Dressed to Kill // DNF

1.9

The blonde was mildly upset to find that morning that George hadn't arrived to school. There wasn't yet a day, until now, where the brunette had been absent.

Clay wouldn't be surprised if he'd never missed a day of school in all his years of high school in the first place.

But now it was already lunch time, and there was still no sign of his friend. Not at their usual table, where Clay sat nonetheless. Not in the bathrooms, hiding away. Not anywhere Clay could find. So, what he concluded to do was text and ask.

—

Georgie:)

Hey, where r u?
Delivered

—

Clay awaited a response. It never came.

George didn't even read the message Clay had sent.

Sure, there was a possibility that George either didn't have his phone with him, or he was ignoring Clay. But something felt...off. If you were to ask him what he thought it was, Clay probably couldn't even tell you. He just had a feeling that something was wrong, with George specifically.

—

Georgie:)

Hey, where r u?
Are you okay?
Read 12:45 PM

Fine. Had to miss today. Family stuff.
12:48 PM

—

Clay frowned, but didn't press the issue further. He stared at the message a bit longer before clicking his phone off and stuffing it back into his pocket.

He picked at his lunch, his stomach and brain collectively uninterested in the meal. More so, they were scrambling to try and think of what could make George miss out on school. Okay, maybe family stuff, but what family stuff?

Yes, yes, Clay was nosy and this wasn't necessarily his business.

But oh, how badly he wanted to know. He was the king of getting into other people's business, or so he'd been told before. By various different people.

But he couldn't necessarily find out unless he, well, spoke to George, which was going to be difficult if the boy wasn't at school.

So for now, Clay concluded he'd just have to wait for the brunette to return back to this hellhole. He was stubborn, so he'd probably find out one way or another.

•

Sept. 10th

Last night had been quite frankly miserable. The rain had kept pouring for about an hour, and George undoubtedly had at least a cold now. He'd always been careful not to get sick, but it was in fact quite hard to refrain from doing so when you have to sleep on a park bench drenched in horrendous weather.

Try to sleep, anyways. George calculated that he got at most, say, three hours of sleep? Sleep rarely ever gave George a second thought. Hardly a first thought, even.

What was the brunette even meant to do in this situation? He suspected that he looked frightful at the moment, his hair probably a tangled mess. He ran a hand through it in hopes of fixing it a tad.