years ago--but not after he would have gone blind from compulsive teenage masturbation.
Once the food was done, he took a seat with his reheated fries and handed Clayton’s lunch over. Clayton shoved the phone over on the desk, making himself a corner-table opposite to Grant and digging in with the appetite of a man starved.
Grant didn’t waste a second shoving fries into his mouth with one hand, using the other to fill out paperwork. Clayton ate in silence, not even commenting when Grant muttered to himself under his breath and moved to click around on the computer to pull up the times he’d forgotten to write down.
Grant didn’t mind the quiet, for once. Normally any lack of sound would make him feel uncomfortable; with the television on mute (captions on) and the phones completely dead, Clayton’s presence was, surprisingly, more of a calming balm than anything. It was like Clayton was an all-natural brand of metaphorical THC.
Except when he was actually looking at Grant, or thinking in Grant's general direction. When that happened, Grant had an insatiable urge to climb Clayton like a tree--or to climb an actual tree and stay far, far out of sight.
The two conflicting desires were at a constant battle, which made Grant feel like his brain and libido were having their own version of a scrimmage battle.
When he finished eating, Clayton tossed his trash and sat back down, lighting a cigarette. Technically, it broke the rules, but the owner was a smoker and they had ash trays set up for some of the dispatchers and drivers. Grant--himself--didn’t smoke, but he’d gotten used to suffocation-via-cancerous fumes, and was completely unbothered by it.
Having thrown away his own trash and catching up on his paperwork, Grant pulled out his DS to pass the time.
“Just give me my godamn money,” he hissed after a few minutes, tapping angrily at the screen to try and skip past the ridiculous amount of pointless, garbled chatter that the character on the game insisted on having. He peeked up, seeing Clayton watching the muted television absently, and then went back to his game.
When his game got decidedly harder, Grant cursed loudly and then jerked his head up upon remembering that there was someone actually in the office with him. He locked eyes with Clayton, face going from room temperature to burning hot in the second of a heartbeat.
Suffocated by his own mortification, Grant ducked his head back down with a shrug and murmur of, “Sorry, I talk to games.”
“You talk to everything.” Clayton pointed out quietly, flicking ash from his cigarette into the tray near his elbow.
Grant paused, pursing his lips and nodding. “… truth.” He had to give Clayton mental props for the lack of mocking in his tone, secretly pleased that he-who-had-to-be-forced-to-talk hadn’t even bothered to tease Grant when given the perfect opportunity.
Clayton snorted, leaning back in his chair and turning to watch the television, “dork.”
Dicking around on his game, Grant glanced up at Clayton after a prolonged moment. “… do you ever talk to yourself? ‘Cause I gotta day, dude, I don’t even know how you can’t. I don’t know how anyone can stand silence. Silences is suffocating.”
Giving Grant a quirked eyebrow, Clayton took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly, making it billow in thick, gray clouds that drifted upwards. Grant decided that smoking should be outlawed for the fact that it was cancerous and illegally attractive on men like Clayton. It made Grant want to pick up the habit just to see if they could make him look as debonair. If that worked out, he might actually succeed in seducing Clayton with his wit and exuberant charm.
Probably not.
Clayton tapped some of his ash out, leaning back again and shrugging. “I’m used to it.”
“Aw, that’s… so sad.” Grant replied faintly, giving Clayton a big, fake
Once the food was done, he took a seat with his reheated fries and handed Clayton’s lunch over. Clayton shoved the phone over on the desk, making himself a corner-table opposite to Grant and digging in with the appetite of a man starved.
Grant didn’t waste a second shoving fries into his mouth with one hand, using the other to fill out paperwork. Clayton ate in silence, not even commenting when Grant muttered to himself under his breath and moved to click around on the computer to pull up the times he’d forgotten to write down.
Grant didn’t mind the quiet, for once. Normally any lack of sound would make him feel uncomfortable; with the television on mute (captions on) and the phones completely dead, Clayton’s presence was, surprisingly, more of a calming balm than anything. It was like Clayton was an all-natural brand of metaphorical THC.
Except when he was actually looking at Grant, or thinking in Grant's general direction. When that happened, Grant had an insatiable urge to climb Clayton like a tree--or to climb an actual tree and stay far, far out of sight.
The two conflicting desires were at a constant battle, which made Grant feel like his brain and libido were having their own version of a scrimmage battle.
When he finished eating, Clayton tossed his trash and sat back down, lighting a cigarette. Technically, it broke the rules, but the owner was a smoker and they had ash trays set up for some of the dispatchers and drivers. Grant--himself--didn’t smoke, but he’d gotten used to suffocation-via-cancerous fumes, and was completely unbothered by it.
Having thrown away his own trash and catching up on his paperwork, Grant pulled out his DS to pass the time.
“Just give me my godamn money,” he hissed after a few minutes, tapping angrily at the screen to try and skip past the ridiculous amount of pointless, garbled chatter that the character on the game insisted on having. He peeked up, seeing Clayton watching the muted television absently, and then went back to his game.
When his game got decidedly harder, Grant cursed loudly and then jerked his head up upon remembering that there was someone actually in the office with him. He locked eyes with Clayton, face going from room temperature to burning hot in the second of a heartbeat.
Suffocated by his own mortification, Grant ducked his head back down with a shrug and murmur of, “Sorry, I talk to games.”
“You talk to everything.” Clayton pointed out quietly, flicking ash from his cigarette into the tray near his elbow.
Grant paused, pursing his lips and nodding. “… truth.” He had to give Clayton mental props for the lack of mocking in his tone, secretly pleased that he-who-had-to-be-forced-to-talk hadn’t even bothered to tease Grant when given the perfect opportunity.
Clayton snorted, leaning back in his chair and turning to watch the television, “dork.”
Dicking around on his game, Grant glanced up at Clayton after a prolonged moment. “… do you ever talk to yourself? ‘Cause I gotta day, dude, I don’t even know how you can’t. I don’t know how anyone can stand silence. Silences is suffocating.”
Giving Grant a quirked eyebrow, Clayton took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly, making it billow in thick, gray clouds that drifted upwards. Grant decided that smoking should be outlawed for the fact that it was cancerous and illegally attractive on men like Clayton. It made Grant want to pick up the habit just to see if they could make him look as debonair. If that worked out, he might actually succeed in seducing Clayton with his wit and exuberant charm.
Probably not.
Clayton tapped some of his ash out, leaning back again and shrugging. “I’m used to it.”
“Aw, that’s… so sad.” Grant replied faintly, giving Clayton a big, fake
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