Coming Undone by purplesunsets

5

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.