The Most Formidable Thing

The Swing

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Hi George, it's Clay.

GEORGE:

Oh...hi Clay. You could have just asked for my number if you wanted it ;)

George watched the three dots at the bottom of the screen move as he laid in bed, waiting for a response. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, slowly sitting up. He reached over to pull a set of fresh clothes out of his drawer, setting them down temporarily at the foot of his unmade bed. His attention was turned back to his phone as a new text notification went through.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

I'll be waiting for you outside your room at 10:00

George rolled his eyes. This guy is unbearable.

At this rate, George figured it was likely going to take an incredible amount of effort and several months to discover what was beneath that brick wall of a man.

Sighing, he slipped off his bed, grabbing the clothes and heading to the bathroom to have a shower.

* * *

Sure enough, Clay was there, standing against the wall opposite his door at 10:00am sharp. Upon seeing George, he nodded curtly and walked over to him.

"You have your things?"

"Yes, mom."

George snickered at his own sarcasm, before mentally slapping himself in the face. He cursed himself for constantly proving that he only ever had two moods these days: anxious as fuck or snarky as fuck.

Clay blinked, staring down at him. George felt his cheeks heat up as the other's hulking figure stared at him with a mixture of confusion and amusement. George broke the silence, clearing his throat and averting his gaze awkwardly.

"So, um. I guess we should get going." And with that, he began to walk down the hallway at an unnecessarily fast pace. Clay kept up with him, striding along beside him at a professional distance.

When they reached George's class, Clay stopped, as usual, standing in the doorway for a moment.

"I'll be here when you're done. Don't leave class until you see me waiting."

And with that, he turned, walking briskly away. George watched him pull out his phone and hold it up to his ear, before rounding a corner and disappearing from view.

It went on like that for the next week or so, and George got into the routine of being walked to and from class every day, having his presence monitored constantly whenever he wasn't alone in his dorm. He tried making conversation with Clay sometimes, when they were both too quiet, but conversing with him was fruitless. Every answer he gave was short and simple; curt and formal. George felt like that twitter gif of the guy talking to a brick wall every time they spoke. At this point, the only things keeping him sane these days were his daily calls with Sapnap. George had told him all about Clay, and together the two of them would laugh and make jokes about the whole situation on the phone, and for a bit, George would temporarily forget about his constant anxiety and agonizing flashbacks.

They came back though, they always did. Sometimes just for a couple seconds when he was studying, but if he wasn't so lucky (which he often wasn't), his head would be plagued for anywhere between half an hour to two hours. Some nights, George would try to remember what his old therapist and grief counselor would say to him, and some nights, it would work. Often the pain was too much to bear, and all he could do was lie in bed, listening to music with his eyes squeezed close, his heart thumping, his skin clammy, his forehead drenched with sweat.