Chapter Text
They've been doing this thing every beach vacation since the one before sophomore year, two entire summers of GeorgeandClay now. Clay isn’t sure what to call it, other than a thing , because if he thinks about too much, he realizes it isn’t really anything and some tender, noisy part of him wants very badly for it to be something .
So he doesn’t.
Instead, Clay placates himself with the lovely heat-dazed time in limbo between the end and the start of the school year, when he gets to enjoy George’s presence wholly. The long June evenings spent between creased sun flooded sheets, thin dusting of sand gritty between them as they kiss, the summery air sweltering with humidity as they wander the beachside boardwalk.
For two months every year, Clay can kiss George all he wants. And he treasures that, more than anything.
Clay supposes then, it’s his own fault for what is happening, the irritability running through his nerves as he sits on the edge of his bedroom window. The muggy air soaks through the hem of his jeans where his leg is dangling outside, seems to want to swallow him whole as he watches his best friend pack across the room.
“Dude, you’re kind of being an asshole,” Sapnap groans, annoyance clear in his tone as he struggles to stuff an oversized t-shirt into his already overflowing suitcase. Clay doesn’t answer him, choosing instead to blow at the blonde hair curling limply in front of his eyes, gone wavy in the humidity. A heavy feeling weighs down somewhere in his chest. He feels feverish, trapped in his own skin. Clay knows he’s being childish, immature even. But he can’t quite find the words to explain why Sapnap joining him on his family’s summerly beach vacation fills him with a feeling akin to frustration. And anyways, it’s funny, in a mean kind of way, to watch his best friend struggle with an uncooperative piece of luggage.
Sapnap finally gives up, and with a harsh yank on the zipper, kicks the suitcase into the wall. The new scuff marks on the wall make Clay raise an eyebrow, finally turning his head towards Sapnap. His neck is stiff against his sweaty collar, and he winces a little.
“Will you please just tell me what is wrong with this,” Sapnap snaps, taking two quick steps towards him.
“The suitcase, or the situation?,” Clay says, peering up at him.
“The goddamn—” Sapnap takes a deep breath, dragging his hand over his heat-flushed face— “the situation, Clay. Is this about, about that guy? Gogy? What’s going on with him?”
Obviously Sapnap knows about George and his summer fling with him. He is Clay’s best friend after all, brother in all ways except in blood, no matter how much they fight.
But he doesn’t know George. Doesn’t know the way sometimes Clay wants him so bad that it feels like George is just as unreadable as the tide of the sea, doesn’t know the way that this time is for their little world of GeorgeandClay only and having an outsider would be wrong, feel wrong. Doesn’t know that sometimes, when he closes his eyes, all he can picture is the way George might look like in seasons other than summer.
Clay hasn’t told him about that. He doesn’t know how to.
“I don’t— No. It’s not—we’re not. It’s not about him.” Clay cringes a little at the obvious lie in his voice, hopeless pining laid out bare for anyone to hear. Embarrassing . Often, he wishes he was a little less transparent, a little less expressive; maybe then he’d be able to cope with all this better. With a soft exhale, he turns his face upwards towards the sky, catching a glimpse of the dark pink and lavender clouds just slipping beneath the late evening horizon. The sky is pretty, he thinks, even in all its imperfection.
It’s times like these that Clay most wishes he and George had some way of regular communication, like texting or calling. So he could know what George would think of his dumbass best friend crashing their summer vacation, their time together. But Clay knows that would be crossing boundaries, breaking some sort of invisible line. He’s fine on his own, really. He swears.
“Really? Then why’re you acting like such a— a himbo?,” Sapnap retorts.
“ What ?” Clay twists his head around to look back at Sapnap so fast it aches. His sweat-slick fingers slide a little on the wood of his windowsill as he gapes at his best friend. When their eyes meet, they burst out into laughter.
Clay knows he is lucky to have his best friend, to have met him in kindergarten when they were both two little kids overly obsessed with “freeing” worms from the dirt, and to have been able to keep their friendship strong over the years, into high school where Clay is now the football quarterback and Sapnap the running back. There’s so much history between them, years of camaraderie formed just like this. Sleepovers at each other’s houses that had them staying up playing Minecraft at 2am, late night secrets slipping between them in their childhood treehouse, still decorated with outdated Marvel posters.
It’s not Sapnap’s fault, that his parents chose just this month to go for an anniversary cruise, that they assumed Clay’s family would be able to take him along on their yearly summer trip to the beach.
They were right about most of that. Just not Clay’s own willingness to bring Sapnap into the liminal little space he feels that is only George’s and his.
“I just— Dude, the last time you were like this was when you came out to me in like sophomore year. I just want to know what’s wrong. You’re my best friend. If it bothers you that much, I could just ask to stay at my aunt’s, you k—” Sapnap breaks off as Clay interrupts him hastily.
That’s the last thing Clay wants, to abandon the one person who has been there for him through everything. Panic rapidly weaves its way through him, and he focuses on his own drumming pulse inside of his head to calm his suddenly shaking hands. He owes Sapnap so much. For someone he loves, he’s willing to forsake this small slice of private comfort.
“No! No. this is fine- I’m sorry, the heat is just, just making me antsy. It’s not a big deal.”
“Are you sure?,” Sapnap says, eyeing him a little warily. The sun has sunk its way completely out of view, leaving behind a cloudless dark sky and the silhouette of electricity wires. In the dusky golden light, the set of Sapnap’s eyebrows and quirk of his mouth all radiate worry. Clay hates that look, the concerned-but-pretending-I’m-not expression he seems to find so much in the faces of the people around him. Relax , he wants to say. I’m fine. Stop looking for some sort of sign, you won’t find it .
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s alright, dumbass. Here, I’ll help you with that horrible suitcase.” Wincing a little, Clay peels himself off of the windowsill and crosses his room in two quick strides. Lying in shadow, a shirt sprawls messily on the floor from where Sapnap had thrown it. He picks it up, rubbing the worn-thin cotton material between his fingers.
It makes him think of George. The way the t-shirts George owns stick to his chest and back with sweat when the midnoon sun gets too hot, the way his salty skin feels against Clay’s lips, the way his hair curls just so as Clay runs his fingers through it, damp with ocean spray and summer.
“Clay? You good?” He looks back up, startled, as Sapnap’s voice reaches him.
“Yeah, fine. Here’s your shirt,” Clay says, throwing it over in one easy swoop. He watches as it soars through sun-illuminated dust motes and lands perfectly in Sapnap’s waiting hands. His best friend gives him a thumbs up, turning in a practised motion to chuck it into the waiting suitcase.
If Clay’s being honest, almost everything makes him think of George.