F13/TiH - Mirror, Crack'd &Indistinct - 18 - 2/2
Title: Mirror, Crack'd and Indistinct 2/2
Author: aramuin
Fandom: Friday the 13th/Ten Inch Hero
Pairing: Clay/Priestly
Rating: 18
Word Count: 14,900
Kink: First time, possessive
Notes/Warnings: Massive thanks to deannawol for beta and handholding. Spoilers for Friday the 13th and Ten Inch Hero, set after both films. Includes references to mental health issues, I am not a professional in this area.
Summary: After Jason, Clay is sent to Restful Meadows, Santa Cruz to recover where he makes his peace and meets a very interesting boy.
Previous Part
"CLAY!" There's a hand clutching his shoulder and he jerks free, shoving back to slam into the headboard. "Easy, easy there. It was just a dream. You're all right."
"Wh-?" Clay squints up and Mabelle beams down on him. "Mabelle?"
"Oh good, you recognize me." Mabelle combs his hair back out of his eyes with affectionate efficiency. "We thought you'd like to see a familiar face."
"What happened?"
"You had a bad reaction to withdrawal, dear. I imagine you've never had recreational drugs." He has to squint against the light to see her placid smile.
"No." He doesn't like the way they fuck him up. He tried marijuana once, lost a day to it and swore never again. Clay rubs his face and feels the fuzz of a half-grown beard. He combs his fingers through it, absently marveling at the length.
"I didn't think so but Andrea insisted. You should be over the worst of it now and it should be easy sailing from here on in." Mabelle chuckles. "Or on out as the case may be."
Clay stares at her and finds himself a little freaked. He's not used to Mabelle being this lucid and sure of herself. She pats his hand and he sits up a little, surprised at the way his arms shake and he nearly falls out of the damn bed.
"I'll fetch Andrea for you, dear." Mabelle says. "You just stay there."
Doc Armstrong comes in with the first real smile Clay's ever seen on her face. She looks a little rumpled around the edges - not disheveled but without that Barbie-doll perfection that he associates with her. She talks about 'side-effects' and 'anaphylactic reactions' until his eyes glaze over then takes pity on him and boils it down.
"You were allergic to one of the new medications. Not seriously but the allergic reaction stacked with the withdrawal and it was too much for your system. We know what went wrong and we won't let it happen again." Mabelle translates reassuringly.
"Okay." Clay agrees easily, settling back into his pillows. "Do I have to go back on the old medication?"
The thought isn't a good one; he's aware in a way that he couldn't remember being. He can taste the dryness of his mouth, feel the crisp starched sheets and he's hungry, a proper hollow-gut feeling. He wants steak, a baked potato floating in butter and his mouth waters just at the thought of it.
"No." Doc Armstrong says, picking up a clipboard and launching into another monologue on drugs and long complicated latin words. Clay hangs onto the 'no' and lets himself drift off again.
The next time he wakes, it's morning. The sun is up, filling the room with light and Clay feels good. He pushes himself up, only wobbling a little when he stands and stretches. His back pops and he groans with the pleasure of it. His hair is tangled and greasy when he scratches his hands through it. The pajamas he's wearing are ridiculously small on him, the pants hanging just past his knees.
He finds the shower in the small bathroom next door and there's a cheap plastic comb and one of the toothpaste/brush combos that were sold in airports and bus station vending machines. He brushes his teeth first, eager to lose that fuzzy feeling.
The shower isn't quite big enough but the water's hot and there's a bar of industrial soap. Clay scrubs himself industriously then soaks until the hot water runs out. There's a towel on the toilet lid and when he comes out of the bathroom, Mabelle has his clothes folded neatly on the chair and is making his bed.
"Good morning, dear." Mabelle gives him an appreciative once over. "Feeling better?"
"Morning," Clay grabs his clothes and looks around. Mabelle completely fails to take the hint, beaming at him. "And, yeah, I just need a razor and I'm good."
"That's wonderful to hear. Priestly will be delighted." Mabelle sits on the bed and blinks shortsightedly at him.
"Priestly knows I was..." Clay waves the hand not holding his towel up.
"Oh yes, dear. He was worried when you missed lunch and I didn't think you'd mind my telling him. He will be upset that he's missed you."
Clay is still trying to wrap his mind around Priestly actually missing him. "Missed me? How long have I been here?"
"Four days." Mabelle says. "We were very worried about you."
"Four days?" Clay gapes at her but thankfully doesn't lose his towel.
"Yes, dear." Mabelle purses her lips. "Shouldn't you get dressed? You'll catch your death standing around with wet hair and no clothes."
"Yeah, yeah." Clay waits for her to turn around but Mabelle just keeps staring expectantly at him. He does manage to get dressed without losing his towel. There's a nasty moment when he thinks he's going to trip on his damn pants and break his neck but he manages to flail out an arm and catch the side of the bed before he actually falls.
Mabelle titters. There's no other word for the stifled sound and when Clay looks over, she has a hand pressed to her lips and her eyes are dancing. He can feel his cheeks going red and he busies himself with drying his hair. Thankfully, his stomach chooses that exact second to complain that he hasn't eaten anything for four days and Mabelle stands up.
"Come along, dear. We shouldn't miss breakfast."
Clay is surprised and touched when people come up to ask how he's doing. Even Marcus manages a 'Glad you're not dead in a pool of your own piss'. It sets the tone for the rest of the days and Clay goes back to his own room that evening with a smile on his face. All his stuff is there and he flops into the bed. He doesn't dream.
Priestly's back the next day, new hair color and a new piercing still pink and puffy in his eyebrow. Something tight and knotted up in Clay's chest relaxes at the sight of him. He can feel a smile tugging at his mouth as he joins the queue. There's a bubbling anticipation as he edges forward. Priestly isn't looking up, shoulders hunched and he's quieter than Clay's ever seen him.
Maybe that's why Priestly doesn't see him until Clay's towering over him and it's funny how small Priestly seems compared to the picture of him Clay carries around in his head. He's banging out lunch boxes and Clay's last in line, for reasons he's not ready to examine too closely. He waits until Priestly's done with Fay (senile, former beauty queen, penchant for random nudity. Hers and other people's) before stepping forward. His voice comes out softer than he means it to be. "Ham'n cheese, extra pickles."
He can actually see the realization freeze Priestly in place, hands hovering over the lunch box. He looks Clay up and down. There's a moment where Clay's worried that Priestly might not be happy to see him but the ear-to-ear smile takes ten years off. Clay can't help the answering smile that spreads across his face.
"Guys, seriously, get a room." The girl with Priestly rolls her eyes but she's smiling fondly at them both. She's not as flamboyant as Priestly but there's a stud in her left eyebrow and canary yellow streaks in her hair. "I got this, Priestly. You can grab a smoke break or ...whatever."
Priestly glares at her and goes a little pink under his tattoos, which Clay only sees because he's so close. "Bitch."
The girl smirks, leaning past him to hold out a hand to Clay. "Tish, Priestly's nearest and dearest. You must be Clay?"
"Yeah, uh, hi!" Clay shakes her hand. Priestly has a girlfriend? He only just controls the urge to crush her hand in his and it's a conscious effort not to loom at her.
"Don't listen to the crazy, man." Priestly nudges Tish back. "She just never got over me."
Tish snorts and hugs Priestly. "Uh-huh, I'm the one that ruined you for other women, but I'm the one that can't get over our fling."
Clay looks back and forth between them. "Are you guys...together?"
Priestly looks revolted, Tish disgusted. There's a long drawn out second where Clay's certain he's put his foot in it and then they both bust a gut laughing. Priestly grabs a lunch box and comes out from behind the table. "I'm goin' on break. Holler if you need me."
"I will!" Tish grins at them both. "Nice meeting you, Clay."
"You too." Clay smiles and follows Priestly outside. It's cloudy but dry and they take over one of the picnic tables. "So, you and Tish..."
Priestly rolls his eyes. "Smooth, very smooth, dude."
"What's the story with you two?" Clay clarifies as he cracks his lunch box. He's aware that Priestly's trying to brush him off but he's feeling on edge and a little aggressive at the casual way Tish draped herself over Priestly.
"We tried the dating thing." Priestly admits easily. "Pain in the fucking ass, she didn't like the tats or the piercings and Ambercombe and Finch gives me hives. Lasted a couple of months then we had a huge screaming match in the bar - got barred for that."
"Shit, man, that sucks." Clay says honestly.
"We got shitfaced, she cried, I bitched and we called it quits." Priestly shrugs. "Honestly? I'm glad we called it before I booked the laser surgery."
Clay chokes on his sandwich and Priestly has to pound him on the back for nearly a minute before he can breathe freely. "Jesus, man. So you're still friends?"
"We were bitches to each other for a couple of weeks." Priestly says casually. "Jen was going to start selling tickets when we pulled a shift together."
"What changed?"
"Trucker told us we could sort it out like adults or he'd have Zoe cast a spell on us."
Clay waits for Priestly to laugh but he seems totally serious. "What? Seriously?"
"It's not like Zoe would try anything serious. Bad mojo and all that shit." Priestly says. "She's more the 'love the world' hippy anyway. But we had dinner and cleared the air. Then we decided to use our powers for evil and it works."
"That's cool."
They eat in silence for a while, Clay finishes first despite having a bag of chips and a bag of candy with his sandwich. He kicks back, watching Priestly and filing away with the details. Priestly doesn't seem to notice or (more likely) doesn't care, working his way through a triple decker sandwich with care.
The sun comes out and Clay tips his face up to it. He's feeling lighter, daring; it's a beautiful day and for the first time since his mother was hospitalized, he doesn't have to do anything. He'd forgotten somewhere along the way, what it felt like to be his own man. Staying with Mom became Searching for Whitney became Fighting Jason and for the first time, Clay isn't thinking about what he has to do next. He's thinking about what he wants to do next.
It's that freedom that makes him reckless and he turns to Priestly. "So, what did Tish mean when she said she ruined you for other women?"
Priestly snorts. "That she was blowing things out of proportion. I was a two-team batter before we hooked up. It just wasn't an issue until after we broke up."
"You like guys?" Clay asks, just to be sure.
"I don't like most of humanity." Priestly says tartly. "Some of it's just worth saving for the eye candy."
Clay laughs and Priestly smirks. Clay moves the topic onto the outside world, asking Priestly about Santa Cruz. Priestly's still a fucking smart ass but his descriptions have Clay in stitches for the rest of lunch. He's still smiling when he heads off for group.
That night is the first night that Clay doesn't have a nightmare. Not even one. He dreams of bright green eyes and polished steel studs in freckled skin and he has to take a longer shower and change his sheets in the morning but he's smiling again. God but he's missed being able to jerk off!
It's not until he sees the amused tilt in Doc Armstrong's raised eyebrows after breakfast that he realizes that he's humming. Clay coughs and looks out the window but she's smiling when he looks back. "Good morning, Clay. You seem to be feeling better today?"
"Yeah," he ducks his head a little. "Yeah, I'm feeling good."
"That's what we like to hear. No trouble with the new medication? No...recurring problems?"
"No, they're much better." Clay looks at the floor 'cause this is never not going to be mortifying. "No...side effects."
"Well, that's good news." Doc Armstrong busies herself with some papers and Clay's ninety percent certain she's trying not to laugh. "So, what have your dreams been like?"
Clay thinks about the half-remembered dream from last night and has to take a bathroom break until he looks less like a tomato but when he goes back, he talks about the dreams of Jason. Doc Armstrong turns out to be sympathetic, reassuring him that it's completely natural to be dreaming of Jason. She has a book on lucid dreaming that Clay takes with him after the session.
Priestly isn't doing lunch today so Clay grabs his lunch and goes to one of the empty rooms to think. He still feels liberated, the weight of responsibility lifted but today he's more serious about it. He skips group after lunch and goes to sit outside in the garden and think. It's warmer today, proper Californian summer and he basks in the sun as he tries to figure out what to do next.
He doesn't have any clear ideas that day or that week. He does an awful lot of thinking in between sessions and shooting the shit with Priestly. The weather is beautiful and Doc Armstrong starts cutting down on the number of sessions they have and Clay spends the free time just lounging around in the sun. He's getting better and he knows that the countdown to getting out is starting.
Priestly brings him some biking magazine just before the weekend. Clay's thrilled until it turns out that they're a preemptive apology because Priestly's going to a gig so he's not going to be working any of the next weekend. Clay is tempted to sulk but that would mean giving up time with Priestly which he's not willing to do.
"Traitor."
"Aw, come on, man. I wouldn't ditch you for anything less than the good stuff, you know that." Priestly flicks his forehead. "Besides, I fucking queued for those tickets. With teenage girls, Clay! Four fucking hours of pink and giggling and toxic aerosol gases!"
Clay can't keep the scowl up in the face of Priestly's melodrama. "You're still an asshole and I hate you. Who are you going to see anyway?"
"European rock band." Priestly says, bouncing a little just at the thought of it. "Kickass bass player."
It's the first time Clay's seen Priestly actually excited about something that wasn't him and he doesn't think he likes it. Priestly tells him about the shopping trip he and Tish are going on to get jewelry especially for the concert. He's even thinking about getting his other nipple pierced for it and Clay's gut clenches. Definitely doesn't like it. He can taste bile in the back of his throat and there's a sullen pulse in the pit of his stomach.
Doc Armstrong is expecting him after lunch and Clay manages to hide the angry twist in his gut for the last twenty minutes until Tish starts threatening to leave Priestly behind if he doesn't get his ass in gear. It does mean he's in no mood to play nice for Doc Armstrong but life's a bitch like that.
Doc Armstrong finally throws her pen down and sighs pointedly. "Clay, we simply cannot continue if you are going to behave in such a petulant manner. What has gotten into you today?"
"Nothing." Clay snaps. "I'm still in a looney bin, half a fucking country away from anyone who knows me and I'm still on the happy pills. What the fuck could be wrong with me?!"
"That was true yesterday and the day before and it didn't bother you then." Doc Armstrong points out. "Something specific is upsetting you and there's no point in us continuing until you address it."
Clay scowls. "That's bullshit."
"No, it's simply practical." Doc Armstrong sits back, fingers steepled like a Bond villain and waits.
"It's stupid." Clay begins eventually.
"Tell me what 'it' is and let me be the judge of that, Clay."
"Priestly - lunch time guy - is going to a concert next week. He's excited about it." Clay hasn't talked about Priestly to Doc Armstrong. That particular corner of his psyche is private and he's keen to keep it that way. He hesitates, trying to decide how much to tell Doc Armstrong without making it obvious that there's some parts he's not telling her.
"You're jealous of him?" Doc Armstrong doesn't wait for an answer. "Honestly, I think that's an entirely reasonable reaction, Clay. You're getting much better and Restful Meadows isn't the most stimulating environment. Wanting to go to a concert is a very good sign."
Clay nods, not sure how to explain that it isn't Priestly he's jealous of. It's everyone else going to that concert.
Thankfully Doc Armstrong doesn't pick up on that. "The concert is here in Santa Cruz?"
"Yeah, some place called the Cellar." Clay says, caught off balance by the apparent non sequitur.
"That's only a few miles away." Doc Armstrong says thoughtfully. "Do you think your friend would be willing to go with you to the concert?"
Clay shrugs, it's not like that's relevant here. He's still a committed patient in a mental institute and Priestly's a dick but he's not the sort of douchebag who'd ask Clay to something he could never attend. "Possibly. It's not like he could invite me or anything."
"Hmm. Well, if he's willing to go with you to the concert, we might be able to make it a day release trip. You have been doing so well lately that's it's time we started getting you acclimatised to the outside world again."
She looks serious, Clay realizes. He's staring at her, jaw hanging. She also looks like his goddamn fairy godmother but that's probably just the shock talking. "Seriously?"
"Unless you'd rather not?" Doc Armstrong offers.
"No! I mean, no, I want to." God, does he want. Clay offers her his best pleading expression and Doc Armstrong smiles.
"Leave it with me then, Clay. I'll talk to the relevant people and we should know by Tuesday."
Clay nods and fights down the impulse to just dance around the room. That night he dreams about Priestly in full punk style, complete with tight leather trousers. He has to jerk off twice in the shower and is late for breakfast the next morning.
Doc Armstrong may actually be a fairy godmother; when she said she'd talk to the 'relevant people', she included Priestly and Tish who was supposed to be using the other ticket. Clay finds out at lunch when she throws her arms around his neck and nearly knocks him over.
"THANK YOU! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" For such a tiny thing, she's got a grip of steel and Clay wheezes and tries not to drop her on her ass in the middle of the canteen.
"You're welcome? I'm not sure what I did to warrant pouncing but you're welcome?" He sets her down gingerly.
"You are taking my place at the concert." Tish says seriously. "I love Priestly like a brother but there is an absolute babe at my gym who has a dinner reservation for two that night."
"New boy?" Clay asks, surprised despite himself.
"I'm hoping." Tish beams at him. "But he'd never forgive me if I ditched him for a hookup."
"You two are totally dysfunctional, you know that?" Clay shakes his head, relieved that she's so upbeat. "He may not accept a substitute. I mean hot chick or crazy dude?"
"Can't spell dysfunctional without fun!" Tish giggles. "And my hotness, which I'm pleased you noticed, is a complete non-issue with Priestly. We have fucked and it was good, but we have also nearly fucked each other up. You see the hot, Priestly just sees the trauma."
"Ouch." Clay tries not to think of Tish and Priestly fucking. It's a disturbingly hot mental image. "Doesn't mean he'll be happy to have me along."
Tish looks him up and down then just looks at him as if he's an adorable but mentally damaged puppy. "I don't really do ego-massage. Just trust me on this one, he's not going to object to bringing you to a gig in a small, dim, sweaty bar. Which reminds me! What are you wearing?"
Clay looks down at himself. "Sweats and a-"
"Not now! What are you wearing to the concert?"
"...no fucking clue?" Clay offers.
"Men!" Tish bitches. Clay winds up having to show her his entire meager wardrobe and Tish tuts over the few semi-decent clothes he has left. She finally picks out a once-black T-shirt that got shrunk in the laundromat back near Crystal Lake and an old pair of jeans with rips across the knees and inner thigh. Clay thinks he'll get himself arrested for indecent exposure but Tish laughs and tells him that's the point.
Clay might say a prayer of gratitude when Tish leaves. She's smart, she's hot and she's one hundred percent batshit crazy. He thinks he likes her all the same and he's glad she's not Priestly's girlfriend.
He aces the afternoon session with Doc Armstrong who drops hints that if the concert goes well, Clay could be leaving Restful Meadows very soon. It's good news but it ratchets his stress levels to new heights and he isn't surprised when he jerks awake at midnight, Jason's filthy hockey mask still clear in his mind.
He sleepwalks through breakfast and the art session immediately afterwards. They're making jewelry from strips of leather. It's not the most intellectually taxing activity but Clay still manages to make his bracelet just a little too small. He stuffs it in his pocket when they break for lunch and slouches out to pick up his sandwich.
Priestly nods to him but Marcus is complaining about something and demanding Priestly fix his goddamn sandwich right goddamn now. Clay goes out to sit at their table and picks at his sandwich. Priestly follows him out about ten minutes later.
"That man, I swear. Dude doesn't have issues, he has libraries."
"What did he want?"
"Non-dairy cream." Priestly shakes his head. "There are so many things I could say to that."
Clay laughs and Priestly shakes his head. "It's just wrong."
Marcus's latest meltdown gets them through the next twenty minutes. Priestly finishes his lunch first and sits back. "So, I'm thinking we should have dinner before the concert."
"Oh?" Clay busies himself with his chips. "I thought the gig was in a bar?"
"It is and the booze is awesome but I prefer my burger without Ebola." Priestly is shredding the paper wrapper into narrow strips.
"Alright," Clay drums the table. "You got a place in mind?"
"Depends what you want." Priestly shrugs. "And how soon you want to be dead of a heart-attack."
Clay grins. "I'm craving meat, man. Been a looong time."
"Well, there's a steakhouse on third street. If you're feeling the need to re-assert your manliness or something."
"Well hell, son" Clay deepens his drawl, draws out the 'l'. "Don't need steak to make a man."
"There's the Hippy Shake if you're boning for tofu." Priestly offers with what is nearly straight face.
Clay shudders. "Fuck that. I want meat."
"Leave it with me." Priestly has turned his wrapper into confetti by now. "You need a ride or is the Doc dropping you off?"
"I'd rather bum a ride." Clay says immediately. The idea of being dropped off by the Doc is just too horrific to contemplate. He already feels like he's fifteen already.
"Cool." Priestly nods and goes back to shredding his wrapper. The silence that creeps in is awkward and expectant. They stutter through the last of lunch and he can see Priestly biting back the snappy comments. Clay feels like he's back in high school, all nerves and tripping over his tongue.
The next few days fly by. Clay's pills get changed again - there's just two now and one of those is a sleeping pill. He hates the sleeping pill. It leaves a heavy foggy feeling that lasts through most of the morning. He flushes the pill on Friday night and is awake two hours early. He's pretty sure that that's nerves though.
The morning seems to stretch forever. He's restless, frustrated that he can't just leave one moment and worried that he's going to fuck this up the next. When the time comes to take a shower and get ready, he's so on edge that he can't even jerk off. He's been allowed an overnight bag, just in case, and he's packed two pairs of boxers, hand lotion and a change of clothes. It's not until he's on the front steps that he realizes that he's forgotten his toothbrush, toothpaste and comb.
Priestly's already there, leaning against an old Chevy. It's in good shape but Clay's attention goes straight to the over-sized neon pink fluffy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. When he drags his gaze back to Priestly, he's wearing his trademark shit eating grin. "Niiiice, dude."
"You just wish you were enough of a man to rock pink dice." Clay doesn't actually manage a response because holy shit, kilt. Priestly's wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a brand new set of polished steel jewelry. His hair is spiked up and green again. Clay clears his throat and shifts his bag so it's hiding his crotch.
"We blowing this popsicle stand or what, man?"
"Do I look like your chauffeur , asshole?" Priestly punches him in the arm as he rounds the car to the driver's side.
Clay drops into the passenger seat and keeps his bag on his lap. When Priestly sits into the car, Clay is glad he has the bag. They're both big guys and there's less than half a foot between them and Priestly is going to be the fucking death of him because there is eyeliner outlining his ridiculously big eyes. Clay looks out the window before he can check if Priestly's wearing lip gloss. His dick's already an uncomfortable pressure against his fly and Clay's skirting the edge already.
Priestly's car purrs like a kitten and it's an old enough model that Clay can sprawl out on the front seat. It's a stick, which means he can't sprawl into Priestly's space. He only notices this when they get stuck in a tailback. It's evening time, the sunlight gone honey-colored and soft and Priestly looks like a walking, talking invitation to sin. He bitches about the traffic and they compete to spot the worst driver in the surrounding traffic. (They award it to a minivan that spends twenty minutes straddling three lines with the windscreen wipers).
The tailback is a bitch, nearly two hours staring up the tail pipe of the Suburban in front of them and the reek of exhaust fumes rolling in with the sea breeze through the open windows. They get off the road with forty minutes before the doors to the gig open. Thankfully, the hostess at the steakhouse knows Priestly so he gets to phone in their order before they pass the tailback.
She has the food waiting when they pull up to the door. Priestly pays, largely because Clay can't remember which pocket he put his money in. They wind up eating in parking lot outside the Cellar, sitting on the still warm hood of the car and just relaxing.
The steak is perfect, pink and tender. The first forkful seems to melt in his mouth and Clay just about passes out from the sheer pleasure. He has to fight not to just inhale the whole thing. He draws it out as long as he can and licks the last of the steak sauce out of the box. When he settles back against the windscreen with a satisfied groan, Priestly is watching him with dark eyes.
Clay stretches just a little, testing. Priestly's eyes follow the line of his body down, lingering on his chest and flicking down to catch on his crotch. Clay wets his lips but before he can open his mouth, there's a screeching sound as the Cellar's doors are forced open and it breaks the tension between them.
"Come on, dude, might as well grab a good place in the pit." Priestly says and his voice rasps like someone sandpapered his throat. Clay swings his legs off the hood and adjusts his jeans before following Priestly across the parking lot and into the bar,
The Cellar is a shithole, all the furniture is old and beat to shit and the floor is creaking boards that are so old that they're smooth as silk and slippery underfoot. There's a dartboard, a bar and a stage that looks far too fragile to support the massive amps stacked on and around it. The air is rank with old cigarette smoke and industrial bleach. The staff are all bigger than him and with more tattoos and piercings than Priestly.
"Hey, Blue meanie!" One of the security guys, a big black dude built like a truck and with a Navy tattoo on his bicep. He claps Priestly on the shoulder. "No, Green Meanie tonight? Haven't seen you 'round lately."
Clay crowds a little closer to Priestly who swats at the security guy with a grin. "Some of us have actual jobs that need actual work, Jarhead."
Jarhead laughs and actually does knock Priestly forward when he claps him on the back. Clay steadies him and fights the urge to punch Jarhead in the face. He's crazy, not suicidal. "Good to see your mouth still works. Go on in, grab your man a beer. Opening act's still fucking with the sound system."
"Cheers." Priestly leads Clay to the bar where two long necks are already waiting. Clay pays this time, admiring the collection of dirty postcards behind the bar. There's graffiti all over the walls, varying from crude cartoonish cocks to elaborate recreations of famous paintings.
Priestly brings him over to where the mosh pit will be which Clay thinks is impatience. It turns out to be experience because the bar fills up amazingly fast. Clay feels a little out of place but there's a fairly broad range of people from a guy who could be Trent's more likable big brother to a girl who has more visible piercings than she has visible skin.
The opening act is decent, the bass player and the lead guitarist riffing off each other and egging on the drummer while the singer wails about his old girlfriend and how badly she fucked him over. The crowd's keen but not really hopping. Most of the people around them are talking and Clay adds another observation to his Cellar knowledge; no air-conditioning.
By the time the main act take the stage, Clay's buzzed and sweating. There's a growing sense of anticipation humming through the air and he's bouncing on his heels as the opening riff cuts through the thick air. Priestly's pressed up against his side by the crowd and Clay's hyper aware of every inch of overlap.
The band is good, loud and aggressive but genuinely talented and they have the whole bar wired by the end of the second song. The amps shriek, the drums thunder and Clay isn't thinking, isn't worrying and isn't giving a damn what anyone thinks of him. The floor shakes with the drumbeat and there's a sweaty sea of humanity with waves of movement crashing around the pit.
Priestly's practically glued to his hip, sweat and skin. Priestly lost his t-shirt at some point and Clay can't remember exactly when but he realizes Priestly is half naked, he pulls his own shirt off. Priestly's eyes are dark and heated but the glint of metal pulls Clay's gaze down to the barbell through his nipple. Priestly's sort of scrawny, the promise of muscle in the breadth of his shoulders but when Clay presses his fingers against his side, they fit into the shallow spaces between his ribs.
It's weirdly private, just the two of them, half-naked and sweat-slick in the middle of the seething mass of the crowd. It's just dark enough in this space right in front of the stage that Clay doesn't think anyone can see them, pushed too close together by design.
In the reflected flash of the strobe lights, Priestly doesn't look human. He looks like something out of a painting or a fairy tale. Clay can feel his heart racing behind his ribs, feeling every hitch in his breathing and he spreads his hand wider, trying to feel more. His thumb catches the barbell and Priestly hisses. It's a soft sound, Clay feels it more than hears it; the way Priestly's chest pulls in and the rush of warm air against the side of his neck.
He lifts his free hand, slow and deliberate. Never breaking eye contact as he curls his fingers around Priestly's neck and his other hand slides down so he can hook his first two fingers under Priestly's belt. Priestly just stares up at him, eyes inferno hot and daring Clay to freak out.
Clay rubs his thumb into the dip of Priestly's collarbone, marveling at how big, brash Priestly dwindles under his hands into something precious, something breakable. Behind him, the drums thunder towards another crescendo and the crowd roars like a wounded animal. He's on the brink; toes over the edge and he can't even imagine the ground below.
Priestly's tongue dart out to swipe across his lips and fuck it!
Clay's dick is ten seconds from bursting but there's just enough blood left in his upstairs brain to think that the middle of punk-rock mosh pit is not the best place to try and fuck his boy's brains out. He pushes through the crowd, fingers still crooked in Priestly's belt. Priestly lets him take the lead, pupils blowing wider when Clay snarls at some frat boy with his letter jacket who doesn't get the fuck out of his way until Clay makes him move.
There's a small alley, chain link fence and putrid dumpster and Clay shoves Priestly up against the wall. He can see the line of Priestly's dick, distorting the kilt and he reaches down to feel the heft of it, a hot, hard shape that fits his hands.
Priestly's eyes roll back and he swears, head smacking into the filthy brick work. His hair gel's given up the ghost and spikes of soft green hair brush Clay's cheek as he leans in to kiss Priestly. It's a savage thing, both of them wild with wanting and Clay tastes blood as Priestly ruts up against him.
They're too hot to fuck and Clay doesn't even have spit for lube. He gets the kilt up, his jeans open and takes them both in hand. Priestly's so hot against him that Clay's half-afraid he'll have burns. He bites at Priestly's neck, mouthing filth against the pale skin before biting hard on the racing pulse.
He can hear/feel the band's finale shaking through the night and part of him wants to keep Priestly like this, cursing and shaking and so fucking hot spread out for him, until the fans come out; wants everyone to see the way Priestly arches up, the way his smart-ass mouth hangs open, pink and wet as he begs. Most of all, he wants everyone in the damn state to know Priestly's wanted, taken and fucking owned.
He tightens his grip and Priestly's mouth opens around a gasp, sweat and tears smearing his eyeliner under Clay's fingers and Clay's eyes cross as the sheer fucking debauchery that is Priestly coming makes his own brain short out.
Epilogue
It's a bright autumn day when Clay leaves Restful Meadows with a duffel bag full of clothes and a 'just-in-case' prescription for anti-depressants in his back pocket. The sky isn't clear but the grey clouds are flying high and away towards the sea while the sun beams down the whole hospital.
He leaves his room sterile and clean behind him. Doc Armstrong shakes his hand in the office and walks him out. He's floored when she hugs him at the top of the steps. "I am happy for you. Remember what we talked about and remember that we're always here if you need us."
Clay pats her back awkwardly and half-hugs her in return. "I-I will. Thank you, Doc. I really appreciate everything you've done."
She lets him go and stands back, professional mask already sliding back into place. "Goodbye, Clay. Be happy, you deserve it."
"I will." He promises, hefting his bag and offering her a wide smile. "Thanks again, Doc."
He doesn't wait for her to go back inside because he can hear the car's engine purring up the drive and he's grateful for what Restful Meadows offered him, for the time and therapy but he's itching for the open road and it's well past time to be gone.
The Chevy pulls up at the bottom of the stairs and Priestly leans over to open the passenger door. Clay bounds down the stairs and into the car, curling his fingers around Priestly's wrist, under the twisted leather bracelet. He pulls Priestly over the gear stick to kiss him breathless, laughing at the muffled (and utterly insincere) threats Priestly makes.
He doesn't look back.
Author: aramuin
Fandom: Friday the 13th/Ten Inch Hero
Pairing: Clay/Priestly
Rating: 18
Word Count: 14,900
Kink: First time, possessive
Notes/Warnings: Massive thanks to deannawol for beta and handholding. Spoilers for Friday the 13th and Ten Inch Hero, set after both films. Includes references to mental health issues, I am not a professional in this area.
Summary: After Jason, Clay is sent to Restful Meadows, Santa Cruz to recover where he makes his peace and meets a very interesting boy.
Previous Part
"CLAY!" There's a hand clutching his shoulder and he jerks free, shoving back to slam into the headboard. "Easy, easy there. It was just a dream. You're all right."
"Wh-?" Clay squints up and Mabelle beams down on him. "Mabelle?"
"Oh good, you recognize me." Mabelle combs his hair back out of his eyes with affectionate efficiency. "We thought you'd like to see a familiar face."
"What happened?"
"You had a bad reaction to withdrawal, dear. I imagine you've never had recreational drugs." He has to squint against the light to see her placid smile.
"No." He doesn't like the way they fuck him up. He tried marijuana once, lost a day to it and swore never again. Clay rubs his face and feels the fuzz of a half-grown beard. He combs his fingers through it, absently marveling at the length.
"I didn't think so but Andrea insisted. You should be over the worst of it now and it should be easy sailing from here on in." Mabelle chuckles. "Or on out as the case may be."
Clay stares at her and finds himself a little freaked. He's not used to Mabelle being this lucid and sure of herself. She pats his hand and he sits up a little, surprised at the way his arms shake and he nearly falls out of the damn bed.
"I'll fetch Andrea for you, dear." Mabelle says. "You just stay there."
Doc Armstrong comes in with the first real smile Clay's ever seen on her face. She looks a little rumpled around the edges - not disheveled but without that Barbie-doll perfection that he associates with her. She talks about 'side-effects' and 'anaphylactic reactions' until his eyes glaze over then takes pity on him and boils it down.
"You were allergic to one of the new medications. Not seriously but the allergic reaction stacked with the withdrawal and it was too much for your system. We know what went wrong and we won't let it happen again." Mabelle translates reassuringly.
"Okay." Clay agrees easily, settling back into his pillows. "Do I have to go back on the old medication?"
The thought isn't a good one; he's aware in a way that he couldn't remember being. He can taste the dryness of his mouth, feel the crisp starched sheets and he's hungry, a proper hollow-gut feeling. He wants steak, a baked potato floating in butter and his mouth waters just at the thought of it.
"No." Doc Armstrong says, picking up a clipboard and launching into another monologue on drugs and long complicated latin words. Clay hangs onto the 'no' and lets himself drift off again.
The next time he wakes, it's morning. The sun is up, filling the room with light and Clay feels good. He pushes himself up, only wobbling a little when he stands and stretches. His back pops and he groans with the pleasure of it. His hair is tangled and greasy when he scratches his hands through it. The pajamas he's wearing are ridiculously small on him, the pants hanging just past his knees.
He finds the shower in the small bathroom next door and there's a cheap plastic comb and one of the toothpaste/brush combos that were sold in airports and bus station vending machines. He brushes his teeth first, eager to lose that fuzzy feeling.
The shower isn't quite big enough but the water's hot and there's a bar of industrial soap. Clay scrubs himself industriously then soaks until the hot water runs out. There's a towel on the toilet lid and when he comes out of the bathroom, Mabelle has his clothes folded neatly on the chair and is making his bed.
"Good morning, dear." Mabelle gives him an appreciative once over. "Feeling better?"
"Morning," Clay grabs his clothes and looks around. Mabelle completely fails to take the hint, beaming at him. "And, yeah, I just need a razor and I'm good."
"That's wonderful to hear. Priestly will be delighted." Mabelle sits on the bed and blinks shortsightedly at him.
"Priestly knows I was..." Clay waves the hand not holding his towel up.
"Oh yes, dear. He was worried when you missed lunch and I didn't think you'd mind my telling him. He will be upset that he's missed you."
Clay is still trying to wrap his mind around Priestly actually missing him. "Missed me? How long have I been here?"
"Four days." Mabelle says. "We were very worried about you."
"Four days?" Clay gapes at her but thankfully doesn't lose his towel.
"Yes, dear." Mabelle purses her lips. "Shouldn't you get dressed? You'll catch your death standing around with wet hair and no clothes."
"Yeah, yeah." Clay waits for her to turn around but Mabelle just keeps staring expectantly at him. He does manage to get dressed without losing his towel. There's a nasty moment when he thinks he's going to trip on his damn pants and break his neck but he manages to flail out an arm and catch the side of the bed before he actually falls.
Mabelle titters. There's no other word for the stifled sound and when Clay looks over, she has a hand pressed to her lips and her eyes are dancing. He can feel his cheeks going red and he busies himself with drying his hair. Thankfully, his stomach chooses that exact second to complain that he hasn't eaten anything for four days and Mabelle stands up.
"Come along, dear. We shouldn't miss breakfast."
Clay is surprised and touched when people come up to ask how he's doing. Even Marcus manages a 'Glad you're not dead in a pool of your own piss'. It sets the tone for the rest of the days and Clay goes back to his own room that evening with a smile on his face. All his stuff is there and he flops into the bed. He doesn't dream.
Priestly's back the next day, new hair color and a new piercing still pink and puffy in his eyebrow. Something tight and knotted up in Clay's chest relaxes at the sight of him. He can feel a smile tugging at his mouth as he joins the queue. There's a bubbling anticipation as he edges forward. Priestly isn't looking up, shoulders hunched and he's quieter than Clay's ever seen him.
Maybe that's why Priestly doesn't see him until Clay's towering over him and it's funny how small Priestly seems compared to the picture of him Clay carries around in his head. He's banging out lunch boxes and Clay's last in line, for reasons he's not ready to examine too closely. He waits until Priestly's done with Fay (senile, former beauty queen, penchant for random nudity. Hers and other people's) before stepping forward. His voice comes out softer than he means it to be. "Ham'n cheese, extra pickles."
He can actually see the realization freeze Priestly in place, hands hovering over the lunch box. He looks Clay up and down. There's a moment where Clay's worried that Priestly might not be happy to see him but the ear-to-ear smile takes ten years off. Clay can't help the answering smile that spreads across his face.
"Guys, seriously, get a room." The girl with Priestly rolls her eyes but she's smiling fondly at them both. She's not as flamboyant as Priestly but there's a stud in her left eyebrow and canary yellow streaks in her hair. "I got this, Priestly. You can grab a smoke break or ...whatever."
Priestly glares at her and goes a little pink under his tattoos, which Clay only sees because he's so close. "Bitch."
The girl smirks, leaning past him to hold out a hand to Clay. "Tish, Priestly's nearest and dearest. You must be Clay?"
"Yeah, uh, hi!" Clay shakes her hand. Priestly has a girlfriend? He only just controls the urge to crush her hand in his and it's a conscious effort not to loom at her.
"Don't listen to the crazy, man." Priestly nudges Tish back. "She just never got over me."
Tish snorts and hugs Priestly. "Uh-huh, I'm the one that ruined you for other women, but I'm the one that can't get over our fling."
Clay looks back and forth between them. "Are you guys...together?"
Priestly looks revolted, Tish disgusted. There's a long drawn out second where Clay's certain he's put his foot in it and then they both bust a gut laughing. Priestly grabs a lunch box and comes out from behind the table. "I'm goin' on break. Holler if you need me."
"I will!" Tish grins at them both. "Nice meeting you, Clay."
"You too." Clay smiles and follows Priestly outside. It's cloudy but dry and they take over one of the picnic tables. "So, you and Tish..."
Priestly rolls his eyes. "Smooth, very smooth, dude."
"What's the story with you two?" Clay clarifies as he cracks his lunch box. He's aware that Priestly's trying to brush him off but he's feeling on edge and a little aggressive at the casual way Tish draped herself over Priestly.
"We tried the dating thing." Priestly admits easily. "Pain in the fucking ass, she didn't like the tats or the piercings and Ambercombe and Finch gives me hives. Lasted a couple of months then we had a huge screaming match in the bar - got barred for that."
"Shit, man, that sucks." Clay says honestly.
"We got shitfaced, she cried, I bitched and we called it quits." Priestly shrugs. "Honestly? I'm glad we called it before I booked the laser surgery."
Clay chokes on his sandwich and Priestly has to pound him on the back for nearly a minute before he can breathe freely. "Jesus, man. So you're still friends?"
"We were bitches to each other for a couple of weeks." Priestly says casually. "Jen was going to start selling tickets when we pulled a shift together."
"What changed?"
"Trucker told us we could sort it out like adults or he'd have Zoe cast a spell on us."
Clay waits for Priestly to laugh but he seems totally serious. "What? Seriously?"
"It's not like Zoe would try anything serious. Bad mojo and all that shit." Priestly says. "She's more the 'love the world' hippy anyway. But we had dinner and cleared the air. Then we decided to use our powers for evil and it works."
"That's cool."
They eat in silence for a while, Clay finishes first despite having a bag of chips and a bag of candy with his sandwich. He kicks back, watching Priestly and filing away with the details. Priestly doesn't seem to notice or (more likely) doesn't care, working his way through a triple decker sandwich with care.
The sun comes out and Clay tips his face up to it. He's feeling lighter, daring; it's a beautiful day and for the first time since his mother was hospitalized, he doesn't have to do anything. He'd forgotten somewhere along the way, what it felt like to be his own man. Staying with Mom became Searching for Whitney became Fighting Jason and for the first time, Clay isn't thinking about what he has to do next. He's thinking about what he wants to do next.
It's that freedom that makes him reckless and he turns to Priestly. "So, what did Tish mean when she said she ruined you for other women?"
Priestly snorts. "That she was blowing things out of proportion. I was a two-team batter before we hooked up. It just wasn't an issue until after we broke up."
"You like guys?" Clay asks, just to be sure.
"I don't like most of humanity." Priestly says tartly. "Some of it's just worth saving for the eye candy."
Clay laughs and Priestly smirks. Clay moves the topic onto the outside world, asking Priestly about Santa Cruz. Priestly's still a fucking smart ass but his descriptions have Clay in stitches for the rest of lunch. He's still smiling when he heads off for group.
That night is the first night that Clay doesn't have a nightmare. Not even one. He dreams of bright green eyes and polished steel studs in freckled skin and he has to take a longer shower and change his sheets in the morning but he's smiling again. God but he's missed being able to jerk off!
It's not until he sees the amused tilt in Doc Armstrong's raised eyebrows after breakfast that he realizes that he's humming. Clay coughs and looks out the window but she's smiling when he looks back. "Good morning, Clay. You seem to be feeling better today?"
"Yeah," he ducks his head a little. "Yeah, I'm feeling good."
"That's what we like to hear. No trouble with the new medication? No...recurring problems?"
"No, they're much better." Clay looks at the floor 'cause this is never not going to be mortifying. "No...side effects."
"Well, that's good news." Doc Armstrong busies herself with some papers and Clay's ninety percent certain she's trying not to laugh. "So, what have your dreams been like?"
Clay thinks about the half-remembered dream from last night and has to take a bathroom break until he looks less like a tomato but when he goes back, he talks about the dreams of Jason. Doc Armstrong turns out to be sympathetic, reassuring him that it's completely natural to be dreaming of Jason. She has a book on lucid dreaming that Clay takes with him after the session.
Priestly isn't doing lunch today so Clay grabs his lunch and goes to one of the empty rooms to think. He still feels liberated, the weight of responsibility lifted but today he's more serious about it. He skips group after lunch and goes to sit outside in the garden and think. It's warmer today, proper Californian summer and he basks in the sun as he tries to figure out what to do next.
He doesn't have any clear ideas that day or that week. He does an awful lot of thinking in between sessions and shooting the shit with Priestly. The weather is beautiful and Doc Armstrong starts cutting down on the number of sessions they have and Clay spends the free time just lounging around in the sun. He's getting better and he knows that the countdown to getting out is starting.
Priestly brings him some biking magazine just before the weekend. Clay's thrilled until it turns out that they're a preemptive apology because Priestly's going to a gig so he's not going to be working any of the next weekend. Clay is tempted to sulk but that would mean giving up time with Priestly which he's not willing to do.
"Traitor."
"Aw, come on, man. I wouldn't ditch you for anything less than the good stuff, you know that." Priestly flicks his forehead. "Besides, I fucking queued for those tickets. With teenage girls, Clay! Four fucking hours of pink and giggling and toxic aerosol gases!"
Clay can't keep the scowl up in the face of Priestly's melodrama. "You're still an asshole and I hate you. Who are you going to see anyway?"
"European rock band." Priestly says, bouncing a little just at the thought of it. "Kickass bass player."
It's the first time Clay's seen Priestly actually excited about something that wasn't him and he doesn't think he likes it. Priestly tells him about the shopping trip he and Tish are going on to get jewelry especially for the concert. He's even thinking about getting his other nipple pierced for it and Clay's gut clenches. Definitely doesn't like it. He can taste bile in the back of his throat and there's a sullen pulse in the pit of his stomach.
Doc Armstrong is expecting him after lunch and Clay manages to hide the angry twist in his gut for the last twenty minutes until Tish starts threatening to leave Priestly behind if he doesn't get his ass in gear. It does mean he's in no mood to play nice for Doc Armstrong but life's a bitch like that.
Doc Armstrong finally throws her pen down and sighs pointedly. "Clay, we simply cannot continue if you are going to behave in such a petulant manner. What has gotten into you today?"
"Nothing." Clay snaps. "I'm still in a looney bin, half a fucking country away from anyone who knows me and I'm still on the happy pills. What the fuck could be wrong with me?!"
"That was true yesterday and the day before and it didn't bother you then." Doc Armstrong points out. "Something specific is upsetting you and there's no point in us continuing until you address it."
Clay scowls. "That's bullshit."
"No, it's simply practical." Doc Armstrong sits back, fingers steepled like a Bond villain and waits.
"It's stupid." Clay begins eventually.
"Tell me what 'it' is and let me be the judge of that, Clay."
"Priestly - lunch time guy - is going to a concert next week. He's excited about it." Clay hasn't talked about Priestly to Doc Armstrong. That particular corner of his psyche is private and he's keen to keep it that way. He hesitates, trying to decide how much to tell Doc Armstrong without making it obvious that there's some parts he's not telling her.
"You're jealous of him?" Doc Armstrong doesn't wait for an answer. "Honestly, I think that's an entirely reasonable reaction, Clay. You're getting much better and Restful Meadows isn't the most stimulating environment. Wanting to go to a concert is a very good sign."
Clay nods, not sure how to explain that it isn't Priestly he's jealous of. It's everyone else going to that concert.
Thankfully Doc Armstrong doesn't pick up on that. "The concert is here in Santa Cruz?"
"Yeah, some place called the Cellar." Clay says, caught off balance by the apparent non sequitur.
"That's only a few miles away." Doc Armstrong says thoughtfully. "Do you think your friend would be willing to go with you to the concert?"
Clay shrugs, it's not like that's relevant here. He's still a committed patient in a mental institute and Priestly's a dick but he's not the sort of douchebag who'd ask Clay to something he could never attend. "Possibly. It's not like he could invite me or anything."
"Hmm. Well, if he's willing to go with you to the concert, we might be able to make it a day release trip. You have been doing so well lately that's it's time we started getting you acclimatised to the outside world again."
She looks serious, Clay realizes. He's staring at her, jaw hanging. She also looks like his goddamn fairy godmother but that's probably just the shock talking. "Seriously?"
"Unless you'd rather not?" Doc Armstrong offers.
"No! I mean, no, I want to." God, does he want. Clay offers her his best pleading expression and Doc Armstrong smiles.
"Leave it with me then, Clay. I'll talk to the relevant people and we should know by Tuesday."
Clay nods and fights down the impulse to just dance around the room. That night he dreams about Priestly in full punk style, complete with tight leather trousers. He has to jerk off twice in the shower and is late for breakfast the next morning.
Doc Armstrong may actually be a fairy godmother; when she said she'd talk to the 'relevant people', she included Priestly and Tish who was supposed to be using the other ticket. Clay finds out at lunch when she throws her arms around his neck and nearly knocks him over.
"THANK YOU! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" For such a tiny thing, she's got a grip of steel and Clay wheezes and tries not to drop her on her ass in the middle of the canteen.
"You're welcome? I'm not sure what I did to warrant pouncing but you're welcome?" He sets her down gingerly.
"You are taking my place at the concert." Tish says seriously. "I love Priestly like a brother but there is an absolute babe at my gym who has a dinner reservation for two that night."
"New boy?" Clay asks, surprised despite himself.
"I'm hoping." Tish beams at him. "But he'd never forgive me if I ditched him for a hookup."
"You two are totally dysfunctional, you know that?" Clay shakes his head, relieved that she's so upbeat. "He may not accept a substitute. I mean hot chick or crazy dude?"
"Can't spell dysfunctional without fun!" Tish giggles. "And my hotness, which I'm pleased you noticed, is a complete non-issue with Priestly. We have fucked and it was good, but we have also nearly fucked each other up. You see the hot, Priestly just sees the trauma."
"Ouch." Clay tries not to think of Tish and Priestly fucking. It's a disturbingly hot mental image. "Doesn't mean he'll be happy to have me along."
Tish looks him up and down then just looks at him as if he's an adorable but mentally damaged puppy. "I don't really do ego-massage. Just trust me on this one, he's not going to object to bringing you to a gig in a small, dim, sweaty bar. Which reminds me! What are you wearing?"
Clay looks down at himself. "Sweats and a-"
"Not now! What are you wearing to the concert?"
"...no fucking clue?" Clay offers.
"Men!" Tish bitches. Clay winds up having to show her his entire meager wardrobe and Tish tuts over the few semi-decent clothes he has left. She finally picks out a once-black T-shirt that got shrunk in the laundromat back near Crystal Lake and an old pair of jeans with rips across the knees and inner thigh. Clay thinks he'll get himself arrested for indecent exposure but Tish laughs and tells him that's the point.
Clay might say a prayer of gratitude when Tish leaves. She's smart, she's hot and she's one hundred percent batshit crazy. He thinks he likes her all the same and he's glad she's not Priestly's girlfriend.
He aces the afternoon session with Doc Armstrong who drops hints that if the concert goes well, Clay could be leaving Restful Meadows very soon. It's good news but it ratchets his stress levels to new heights and he isn't surprised when he jerks awake at midnight, Jason's filthy hockey mask still clear in his mind.
He sleepwalks through breakfast and the art session immediately afterwards. They're making jewelry from strips of leather. It's not the most intellectually taxing activity but Clay still manages to make his bracelet just a little too small. He stuffs it in his pocket when they break for lunch and slouches out to pick up his sandwich.
Priestly nods to him but Marcus is complaining about something and demanding Priestly fix his goddamn sandwich right goddamn now. Clay goes out to sit at their table and picks at his sandwich. Priestly follows him out about ten minutes later.
"That man, I swear. Dude doesn't have issues, he has libraries."
"What did he want?"
"Non-dairy cream." Priestly shakes his head. "There are so many things I could say to that."
Clay laughs and Priestly shakes his head. "It's just wrong."
Marcus's latest meltdown gets them through the next twenty minutes. Priestly finishes his lunch first and sits back. "So, I'm thinking we should have dinner before the concert."
"Oh?" Clay busies himself with his chips. "I thought the gig was in a bar?"
"It is and the booze is awesome but I prefer my burger without Ebola." Priestly is shredding the paper wrapper into narrow strips.
"Alright," Clay drums the table. "You got a place in mind?"
"Depends what you want." Priestly shrugs. "And how soon you want to be dead of a heart-attack."
Clay grins. "I'm craving meat, man. Been a looong time."
"Well, there's a steakhouse on third street. If you're feeling the need to re-assert your manliness or something."
"Well hell, son" Clay deepens his drawl, draws out the 'l'. "Don't need steak to make a man."
"There's the Hippy Shake if you're boning for tofu." Priestly offers with what is nearly straight face.
Clay shudders. "Fuck that. I want meat."
"Leave it with me." Priestly has turned his wrapper into confetti by now. "You need a ride or is the Doc dropping you off?"
"I'd rather bum a ride." Clay says immediately. The idea of being dropped off by the Doc is just too horrific to contemplate. He already feels like he's fifteen already.
"Cool." Priestly nods and goes back to shredding his wrapper. The silence that creeps in is awkward and expectant. They stutter through the last of lunch and he can see Priestly biting back the snappy comments. Clay feels like he's back in high school, all nerves and tripping over his tongue.
The next few days fly by. Clay's pills get changed again - there's just two now and one of those is a sleeping pill. He hates the sleeping pill. It leaves a heavy foggy feeling that lasts through most of the morning. He flushes the pill on Friday night and is awake two hours early. He's pretty sure that that's nerves though.
The morning seems to stretch forever. He's restless, frustrated that he can't just leave one moment and worried that he's going to fuck this up the next. When the time comes to take a shower and get ready, he's so on edge that he can't even jerk off. He's been allowed an overnight bag, just in case, and he's packed two pairs of boxers, hand lotion and a change of clothes. It's not until he's on the front steps that he realizes that he's forgotten his toothbrush, toothpaste and comb.
Priestly's already there, leaning against an old Chevy. It's in good shape but Clay's attention goes straight to the over-sized neon pink fluffy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. When he drags his gaze back to Priestly, he's wearing his trademark shit eating grin. "Niiiice, dude."
"You just wish you were enough of a man to rock pink dice." Clay doesn't actually manage a response because holy shit, kilt. Priestly's wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a brand new set of polished steel jewelry. His hair is spiked up and green again. Clay clears his throat and shifts his bag so it's hiding his crotch.
"We blowing this popsicle stand or what, man?"
"Do I look like your chauffeur , asshole?" Priestly punches him in the arm as he rounds the car to the driver's side.
Clay drops into the passenger seat and keeps his bag on his lap. When Priestly sits into the car, Clay is glad he has the bag. They're both big guys and there's less than half a foot between them and Priestly is going to be the fucking death of him because there is eyeliner outlining his ridiculously big eyes. Clay looks out the window before he can check if Priestly's wearing lip gloss. His dick's already an uncomfortable pressure against his fly and Clay's skirting the edge already.
Priestly's car purrs like a kitten and it's an old enough model that Clay can sprawl out on the front seat. It's a stick, which means he can't sprawl into Priestly's space. He only notices this when they get stuck in a tailback. It's evening time, the sunlight gone honey-colored and soft and Priestly looks like a walking, talking invitation to sin. He bitches about the traffic and they compete to spot the worst driver in the surrounding traffic. (They award it to a minivan that spends twenty minutes straddling three lines with the windscreen wipers).
The tailback is a bitch, nearly two hours staring up the tail pipe of the Suburban in front of them and the reek of exhaust fumes rolling in with the sea breeze through the open windows. They get off the road with forty minutes before the doors to the gig open. Thankfully, the hostess at the steakhouse knows Priestly so he gets to phone in their order before they pass the tailback.
She has the food waiting when they pull up to the door. Priestly pays, largely because Clay can't remember which pocket he put his money in. They wind up eating in parking lot outside the Cellar, sitting on the still warm hood of the car and just relaxing.
The steak is perfect, pink and tender. The first forkful seems to melt in his mouth and Clay just about passes out from the sheer pleasure. He has to fight not to just inhale the whole thing. He draws it out as long as he can and licks the last of the steak sauce out of the box. When he settles back against the windscreen with a satisfied groan, Priestly is watching him with dark eyes.
Clay stretches just a little, testing. Priestly's eyes follow the line of his body down, lingering on his chest and flicking down to catch on his crotch. Clay wets his lips but before he can open his mouth, there's a screeching sound as the Cellar's doors are forced open and it breaks the tension between them.
"Come on, dude, might as well grab a good place in the pit." Priestly says and his voice rasps like someone sandpapered his throat. Clay swings his legs off the hood and adjusts his jeans before following Priestly across the parking lot and into the bar,
The Cellar is a shithole, all the furniture is old and beat to shit and the floor is creaking boards that are so old that they're smooth as silk and slippery underfoot. There's a dartboard, a bar and a stage that looks far too fragile to support the massive amps stacked on and around it. The air is rank with old cigarette smoke and industrial bleach. The staff are all bigger than him and with more tattoos and piercings than Priestly.
"Hey, Blue meanie!" One of the security guys, a big black dude built like a truck and with a Navy tattoo on his bicep. He claps Priestly on the shoulder. "No, Green Meanie tonight? Haven't seen you 'round lately."
Clay crowds a little closer to Priestly who swats at the security guy with a grin. "Some of us have actual jobs that need actual work, Jarhead."
Jarhead laughs and actually does knock Priestly forward when he claps him on the back. Clay steadies him and fights the urge to punch Jarhead in the face. He's crazy, not suicidal. "Good to see your mouth still works. Go on in, grab your man a beer. Opening act's still fucking with the sound system."
"Cheers." Priestly leads Clay to the bar where two long necks are already waiting. Clay pays this time, admiring the collection of dirty postcards behind the bar. There's graffiti all over the walls, varying from crude cartoonish cocks to elaborate recreations of famous paintings.
Priestly brings him over to where the mosh pit will be which Clay thinks is impatience. It turns out to be experience because the bar fills up amazingly fast. Clay feels a little out of place but there's a fairly broad range of people from a guy who could be Trent's more likable big brother to a girl who has more visible piercings than she has visible skin.
The opening act is decent, the bass player and the lead guitarist riffing off each other and egging on the drummer while the singer wails about his old girlfriend and how badly she fucked him over. The crowd's keen but not really hopping. Most of the people around them are talking and Clay adds another observation to his Cellar knowledge; no air-conditioning.
By the time the main act take the stage, Clay's buzzed and sweating. There's a growing sense of anticipation humming through the air and he's bouncing on his heels as the opening riff cuts through the thick air. Priestly's pressed up against his side by the crowd and Clay's hyper aware of every inch of overlap.
The band is good, loud and aggressive but genuinely talented and they have the whole bar wired by the end of the second song. The amps shriek, the drums thunder and Clay isn't thinking, isn't worrying and isn't giving a damn what anyone thinks of him. The floor shakes with the drumbeat and there's a sweaty sea of humanity with waves of movement crashing around the pit.
Priestly's practically glued to his hip, sweat and skin. Priestly lost his t-shirt at some point and Clay can't remember exactly when but he realizes Priestly is half naked, he pulls his own shirt off. Priestly's eyes are dark and heated but the glint of metal pulls Clay's gaze down to the barbell through his nipple. Priestly's sort of scrawny, the promise of muscle in the breadth of his shoulders but when Clay presses his fingers against his side, they fit into the shallow spaces between his ribs.
It's weirdly private, just the two of them, half-naked and sweat-slick in the middle of the seething mass of the crowd. It's just dark enough in this space right in front of the stage that Clay doesn't think anyone can see them, pushed too close together by design.
In the reflected flash of the strobe lights, Priestly doesn't look human. He looks like something out of a painting or a fairy tale. Clay can feel his heart racing behind his ribs, feeling every hitch in his breathing and he spreads his hand wider, trying to feel more. His thumb catches the barbell and Priestly hisses. It's a soft sound, Clay feels it more than hears it; the way Priestly's chest pulls in and the rush of warm air against the side of his neck.
He lifts his free hand, slow and deliberate. Never breaking eye contact as he curls his fingers around Priestly's neck and his other hand slides down so he can hook his first two fingers under Priestly's belt. Priestly just stares up at him, eyes inferno hot and daring Clay to freak out.
Clay rubs his thumb into the dip of Priestly's collarbone, marveling at how big, brash Priestly dwindles under his hands into something precious, something breakable. Behind him, the drums thunder towards another crescendo and the crowd roars like a wounded animal. He's on the brink; toes over the edge and he can't even imagine the ground below.
Priestly's tongue dart out to swipe across his lips and fuck it!
Clay's dick is ten seconds from bursting but there's just enough blood left in his upstairs brain to think that the middle of punk-rock mosh pit is not the best place to try and fuck his boy's brains out. He pushes through the crowd, fingers still crooked in Priestly's belt. Priestly lets him take the lead, pupils blowing wider when Clay snarls at some frat boy with his letter jacket who doesn't get the fuck out of his way until Clay makes him move.
There's a small alley, chain link fence and putrid dumpster and Clay shoves Priestly up against the wall. He can see the line of Priestly's dick, distorting the kilt and he reaches down to feel the heft of it, a hot, hard shape that fits his hands.
Priestly's eyes roll back and he swears, head smacking into the filthy brick work. His hair gel's given up the ghost and spikes of soft green hair brush Clay's cheek as he leans in to kiss Priestly. It's a savage thing, both of them wild with wanting and Clay tastes blood as Priestly ruts up against him.
They're too hot to fuck and Clay doesn't even have spit for lube. He gets the kilt up, his jeans open and takes them both in hand. Priestly's so hot against him that Clay's half-afraid he'll have burns. He bites at Priestly's neck, mouthing filth against the pale skin before biting hard on the racing pulse.
He can hear/feel the band's finale shaking through the night and part of him wants to keep Priestly like this, cursing and shaking and so fucking hot spread out for him, until the fans come out; wants everyone to see the way Priestly arches up, the way his smart-ass mouth hangs open, pink and wet as he begs. Most of all, he wants everyone in the damn state to know Priestly's wanted, taken and fucking owned.
He tightens his grip and Priestly's mouth opens around a gasp, sweat and tears smearing his eyeliner under Clay's fingers and Clay's eyes cross as the sheer fucking debauchery that is Priestly coming makes his own brain short out.
Epilogue
It's a bright autumn day when Clay leaves Restful Meadows with a duffel bag full of clothes and a 'just-in-case' prescription for anti-depressants in his back pocket. The sky isn't clear but the grey clouds are flying high and away towards the sea while the sun beams down the whole hospital.
He leaves his room sterile and clean behind him. Doc Armstrong shakes his hand in the office and walks him out. He's floored when she hugs him at the top of the steps. "I am happy for you. Remember what we talked about and remember that we're always here if you need us."
Clay pats her back awkwardly and half-hugs her in return. "I-I will. Thank you, Doc. I really appreciate everything you've done."
She lets him go and stands back, professional mask already sliding back into place. "Goodbye, Clay. Be happy, you deserve it."
"I will." He promises, hefting his bag and offering her a wide smile. "Thanks again, Doc."
He doesn't wait for her to go back inside because he can hear the car's engine purring up the drive and he's grateful for what Restful Meadows offered him, for the time and therapy but he's itching for the open road and it's well past time to be gone.
The Chevy pulls up at the bottom of the stairs and Priestly leans over to open the passenger door. Clay bounds down the stairs and into the car, curling his fingers around Priestly's wrist, under the twisted leather bracelet. He pulls Priestly over the gear stick to kiss him breathless, laughing at the muffled (and utterly insincere) threats Priestly makes.
He doesn't look back.