Good At Pretending ,, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 [EDITING]

8 ᬄ͙͘˚

I speedran this bitch

it's actually a bit
rushed but I did
enjoy writing the
dialogue so  jah
I've been quite
unmotivated lately
sorry about that :'>

warnings—,, none

words—,, 1165

⌂ ⁝ ༘ ⃗ ◌

Sometimes George acts really stupid. And it's usually okay because Clay or Nick are there to balance him out. To chill his dorky brain and the emphasis of their words lores him into softened giggles and an entirely less feral mindstate. Sometimes he'll get extremely happy. Giggly and loud, making dumb jokes that only sometimes catch his friends attention and they're all able to laugh.

Oh how he misses that. Back with the comfort of online, where his brain is distracted by finishing highschool and the abundance of assignments. He can't dwell too much on the fact because he knows that he'd rather have it this way. It's blown over by now, probably. Clay isn't one to hold grudges and George… he'll get over it.

Maybe that's why he's there right now, feeling naked and vulnerable in the dark atmosphere that's outside Clay's house. His pale hand nearly turns the doorknob because sometimes, just sometimes, he forgets knocking is important. And now he has to wait a few more seconds to regain his composure before skin meets cream colored wood.

It surprises him, makes him shiver but perhaps it's just the cold night. (Which is a lie because it's warm.) The way he hears the familiar voice call "one sec!", followed by the gentle thump of footsteps. When the door is opened his face doesn't change, Clay's face doesn't change at least. It's kept soft with a neutral expression, whilst George's is laced with thick sheets of anxiety.

"Hi," He starts out shakily, cursing himself internally at the way it falters and catches on his tongue.

"Hey," The taller responds, stepping out of the way with an exhaled laugh through his nose. "come inside, it's breezy out here."

It comes to his attention that he's never actually seen his home. Just bits and pieces of his living space over video calls (which were rare) and the singular time he had done a half-assed room tour. The floors are a dark wood and there's cream colored curtains on the walls. Any furniture is also white. It seems homeful but still modern. Cleanly in a sense and George's nerves settle from the atmosphere. His eyes drift up to the other boy and flit along his features. Hands aching to desperately reach out and hug him or just...something, anything. But he knows he can't.

So instead he lies. Holding out the light grey fabric. "This is, yours. Sorry I forgot to give it back." The brunette explains, holding it out a bit as he feels his face grow warm.

Clay takes it gently, savoring the moment that his index finger brushes over his pinky. A sweet, miniscule smile lacing his lips. "Thank you,"

Then it's quiet and maybe awkward seeming but it doesn't feel that way at all. George turns with slightly shaky hands to close the door, cringing at the sound of it clicking shut and hopes the action doesn't come off in the wrong way. Tugging the sleeve of his white zip up jacket, the white turtleneck he wears contrasts nicely and the entire look of it makes Clay glance over his frame briefly.

George takes in a breath, trying to figure out what to do next and the words try to rush from his pale lips but the other beats him to it. "I'm, I'm really sorry.. I know, I— I'm such an asshole."

Surprise is etched along his features. Clay rarely apologizes unless it's something they had messed around about—jokes.

"No uh, I overreacted…" George coraponds, fussing with the zipper of his jacket.

He tries to place his next words delicately. Watching George's face for any kind of uncomfortable emotions. He's good at reading people, not George, but people.

"Can we just...go back to how we used to be?" He finally questions. Nearly winces at the way George curls in on himself, brows furrowing and taking a small step back. The taller watches as his hands dive back into his pockets is cowardice.

George speaks up after a moment, it's not as much speaking up as it is shying away. A small sigh escaped his lips before he answers. "What?" His voice wavers though, just slightly. The other catches it, the lump in his throat bubbles up and worsens his headache. "Clay do you know how much I think about you? Did that entire phone call mean absolutely nothing…?"

Pain overtakes George's features. He's screwing it up again, making it worse, fueling feelings that obviously aren't reciprocated. At least in his mind they aren't and all he wants to do is run.

Now it's his turn to go quiet.

"George— no hey, it's lot like…" He wants to explain, wants to tell him so badly that he disliked this whole thing purely because of regret, rather than disliking him. It was hardly that, definitely the opposite. George flinches when he feels the other place his hands on his shoulders. Glancing back up to him.

"I'm really bad with all of...this." He says simply. Hoping that's all the convincing words he needs. To convey that he means bad at all of this. Bad at stop and go, bad at mixed signals. It's obvious to him now, that George probably feels the same he does besides the insane emotional backlash. It's moving all so fast but he wants more. He wants to immerse himself in his emotions at this point, not caring if they smother him. Intoxicate him and overtake his brain like ash.

"You never answered— by the uh, way," George says dismissively, quite quietly.

"Answered what?"

"When I called you… I asked what you were scared of "

The newfound tone of his voice grounds Clay and he keeps his hands glued to his shoulders, unlocking his elbows and bending them just slightly. George stood, hands in his pockets, vulnerable seeming because without the balance of his arms he could fall easier. It seems like a trust thing.

"I'm scared of," His eyes dart towards his own hand, placed on George's shoulder. Lingering to the top of the jacket's zipper. "Screwing up again."

"Fucking up a friendship. For better or worse." Clay says, inching his hand just slightly towards his collar bones.

Clay inhales shakily.

His gaze falters just slightly as he turns back to his face, gaze laced. "What about you George? What are you scared of."

George's brows burrow, and he swallows thickly. Hoping that the sound of his hammering heart can't be heard and he wants to run again. What does that mean? What's he supposed to initiate here? They're close, not too close, close enough that he could reach out and brush his cold fingers along his cheekbones. Close enough to be pushed against the door behind him. Close enough to smell his earthy scent, like rain and clear countertops.

Close enough to touch but not close enough to have.

"I should go," He says instead, shrugging his hands from his shoulders and watching as Clay's face twists.