But We're Not Normal

Reconcile

Clay was almost used to the aching pain that the lack of George caused. Almost. He'd told himself that the sooner he got used to it, the sooner he'd be able to think straight and figure out how to get to him again. He was certain he'd get used to it soon. That was until George messaged.

Keres had left shortly after fixing Clay's foundation, making sure he was alright to be alone. Clay had spent the majority of the evening wallowing and attempting to build the courage to message Darryl - he was the most likely to actually hear him out. He'd ended up falling asleep without doing much else, exhausted from the emotional turmoil. When he woke up, it was to the unique tone Clay associated with George's messages.

He watched as each message came through and decided that he very much was not used to the pain. Each one that came through felt like a punch directly to his lungs. Long after George had finished, Clay stayed staring at the conversation. He would be crying his heart out had he not drained himself of all his tears the night before.

Clay tapped on the picture, saving it. He traced his eyes around the outline of George's mesmerising brown ones, down his nose, lingering around his pink-lipped smile, to Clay's green hoodie, slowly past Clay's pendent hanging from George's neck, all the way to Bartholomew in his lap and back up again. Clay's skin itched with the sheer need to hold George again. He trembled as a memory resurfaced.

George and Clay laid on George's bed, Bartholomew on Clay's chest. He remembered dramatically cooing at the cat on his chest, just to hear George's fond giggles. George had looked as ethereal as the first night Clay had seen him, bathed in the glow of the morning sun and well-warmed with love. Clay pressed his fingers to his lips as if it'd help him remember the lingering kiss George had pressed to them better.

"Clay? Are you home?" A kind voice called out. Clay couldn't hold back the choked noise that escaped his throat. He heard as the front door closed and soft footsteps padded towards the room. Clay could count three sets of footsteps and the drop of his phone to the floor.

When Darryl turned the corner into Clay's sitting room, Clay was trembling. Darryl sighed and sat beside Clay, Zak sitting beside him and Vincent sitting on Clay's other side. They sat in silence, Clay curled in on himself with his head buried in his hands.

"Why are you all here?" Clay whispered hoarsely. After everything he'd said and done. He hadn't had the chance to be guilty about it properly with all that happened with Damien but he certainly was now. He'd said so much, not just about Vincent but about the whole band, that Vincent had no doubt told them.

Why did they still care when it was Clay who said that Zak was nothing but a loud mouthed, irritating, child? When it was Clay who called Vincent a good for nothing wannabe? When it was Clay who said he regretted ever saving Darryl in that bar? When it was Clay who said that this band had ruined his life?

"Because we're family, Clay." Vincent replied, solidly.

"And that's what family do." Zak said.

"They forgive each other and they're there for each other." Darryl finalised.

Clay's shoulders shook and sobs wracked his frame - apparently he hadn't run out of tears. Darryl sank to his knees and shuffled in front of Clay and Zak took his place beside him, he and Vincent both placing an arm around him. Darryl gently pulled at Clay's arms, noting the bandages around his fists. Once he'd pulled them far enough, Darryl shuffled forward and snaked his arms around Clay.