Good At Pretending ,, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 [EDITING]

7 ᬄ͙͘˚

Ight  boys buckle
up for this one .
finna be a bumpy
one ahah .

there's probably a
lot of errors I was
super lazy with my
5 editing stages
feel free to point
them out for me ahah .

warnings—,, yelling . animals . fighting . hitting hard in them feels .

words—,, 1986

─ׅ─ׅ─ׅ─៹۟▩⃟ꦿꦼ.

Clay clammers around his kitchen noisily. Yellow and orange shadows dance across his walls, seeping into cracks of liquid gold and blinding his sleeping cat.

His parents aren't home. He doesn't think they've been home in months. He doesn't mind tremendously, like any other teenage boy it's alright to have the house to himself. They send him money, keep up to date with their jobs.

It did get a little lonely occasionally, as long as Patches is here he'll be alright. It feels easy—to stand up against the counter, lean his head back onto the wood of the cabinet. He nudges his foot as the small feline trails around his calves.

He hasn't spoken to George in two days.

Stubbornness blocked him from any communication (not literally blocking however). 2 un-read messages since their pier adventure, three missed calls.

He hardly wanted to check his phone anyway. Clay didn't want to think about him. Didn't want to miss him. Didn't want to admit to anything accidentally. The flood of words he knew would escape if George had said anything that communicated what he was feeling.

Aching with his own belligerence. In his eyes there was nothing needed to come to terms with. If he kept pushing it away, kept pushing him away. Then maybe he wouldn't continue falling for his best friend.

The bright sun felt like agony, weightless honey through the blinds. Coffee burned his lips, a drink he knew he didn't need right now and that would keep him up but the sleep deprived nights he had already gone through this entire week were tireless enough. Another one wouldn't matter.

He didn't want to hurt him. He never wanted to hurt him. But this seemed like it was the best option.

Clay's dreams had been filled with nightmares. Full of contemptible cowardice in wishing to not have to sleep through vigorous images of smooth skin and shattered porcelain. So terrified that one slip-up and he would cut George. If that mask shattered in the wrong ways—any chances would burn down in a murky swamp of reprehensibility.

He was such a mess. Still wearing the same shirt from the pier, he had taken nothing but hot, quick showers. So agonizingly boiling that he thought he should have second degree burns by now. Dark circles hung under his eyes and he hadn't eaten yet today at the ripe hour of 6:09 pm.

Gentle music fills his earbuds, long melodies, old ones. Songs ranging from late 70's to early 2000—2010. Which seems stupid but it's a mix of classic old rock, soft and drawn out love songs, stories of incomplete remedies and at least 5 Taylor Swift songs.

Instead of focusing on his cat which warms his ankles by sitting directly on them and kneading her paws into his sock. Clay stares into the wall. Focused on a shadow that he knows is moving but can't pinpoint what's making it move. Maybe it's not. Maybe he's just that tired.