ACID RAIN // DNF AU

Chapter Eleven (George)

Clay's ignorance wounded him. He didn't know what he was doing to George, how he was inflicting pain with just little actions. He didn't know how they'd woken up entwined together that afternoon, what he'd done last time he was drunk: how they'd slow-danced under the stars and almost kissed. Maybe George drinking enough to forget would balance the scales. At the very least, he wouldn't have to carry the weight of anything that happened tonight.

He tipped back the cup, reveling in the fizzing fire that raced down his throat. It soothed his rough edges.

Whenever Clay got too close to him, he panicked and did the opposite of what every cell of his body was begging for. Maybe if he drank enough, they would finally kiss. Maybe he'd be able to take the stupid jacket.

He started to reach for a refill, but stopped himself just as his fingertips grazed the rim. He was being reckless. This wouldn't solve anything.

George took the cup, just in case.

He looked around, finding a bathroom, and slammed the door shut, drink in hand. He leaned on the counter, tears leaving trails down his cheeks. Why couldn't they have something normal?

Clay loved him, and he'd told him so. Shouldn't he accept George for who he was, no matter what?

George didn't even know who he was. All he knew was that he loved Clay so much it was painful.

Oh, what he would give for someone to ask him his sexuality. No one had ever asked, except on forms. He didn't even fully know the answer himself. He wanted to be able to just assign a label to what he was, wrap it all up with a neat little bow, but nothing felt right. What was wrong with him? His mind was broken. He was so broken, shattered to pieces every time Clay came back around with that tender look in his eyes. Why couldn't their friendship be enough for him?

He had no idea how much time passed before someone knocked on the bathroom door. He wiped the salty droplets from his face, rubbing his eyes red in the process. He lifted his cup and sipped until it was gone, hoping to cloud the racing thoughts. Then he swung the door open, preparing himself for Clay, for explanations, but finding no one outside. Accurate.

George stumbled, imagining the unfamiliar rush of alcohol seeping into his bloodstream. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to deal with Clay again, but he was lost. He hadn't seen the address the waitress had given them. He didn't know the bus stops in the city. He didn't even have anyone he could call.

Someone put a heavy hand around his shoulders, and he jumped, turning to see Clay. He shut his eyes, almost falling over. Go away, he prayed. Leave me alone.

He didn't, doing what a good friend would do. Stop, stop, stopstopstop.

"Wanna go home?" He asked softly, tentatively, but seeming like he cut himself off again at the end. "I don't think you wanted to be here in the first place."

George melted into Clay's arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck and trying not to start crying again. It was so tiring to do this dance around each other, acting and pretending and lying. Clay loved him—just not the way he wanted. It wasn't ideal, wasn't even okay, but it was at least better than him not caring enough to remember George's name.

"Yeah," he whispered.