And Maybe That's Alright

Dance

Some nights, though he'd never admit to it, Clay would turn the air conditioning on just that little bit too high and leave it that way.

It seemed a silly thing to do - now he'd just be cold and he'd wake up to a frigid floor which is never nice - but Clay had his reasoning. And his reasoning happened to be the very man that had finally decided to leave the desk at some ungodly hour of the morning to join him in bed.

"Move." He'd murmured, poking at the cat that was currently in his spot curled against Clay's front. She begrudgingly stood, after poke became shove, and relocated herself behind Clay's slightly bent knees while George shuffled under the covers to press his back to Clay's chest. Clay simply smiled and wrapped his arms around George, burrowing his face in the back of his other half's neck.

"Have you seriously been in pyjamas all day?" He asked, tucking a hand beneath the ragged white shirt to splay against the warmth of George's stomach. His voice was void of mirth and warmed with drowsy fondness.

"They're comfortable." George defended loosely, tracing down Clay's arm in a feather-soft touch until he could lace their fingers together. He didn't bother moving their hands from his bare skin despite their chilled bite.

"They smell." Clay countered but made no move to shift away. If anything, he nosed closer against the trail of short hairs before him.

"You smell." George decided childishly and didn't bother fighting his smile as Clay's breath fanned across his shoulders from soft chuckles.

"Oh, come on." Clay had laughed out, squeezing George's fingers between his own. He needn't see George's face to know that he was smiling. "You love me though." He stated with a confidence learnt through time.

George hummed his agreement, allowing his eyes to fall closed. Clay decided he wasn't satisfied.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you." He said, arms wrapping securely around George's waist and fingers beginning to dig into his sides. George staged a silent challenge, grabbing tight to Clay's wrists.

As George stayed silent, Clay attacked. He dug his fingers into George's sides, ribs, up under his armpits, anywhere that he knew the man was ticklish and George squirmed with laughter, praying the walls were thick enough to barricade the sound from rousing or bothering anyone else. He curled in on himself, grabbing helplessly at Clay's arms and Clay simply placed his chin on George's back, lips curled in amusement.

"Okay! Okay." George finally shrieked and Clay paused, hands hovering. "I love you." He murmured, voice light and airy with giggles, and it was all Clay could do to press his head between George's shoulder blades and grin.

"I love you too." Clay pressed the words into the fabric of George's shirt. "So much."

George shuffled and wriggled to turn and face his boyfriend in all of his sleep-worn and giddy glory.

It washed over him rather slowly - a kind and gentle realisation that trickled through his chest - just how very different the Clay before him was from the Dream he'd very first met.

The Dream he'd met had been amiable - a warm, bright and welcoming face - but ultimately unreachable in nature, regardless of how he attempted to be. This Clay, however, was vastly different.