Chapter Text
Clay flopped headfirst onto the bed, his long arms spreading across both mattresses. “That bad?” George said around a mouthful of toothpaste.
Clay lifted his head, eyes bleary. “You’ve heard of jet-lag, George?”
“In passing, yes.” He’d never been out of the country himself, far too busy with the whole school, job, retire path he was on. He spat his mouthful of foam into the sink.
“What, you’ve never left a timezone?”
“Believe it or not, Clay, we don’t all have people to book our flights.” George scowled.
“Mmm,” Clay was wiggling out of his jeans, refusing to even stand up. “You’d love it. The people watching on planes is unmatched. Nine hours of it.”
Something in his stomach twisted at the idea of Clay remembering his little hobby. George stared at himself in the mirror for a second. At the stubble starting to fill in from that morning, the heavy eyebrows. All these parts of himself he didn’t know how to add up into a whole.
When he turned back to face him, Clay was sprawled out across the bed still, significantly less clothed. George couldn’t help but remember the way that lanky body had pressed up against his own. He shivered and yanked open his suitcase for a sleep shirt.
“Sorry about Simon, by the way. He can be a real piece of work.” George mumbled as he tugged out a worn blue one. “All the questions, I know it’s annoying.”
“I think he’s just looking out for his big brother.” Clay said softly, tapping out something on his phone. A Christmas carol puttered out of the crappy speaker and he set it on the nightstand. “Besides, if I had a problem, I’d say so. You know me.” His teeth glinted in the low light. “I don’t bite my tongue.”
“No. You don’t.” George was glad that Clay was staring at the ceiling and not at him. He sent a tiny thank you to the dorky glow stars affixed there and rubbed a hand over his red face. God, he didn’t want to be thinking about that Clay’s mouth, not when they were about to be a foot apart all night.
“And you like that, admit it.” Clay’s voice had a teasing lilt, verging on smug.
“Why are you like this.” George groaned and slipped on a warm pair of pyjama bottoms. When he looked back, Clay was grinning unabashedly.
“Preserving your dignity, Gogy?”
“I’m saving myself until marriage, you know.” He crossed the room and sat. The bedspread was plaid with little bears tucked among the crisscrosses.
“But marriage is a sham.” Clay smirked and lifted the covers.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll never see what lies beneath the sacred garb.” George said loftily and slid in beside him.
“I think I’ll manage.” Clay clicked off the light and tapped off the music.
Now I need someone to hold
Be my fire in the cold
But it's hard to tell if this is just a fling
Or if it's true love that he thinks of
--
When George woke, it was to soft grey light and a warm pressure at his back. He shifted a little, tucking the blanket under his chin and closing his eyes for just a minute more. Christmas could wait.
He might have stayed there if it weren’t for the puff of breath against the back of his neck.
George blinked as the rest of his body woke up. Clay’s face was hidden in the nook between his neck and shoulder, breath still heavy with sleep. His arm was warm around George’s middle, his fingers splayed out underneath the hem of his shirt. His thigh was thrown over-
George’s breath hitched a little and he halted that train of thought.
He tried to gently pry himself out of the hold, wishing for Clay to just stay sleeping. For this to be simple. But as soon as he lifted his hand, Clay was nuzzling into his neck. George listened as the deep even rhythm of breath stuttered and a groan slipped out of Clay’s lips. The sound was muffled into George’s skin and he shifted, sliding towards the edge of the bed.
“Leggo.” George said groggily, managing to get one leg out from under the covers.
Abruptly, he was released. All the warm weight of Clay retracted in a second. “Oh fuck.” His voice was sleep-hoarse and low, and it made George’s toes curl. “Sorry.”
“S’fine.” George managed and wrangled himself the rest of the way out. He willed himself to march right to the bathroom and push the whole morning out of his memory. Still, his eyes caught on the way Clay’s arms arced over his head as he sat up, stretching into the morning light. The way the muscles in his stomach bunched up. How his shoulders had matching freckles.
“M’gonna go brush my teeth.” George grunted and padded out. God he was weak.
“Morning breath.” He heard Clay say. “Good idea.” And then there was six feet of shirtless American looming behind him in the bathroom mirror. George closed his eyes as he brushed, willing to blame it on sleepiness instead of a growing intolerance for Clay’s closeness.
He spat and rinsed and slipped under Clay’s arm while he finished. George took the opportunity to dress mostly uninterrupted, sliding his jumper over his narrow shoulders as Clay joined him.
“Is that a turtle-neck?” Clay asked.
“Why would it be a turtleneck?”
“Uh.”
George poked his head out of the neck hole and looked up at Clay. His eyes were fixed just below George’s chin and it clicked. He slapped a hand over the mark. “Ah.”
“Well, I told you it’d make it believable. Just leave it. Besides, I’m sure they saw it last night anyway.”
“Right.” Clay always managed to reduce George to the same three words, and he felt a nervous queasiness settle in his stomach. “Wanna get breakfast out? Full English and all that?”
“I think dates are supposed to be before you sleep with me, George.”
“Gross. Come on.”
--
“That’ll be all then, George?”
“Yeah, thanks.” George said and handed back the menu to Toby. He was a half foot taller than the last time he’d seen him, with the same sunny, nervous demeaner. The uniform was ill-fitting clearly unable to keep up with the growth-spurt.
“Great. Be a minute then.” Toby gave a little salute and scampered off to hand the order in. George recognized the other waiter at the counter by his shock of blonde hair and smiled.
“This’ll be interesting.”
“Yeah?” Clay asked and poured an absurd amount of cream into his coffee.
“Ew.” George sipped his own. “Toby and Tommy. Simon and I used to baby-sit them in Year 10.”
“You baby-sat?” Clay laughed, his green eyes crinkling.
“Ten bucks was ten bucks. Toby wasn’t so bad anyway, but Tommy… I should have charged fifty.” George grunted and tore open a packet of sugar. He poured it into his open mouth.
Now it was Clay’s turn to be disgusted. “You have issues.” He laughed.
“Clearly. I was dating an invisible person, let’s not forget.”
“Mmm…Yes there’s definitely a screw loose up there.”
Toby returned and slid two steaming plates of breakfast onto the table. Bacon and sausage piled high over two steaming sunny eggs. Fried tomatoes and beans and a slice of perfectly golden toast. George felt himself smile and he grabbed his fork. “Thanks, Tubbo.”
Toby ducked his head, red splotching his cheeks. “Yeah, sure. Happy Christmas.” And retreated.
“You just called that kid Tubbo.” Clay said slowly, an impish look on his face. He was slicing into the sausage slowly.
“Oh shit.” George speared a tomato and laughed. “Childhood nickname, my bad.”
“Poor kid.” Clay said without an ounce of sympathy.
Those Christmas lights
Light up the street
Down where the sea and city meet
May all your troubles soon be gone
Oh, Christmas lights, keep shining on