since accepted that he’s a simp for this little idiot.
“Can I come in?”
“Right! Sorry, yes!” He nearly trips over himself to get out of the doorway to let George through. They stand there for a moment when he shuts the door behind him. Clay scolds himself for the slightly-awkward air that settles around them, scolds himself for how badly he wants George to look up from slipping off his soaking shoes and meet his eyes, but he steps away to grab him a towel instead. Why am I like this? He shakes his head as he emerges from the bathroom.
“Seriously though, it’s been raining for like, an hour. Why didn’t you go home?”
“Dunno, didn’t feel like it.”
“You’re such an idiot,” he says, but even then he can’t hold back his fond grin as he gives his soaking visitor a towel. “I have dry clothes that might fit you, but they’ll probably be a little big.”
“I- Okay, that’d be great.”
If Clay catches the blush that rises under George’s subtle freckles, he doesn’t say anything. And he certainly isn’t going to say anything when his hair is left sticking up in seven different (yet equally endearing) directions when he finishes towelling himself off. Besides a laugh, of course.
George just wrinkles his nose at him and smiles, rolling his eyes.
Clay grins back, and prays it isn't shaky. “Alright, give me just a second,” and he bounds up the stairs to his room.
His heart is pounding because of the stairs.
That’s what he tells himself, at least.
---
When he comes back down, the smallest shirt and pair of sleeping shorts he could find (dug from the bottom of his drawers, he can only guess why he’s still got them) bundled in his arms, George is still hovering by the front door.
“Here you go, you’re welcome to the shower if you want to take one,” he suppresses the uncomfortable thoughts that come with the suggestion, “And if you need anything else, just holler.”
George just nods, and his lips twitch at the corners.
“Are you going to stay..?” Clay hates how hesitant he sounds. How bashfully hopeful. George doesn’t seem to pick up on it.
“Is that okay..?”
“Yeah, of course! Not going to lie, I was kind of hoping you would.”
Did you really just..? He very nearly puts his head in his hands right there.
George just gives him the scrunched-nose smile again. He doesn’t know if his eyes are playing tricks on him, but Clay would swear that he’s blushing again.
“It’s too quiet here, my parents aren’t gonna be back for a while,” he says by way of explanation.
Neither of them say anything for a beat, but it’s not as awkward as before. He gives George a sideways smile, resists the urge to comb his fingers through his unruly hair, and gestures up the stairs.
“I’ll be in my room, just shout if you need anything.”
“Alright, I’ll only be a second,” and they exchange another smile. Clay turns to head down the hallway.
“Oh, and Clay?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” and the soft little grin he gives him has him glad he’ll have the chance to calm his blush upstairs.
---
Clay’s not too sure what to do with himself while he waits for George.
One of his best friends of more than a handful of years, one of the people he’s closest to, who also happens to be the subject of many a late-night fantasy lately, is currently showering almost directly beneath him.
He drives the thought from his head by fiddling with his window latch and listening to the rain pour on the grass between his house and his neighbor’s.
When that doesn’t seem to work, he flops onto his bed instead and stares at his ceiling. A disgruntled ‘mrrp’ sounds from somewhere near his head, and he smiles to find Patches nestled in the blankets he keeps between his bedframe and the wall.
“Cozy down there, sweetie?”
She simply gives him an affectionate blink and tucks her little nose beneath her tail again. Clay smiles at her fondly, strokes a finger down the back of her head, and goes back to looking at the lazy blades of his ceiling fan.
“Hi,” George meanders into the room and lets the door drift closed behind him. Clay sits up, and his jaw nearly drops when he takes in George’s shower-tousled hair, the slight flush high on his cheek bones, and the way his borrowed clothes hang off his slight frame. The shirt’s collar dips well beneath his collar bones, and Clay can’t help but admire how pretty he really is. Like everything else so far tonight, though, he shoves the thoughts away for later contemplation.
“All good?” He asks as he moves over to make room for him on the bed.
“Yeah, thanks again.”
“Of course! Anytime. Why were you out there, anyways?”
George shakes his head and smiles at his lap.
“Dunno, just felt like going for a walk, I guess. Kind of zoned out, and then you were yelling at me from your front door.”
“I can’t believe you. You’re such an idiot.” He can’t contain the laughter-tinged edge in his response.
“Yep,” George chuckles as well. “Entirely neurotic.”
They glance at each other and something feels as if it’s burst in Clay’s chest and he just starts laughing . George loses it as well, and Clay’s wheezing just spurs him on.
They’ve both got tears in their eyes by the time they start to calm down, and a yawn interrupts George’s attempts to get his breathing under control.
“Time to think about sleeping, hey?”
He gets a nervous giggle in response, followed by another yawn.
“Yeah, probably.”
“Alright, you get settled, I’ll-”
“I’m not taking your bed, Clay.”
“Well, you certainly aren’t sleeping on the floor.”
“And why not?”
“Because you’re my guest?” He says incredulously, and reaches out to poke his side. He squirms a little in response, a grin sweeping his features.
“You are not sleeping on the floor.”
“Well I’m not stealing your bed, either!” He pokes back, still grinning. Clay makes to dodge.
“It’s not stealing if I’m offering it to you!”
“And you say I’m the idiot!”
“You are! ”
Clay doesn’t let up on the poking, and he’s moving closer to reach him better without a thought. It’s so easy, to be around him, he notes, and smirks at the laughing-shrieks he pulls from the boy sitting on his wrinkled bedspread.
He registers Patches clambering out of her little nest in irritation of being disturbed, but his attention is locked on George; especially now that he’s backed him into the wall without realizing it, him laughing to the point of tears and pleading with him to “stop, Clay, please! I can’t breathe! ”
Suddenly, he can’t take his eyes from his mouth. He falls still.
"Clay…" his name floats from George’s lips like a dandelion seed, his eyes locked on Clay's own mouth.
"George," and he watches as his eyelids flutter shut. He thinks that, alone, might kill him.
Closing the small distance between them feels like swimming through fog to Clay, but George's mouth is soft and warm when it meets his and he thinks he might never pull away. His hand drifts up to cup his face, and he strokes a tentative thumb across George's pale cheek but makes no move to pull him closer when he begins to move away.
Clay opens his eyes to find him blushing madly with his gaze again locked onto his lips, but his expression is unreadable. Something wavering and bitter twists deep in his stomach.
"Was that a mistake..?"
"I... dunno. Try it again, maybe?" His tone is soft and shy, yet taunting, and the way he looks at Clay through his lashes makes his heart flip in his chest. So he kisses him again, just as soft as before, and barely draws away this time. He lets their breath mingle and their noses brush, reveling for just a second in the feel George leaves on his lips; a feeling that he could only compare to finding a long-lost puzzle piece, or the feeling that sweeps through your chest when you look up at the stars on a particularly clear night.
"Well, I certainly don't think it was," he says breathlessly against George's mouth, which has parted slightly. He means every letter.
"Once more, just to be sure?"
Clay smirks, takes George's face fully in his hands, and obliges.
The storm rages on outside his window.