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Life goes on.
Sort of.
The court cases are done. Jessica is taken out of school, Alex is still in the hospital, Justin’s disappeared, Bryce is hopefully rotting in prison, and the others...they move on with their lives as much as they can while steering clear of each other, never meeting eyes and never sharing words even halfway through their first term of senior year. Clay notices they avoid him the most - the wild card, the one who didn’t actually belong on the tapes like them but still heard everything, the one who got revenge for a dead girl with nothing but sorrow in her heart.
And he’s just...there. Living. Existing.
Waiting.
Floating through the halls like Hannah’s ghost isn’t quite done haunting the school, him. A death rattle that will never end, her last hurrah.
He doesn’t have to see his therapist anymore but his pill bottle still rattles uncomfortably loud when he’s alone in his room, and he still can’t go more than a few weeks without a breakdown every time his phone rings with an alarm to meet Jeff for tutoring because he doesn’t have the heart to change it. Classes continue even with Mr. Porter on ‘temporary leave’ despite rumors of his inevitable termination, and his parents are finally becoming bearable to be around these days even though he knows it’s been hard for them too, and he feels bad for not...not getting better like everyone expects him to now that he’s had his justice, but it’s just so exhausting to care. It’s like he put his life on hold while listening to the tapes of Hannah’s life for too long and forgot how to keep living his own once he pressed play. It makes him realize how hard living actually is, breathing with this guilt that settles deep in his chest and keeps him awake even over a year after...after.
After.
If there’s one thing keep him sane these days, one person who makes getting out of bed even a tiny bit more bearable, it’s-
“Clay, you need a ride?”
A ghost of a smile passes over his lips at the familiar line. There’s no glow of warmth in his chest or some feeling of rightness that settles over him at the sight of his friend because that’s ridiculous and he’s learned his lesson about letting his heart run away with his head. But his hands don’t shake as much as he reaches for the car door and his lungs don’t constrict with anxiety with every inhale once he catches the scent of leather, and that’s something, right?
“Yeah, sure.”
He slides into the car, as familiar as his own bike these days, and doesn’t question when they go the opposite direction of his house. He just enjoys the wind ruffling through his hair and the sound of Tony’s favorite band playing on the new car radio, can pretend he can’t hear the echo of his name in someone else’s story.
“You look better,” Tony comments, his way of asking are you okay because he already knows the answer to that.
“I couldn’t tell her...I couldn’t hold her...I killed Hannah Baker, like you said.”
“I said we all killed Hannah.”
Clay only nods, thinks it might be the truth. The shadows beneath Tony’s eyes are lighter these days too which is a relief, and when he says, “You too,” he means it.
Tony grins at him, that kind of mysterious smile with a hint of pearly teeth that makes girls swoon and guys envious because Tony really is the guy who rolled out of a classic 1950s movie with all the charm and swagger and hair gel in one package. Despite seeing it since childhood, it makes his heart jump in his throat, his palms a little sweaty. It’s not the first time, won’t be the last, and for once he doesn’t feel the surge of anxiety at possibly moving on from Hannah and their ‘what if’.
He clears his throat and gives a tentative, shy little smile that feels unfamiliar from the innocence of it, knows his face heats when Tony doesn’t look away from him for even a moment with a thoughtful expression. “Wanna get ice cream at that new place off the main road?”
Tony starts the car with a smirk and wags a finger at him disapprovingly. “Now, we don’t want to spoil your appetite before dinner do we? Real food first.”
Clay gestures helplessly at him. “Did you really just-? Alright, grandpa, have it your way. Where to?”
The laugh he gets is all the answer he needs.
He texts his mom to let her know his plans because he may be kind of a dick sometimes but he’s learned to stay a little more connected, and they drive up to a small deli that they always drive by but never enter because they have - had - other favorite places to go.
This a new routine of theirs since that fateful drive with Skye and Brad, where they get in the car together and drive for as long as they can, pretending that the world isn’t such a terrible place. Skye comes once in awhile when she’s in the mood and Brad stops coming completely when he and Tony break things off in the summer, amicable but still heartbreaking. Clay can’t say he misses him since he obviously wasn’t what Tony needed.
They don’t drive by the park or the new stop sign, they never go to a specific convenience store or the movie theater, and they only go to the graveyard once (to grieve, to finally say goodbye) to leave a bouquet of every flower they can find because they never knew her favorite kind, never thought to ask like a thousand other things they try not to think about now. Instead, they discover new places, make new memories, even boring ones where they just sit and watch the sun sink into the horizon on the side of the road overlooking the town because that’s the only thing that let’s Clay close his eyes for more than a few minutes before the nightmares come creeping in, a story on repeat in his head.
Clay doesn’t protest when Tony pays for both their sandwiches, just bumps his shoulder shakes his head. He doesn’t bat an eye at their fingertips touching when reaching for the napkins, nor at the crackle of lightning that races up his arm and settles, buzzing under his skin. And when they finally get that ice cream, sitting on the hood of Tony’s car, talking and laughing and listening, he doesn’t move a muscle as Tony slowly reaches towards him and wipes away a smear of chocolate on his lower lip, dark eyes intense and waiting, always waiting.
He wants to duck his head, curl his hands in the sleeves of his hoodie, but he likes to think he’s learned something valuable from the last year.
She would want me to be happy, he thinks with a pang of sorrow.
Fire licks under his skin when he leans forward, settles low in his belly when Tony gets closer too, and when their lips meet it’s not at all like Hannah like he secretly fears. Instead of racing hearts and teenager fervor, clumsy hands and messy kisses, an inferno that leaves him too hot then too cold before leaving nothing at all like a firefly memory, Clay distantly thinks that Tony tastes like mint and finally, like home and a long time coming. Security and heat and exactly what Clay needs to stay grounded, pressing closer until his hands are twisted in the material of Tony’s leather jacket and Tony’s hands are snaking up his back, cupping his face, sliding into his hair and holding him there.
They pull away for a moment, breathes heavy and shaky, and Clay knows his face must be seven different shades of red but he doesn’t care because it’s Tony, it’s always Tony. “Wow.”
Tony smirks a little. “Thanks.” The humor fades when he asks, “Is this okay?”
It’s an echo of what Clay asked so long ago, sends another wave of sadness through him, but it’s fleeting this time.
He nods, but Tony looks unconvinced, always so busy worrying that Clay thinks he needs to be the one moving things along. So he does. When Tony starts to ask, “Are you su-” Clay makes sure to kiss the question silent, lets his actions speak for him, and Tony goes with it easily, tense shoulders lowering a fraction in relief.
They pull apart again and Clay huffs a laugh, suddenly indescribably happy in a way he never thought he would be again, and leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together and he can feel Tony’s breath fan across his cheek. “Yeah. Definitely. More than okay.” Those words sound familiar too but they ring with promise, like a sigh of relief, like letting go.
Tony nudges him, a hint of a smile playing on lips Clay can’t stop staring at. “Then what’s so funny, wise guy? My technique not good enough for you?”
Clay doesn’t respond with words, only swoops in to steal another kiss, maybe bite a little while he pulls away because he’s always kind of wanted to see what would happen. Tony’s eyes seem darker now, amusement gone and replaced by something that makes Clay’s skin feel hot and tight, the chilling night air warming around them. “Not to inflate your ego because your head won’t fit in your car otherwise,” Clay starts teasingly, laughing when Tony’s eyebrow raises, “but you’re pretty amazing.”
Tony looks stunned at that and ducks a little like he does when he’s embarrassed or trying to think of something to say, and Clay wonders how someone so confident and genuinely good and loyal like Tony can ever doubt what Clay knows is true. “You’re not so bad yourself, Jensen,” Tony shoots back, hand warm and confident on his thigh, still leaning into his space.
Clay laughs again even though it’s not really all that funny, but he has nowhere else to put the joy he feels in that moment, this completely unrealistic scenario that he could never imagine himself being a part of even just a few months ago. But here he is, sitting on his best friends car, kissing said best friend, both of them rebuilding their lives after the shadow of someone's misery came down on swift wings to knock the entire town over with their own ignorance.
It kind of hits him then in a way it never did with Hannah, this ah ha moment he’s never experienced before, and says the words he’s choked on every time before. “Thank you.”
And Tony doesn’t ask why or laugh or wave it off because he gets it, he’s his anchor, his rock, his yoda, the only person who really understands because Tony heard those tapes too, wasn’t even on them but listened anyway because it was for a friend who needed help and Tony’s just a good person like that. He’s been suffering too, a kindred spirit whose life had been on hold for just as long, maybe longer. They’ve been moving through the motions for so long, maybe it’s time to actually do what they’ve been trying for months - start new.
“How am I supposed to live with that?”
“Any way you can.”
Tony slides closer to him until their touching from thigh to shoulder, one arm wrapped around him, and Clay lets his head rest against Tony's, accepting the warmth and safety his friend, his more, has to offer and tries to return it in equal measure. “You know you’re stuck with me now, right?” Tony says, half-jokingly and half not, a tiny edge of uncertainty in his words that fades as he pulls Clay closer.
Clay smiles, a little secret thing that no one but him and maybe one other person sees, and looks up at the half moon shining above.
“I can live with that.”