wasteland - dreamnotfound

Chapter Twenty

~|George|~

Clay was crying. 

I don't know if he realized it— Or, rather, if he realized anything. 

If he realized the way he clung to me in desperation, the tracks of drying tears shining on his cheeks, or the rings of red in the whites of his eyes. 

But, I didn't care. I didn't care that his nails dug crescent moons into my skin that I knew would be sore later, didn't care that each dazed blink of his sent new tears seeping into my bloodied shirt. It didn't matter, because he wasn't okay. 

So I decided to everything in my power to make it okay. 

I swallow the lump of fear in my throat as soft notes of a sweet melody form on my tongue. It's a faded memory, really, but I recall just enough to hum the gentle, slow tune. I don't bother to sing the lyrics, though, as I can't remember them.

In time with the simple song, I continue to cautiously run my fingers through Clay's hair. 

We sit against the building, away from the blood and prying eyes of the world. He relaxes slightly at my delicate but slow touch, sore eyes fluttering closed, head pressed close to my neck. I can feel each ragged, hitched breath against my tattered skin.

A gentle, dry breeze flits about, rustling the loose sand and intertwining with my hair. I carefully place my clout glasses on the ground beside me. 

"I remember this song." 

Clay's voice is low, and soft. It seems to claw at his raw throat, but his lips still shine with a sad, small smile. 

I pause my humming to nod, pressing a delicate, lingering kiss to his forehead. He leans into the touch, eyes closing again with a content little sigh.

I resume the little tune from where I'd left off, the melody filling the empty air with a simple song.

Maybe if I close my eyes, I can return to the times where the song played on the radio, and we'd play games together for hours on end.

I guess it really is hard not to take things for granted. Because you won't know what you have, not until it's ripped from your grasp, constantly just out of reach. Sometimes, you may never get it back.

I stop humming to look at Clay. His eyes are open again, gazing up at me softly, adoringly. I smile bashfully, my eyelashes fluttering as he presses his lips lightly to my jaw, gradually reaching my own lips. He kisses me gently.

I guess I was one of the lucky people who got what I had back.

~||~

I twirl my arrow between my fingertips subconsciously as Clay and I trail Wilbur down the hall. Tommy and Tubbo linger behind, all four of us on edge. The tension in the air is high— electric— and no one dares speak.

I can feel Clay's knuckles brush mine occasionally, a means of comfort for the both of us.

The door at the end of the hall seems to loom over us— Clay looks especially nervous. 

Wilbur exhales, unlocking it and letting it swing open with a creak that breaks the deafening silence. I cringe, my hand instinctively flying to my bow. Clay's finger curls around mine, and I relax just enough to walk inside. 

It looks exactly the same as we'd left it. The desk is in the same place, the torn pieces of rope that had bound me still laying on the ground, splattered with blood from cuts I hadn't even realized were there.

I notice Clay avoids looking there, instead following Wilbur to the desk, and beyond—

Where she sits.