Like Normal People Do

Yearn

"So-" Zak started as soon as they'd climbed into the tour bus.

"No." Clay finished, slumping into one of the booths and dropping his head to the table.

"Oh come on, you gave him your favourite hoodie. That might be common for you Americans but where I'm from that usually means more than 'I thought he was pretty'" Vincent pushed, crossing his arms.

"Fine." Dream said, lifting his head to look at Vincent with a deadpan expression. "I thought he was pretty and funny." He stated before dropping his head back to the table with a painful thump. Darryl winced.

"Alright, it's late, give him a break." Darryl insisted lightly, placing a comforting hand on Clay's shoulder. "We should all get some rest and in the morning, if Clay wants to, we can talk about George." Darryl gave Clay's shoulder a comforting squeeze before ushering Zak and Vincent away towards the bunks.

Clay stayed where he was for a moment, face down. He'd only known George for a few hours now, why was he so upset by the thought of never seeing him again? He could blame the off mood on the loss of his hoodie but anyone could tell that it was more than that.

Clay wasn't sure whether he genuinely didn't know why the loss of George upset him so much or whether he simply didn't want to admit it, even to himself.

Clay barely remembered going to bed that night. Nor did he remember dragging himself out the next morning and back to the same position in the booth from last night. Maybe he didn't actually move at all. No, he had to have moved, he was in pyjamas now.

"Hey," Darryl's voice was soft as he slid into the booth opposite Clay "how are you holding up?" Clay sighed.

"I'm not gonna lie, Dar..." Clay lifted from the table again, eyes cloudy "it hurts." Darryl's eyes were filled with sympathy as he slipped from the booth to sit beside Clay with a mumbled 'oh muffin'. Clay almost immediately leant into his side.

"I don't get it, I've only know him for a few hours, it shouldn't hurt like this..." Clay said, squeezing one hand around his own wrist.

"Hey, look at me." Darryl said softly, poking Clay's cheek. When Clay looked to him, he continued. "How long did you know me before that night?" Darryl asked, knowing Clay would know what night he was referring to. Clay looked away.

"We'd only spoken, what, twice? And yet you got in a bar fight for me. All because my band were bums and some people didn't want to take no for an answer." Darryl nudged Clay gently. "And look how far we've come."

Clay knew Darryl was right: this had nothing to do with time. Clay was just using the excuse to hide. He sighed, dropping his head to Darryl's shoulder.

"I'll never see him again.." Clay's voice was muffled by the fabric of Darryl's bedshirt but was still easily decipherable. Darryl tilted his head to rest on top of Clay's.

"Maybe. Or maybe you will." Clay opened his eyes to see Vincent standing a few feet away and briefly wondered how long he'd been there for. The thought was quickly overruled as Vincent's words sunk in.

Clay tilted his face so that he could speak without it being muffled. "What do you mean?" Vincent took the booth opposite them.

"You know there are more ways to talk to someone than face to face, right?" Vincent asked, patiently. Clay looked confused for a moment. Vincent placed his phone on the table and Clay's eyes widened for a second. And then he deflated again.