Yes, Sir | DNF | Dreamnotfound | COMPLETED VERSION

III: Secrets

It’s ridiculous how long he’s been standing at his closet, staring blankly at the clothes, feet starting to mold into the carpet, causing a visible footprint as he steps forward and grabs a shirt.

A classic white button down is the standard, right? It’s mature without being too dated, it’s sexy without being too scandalous, it’s plain without being too boring.

This kind of pressure to look good should be because of the five-star Italian restaurant with overpriced pasta, but it’s not. It’s because of the tall, handsome man that will be eating aforementioned overpriced pasta with him.

George spent all night thinking and overthinking about the text Clay sent and the way he slipped in the compliment into the chat before gracefully moving on from it with confidence. At first, George was thoroughly convinced clay was hitting on him, using his charming personality as a siren’s call to draw George deeper into his lovesick trance.

But the idea struck his as ridiculous later, after George has spent the morning hours in a daze, staring at his ceiling and imagining the fifty trillion possibilities of how dinner would go. Clay has always been publicly and shamelessly loving toward his friends, which George remembers from childhood, and so it would make sense that a harmless compliment on George’s appearance made its way into a message.

A familiar chirp from his bed makes his heart quicken in his chest, pounding against his ribs like a angry dog in a cage.

Clay: be there in 10

No time to waste.

George slips his arms into the button up, fingers fumbling at each silky smooth button. He prays to whatever god is listening that he fastened these in the correct order, not having the patience or time to restart buttoning his shirt. Midst his shitty prayer, he add a quick thanks for his hand-eye coordination, which allows his to keep working on his shirt as he scans his room for a pair of plain black suit pants.

He's basically wearing Clay’s signature, a suit, just without the fancy elements like a vest, tie, or overcoat. Not that he owns any of that shit anyways, and if he does, it’s most certainly from his pre-pubescent years way too small for him now.

The shirt, even after being buttoned successfully, still proves to be the thorn in his side as he stands in the mirror and struggles to neatly tuck it into his pants. It’s hard to make a shirt tuck look effortless and casual; too loose and it looks like he doesn’t care, but too tucked and he looks like the choir boy at church.

There’s no time to fidget and fight with each  pleat and puff of his shirt, so he gives up, focusing on more important things like the tangled strands of his dark brown hair, that neatly refuse to be brushed out until George painful force against them.

He stands in the mirror once he’s  covered all his bases, staring at himself from all different angels, even fake talking to himself so he can get the full idea of what Clay would see during dinner. It’s insane how much he cares about every little detail of his appearance, especially since he’s never really given a fuck about it until this very moment.

Clay: I’m here

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

George straightens, taking another quick glance at himself before emitting a shaky exhale. He grabs his phone and wallet, jamming them into the pockets on his dress pants, before dousing himself in whatever cologne his hand touches first.

He stuffs his feet into black dress shoes before rushing down his hall and to the front door of his house. A part of him wants to wait another minute before he walks out the door, playing it like Clay isn’t the most important thing to him right now and like he isn’t desperate to get a glance at Clay all cleaned up.