The Inconsistency of Nothingness

Creep

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT

In a haze, George stumbled into the club. He felt so lost in the moment that the only thing he could think to do after the incident with Clay was to drink his pain away. He walked up to the bar and the bartender immediately understood the situation based on the glum look painted on George's face.

"I'll take a beer," George said emotionless.

"Buddy, I think you're gonna need something stronger than a beer. I'll get a shot ready for you," the bartender responded with sympathy. As the man prepared the drink, George absentmindedly scrolled through his photos. His album was filled with pictures of himself and all his friends. It was dumb photos of Nick, Bad, Mei, and.... Clay. Years of a great friendship ended in a few seconds, George thought bitterly.

The bartender handed George his shot and George downed it in one go. The intense burn down his throat had never been a more welcome feeling.

As George ordered his third shot, a stranger came and sat next to him. "I'll have a dry martini," he ordered. "You look like you need someone to talk to," the man smiled kindly at George. George sized him up. He was decently attractive by conventional beauty standards. He looked like he worked out a moderate amount based on his T-shirt hugging his arms, he had light freckles that scattered around his nose and cheeks, dirty blonde hair, and ocean blue eyes. The sight of the man had George's heart sink; at a glance, he could easily be mistaken as Clay.

"I... Just fucked up a great friendship," George looked down at his empty glass as he teased the rim of the cup with his index finger.

The man took a sip of his drink before starting, "what do you mean?"

"I made a move and I guess it wasn't mutual," George groaned as he put his head in his hands again.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Listen, that guy must be a real idiot to let go of a catch like you," the man offered.

George was one drink away from getting drunk and doing something he would regret, so he took the man's hands that were holding his dry martini and guided it to his own mouth as he seductively held eye contact while downing it. George was already in this deep, he might as well just fuck a stranger to forget today while he was at it.

The man understood what George was implying, and after he put down the now empty glass, he kissed George's pliant lips. George's mind was fuzzy enough to pretend that the lips on his own were another's. The man's rough hand caressing the side of his face reminded George of Clay's calloused fingertips when he guided George's hands to strum the chords of his bass. Maybe George was just touch deprived, but he melted into the kiss pretending it was a certain green eyed boy. The stranger deepened the kiss before pulling away.

"My place or yours?"

"Yours," George replied shortly.

The moment they stepped into the man's house, they were all over each other. The larger man had grabbed George to hold him close as he kissed him passionately. George stumbled into the man's grasp, still wobbly from the alcohol infecting his system. As the stranger started to guide George to his room, he also began to slowly strip George of his shirt. The man kissed along George's chest as he pulled George onto the bed. Just as George was about to strip the man of his shirt, George's phone went off in his pocket. He hastily grabbed it without looking at the contact and clicked decline before throwing it aside.

Clay sat on his couch, still stunned by what had happened back at the venue. Clay lightly brushed his fingertips against his lips; he could still feel the ghost of his best friend's lips on his own. The American boy reflected on his own thoughts and tried to understand how he was feeling, but everything in his mind felt like a scrambled alphabet soup. There were so many emotions and thoughts that he couldn't discern any of them. Clay groaned as he threw his head back in exasperation. What he did know was that he felt shitty just leaving George there like that. George would always be Clay's best friend, and he didn't want one dumb mistake to jeopardize that. Clay needed George to know that even if he reciprocate George's feelings for him, they would always be best friends. Clay took a deep breath to prepare himself before picking up his phone to call George. He heard him pick up.

"Who's that?" Clay heard a foreign voice say.

"Doesn't matter," Clay recognized the British accent to be his friend's. George must have thought that he clicked decline, Clay thought to himself. Clay couldn't help but feel a little hurt that his friend was trying to ignore him, but he also couldn't deny that the incident must have been really hard for him.

As Clay decided to eavesdrop to try and see if they would talk about the situation, Clay's blood ran cold. He heard the sounds of moaning and kisses against skin. What was George doing?

"Fuck, can I put it in?" the other man asked. Clay swiftly hung up the call. After the call ended, Clay felt his chest twist, contort, and drop all at once. If he thought that his thoughts were a mess before, they were now practically impossible to sort though. His mind was running at a million miles per hour, trying to tell himself that he must had misinterpreted the situation. Clay felt himself grow angrier the more he thought about the call, but he didn't know exactly why.

George had never shown interest in anyone, let alone a man, so why did he run off to have sex with some random man? Maybe George saw Clay to be a quick fuck, and didn't mean anything by the kiss? No, that's not who George is. Clay groaned. Where did this all go wrong?

Clay thought back to when they were kids. What was it back then that drew the dirty blonde to the brunette? Was it the way the boy's eyes would crinkle as he smiled? The way he would dramatically react to everything? His habit of wearing his heart so openly on his sleeve? Back then, all Clay knew was that he needed to be friends with the new kid. Clay's thoughts drifted to the fight they had, and all he could hear was the echo of his father's words.

I have a useless son, and now I find out he's a fag?

Clay clenched his teeth in anger.

That British fag.

No, he's wrong, Clay thought to himself. We're just confused. That must be it, there's been a lot of tension recently, our emotions are just all over the place.

George purposely made sure that the two of them were not facing each other while doing it. This was a one night stand, there was no need to be intimate or pretend that it was anything more than that. As the man slowly pushed his length into George, George buried his head in the sheets. The alcohol impairing his system was making the pleasure feel so much more intense, and that combined with the thought of Clay pushing his member in caused George to moan out. The shots definitely weren't helping him get his mind off the kiss or his friend, and he couldn't help that his thoughts kept slipping to the depths of his deepest desire. It felt so wrong to use he man as a mirage of the emerald eyed boy, but the pleasure of pretending it was him made George so much more needy. George knew he would regret this in the morning, but right now, he needed this.

With each thrust, the brunette was getting closer to the edge. George imagined Clay above him, sweaty after they both finished a set, fucking in the changing room. Clay would probably be rough, biting and kissing along the back of George's neck as he would thrust in to his George's sweet spot. The air in the room would be heavy as they both passionately intertwined, breathing heavily as they chased their orgasms.

At one particularly hard trust, George came thinking about his best friend holding him while he spilled in him. George buried his face in the bed as he gave a muffled moan of his friend's name.