by Zimmerman, L
“I want a piece.”
“sexiest-- what?” Grant choked. Is this real life? Is this just fantasy?
“--of pizza. When I get back.“ Clayton finished slowly, sounding so smug that Grant kind of wished he could Stretch Armstrong his fist through the phone and into Clayton’s face. “Save me some.” Clayton added, hanging up before Grant could even say anything.
Grant stared at his phone for a long second, mouth gaping open and his face flushing hot for no apparent reason at all. He didn't regain his composure until Billy paged through asking Grant a question about his current job.
Chapter 7
Grant was halfway through finishing his closing paperwork when Clayton pulled into the garage. There was still a few slices of pizza left from lunch, which had been an afternoon Grant would absolutely need to write into his nonexistent sparkly diary all about Clayton.
Dear Diary, today Clayton smiled at me. And stole pizza from my hand. I think we have a connection.
Brilliance.
Clayton stepped into the office once he was done fueling his truck up, eyes glancing longingly at the pizza box. It was kind of endearing, the way Grant could practically see the guy’s stomach lurch in one of those moments Grant knew very well. (He liked to call them the ’I was really hungry but then I forgot I was hungry until I was reminded of how hungry I was' look.) Grant was out of his seat before he could think about what he was doing, opening the box and shimmying over to the microwave. For good measure, he made sure to bend at the torso and not his shoulders or knees when he went to reheat the pizza, glancing at the reflective door of the microwave to see the reflection of Clayton staring blatantly at his ass.
Grant's heart had a momentary spasm, wrenching up into his throat and then stuttering for a beat as he stood up and turned. Much to Grant's everlasting amusement, Clayton was peering innocently at some of the paperwork on the desk. He was about as subtle as a box of fireworks.
“Been busy?” Clayton asked gruffly. Grant smothered a grin, shrugging his shoulders.
“Enough that I could smoke ten cigarettes and still feel stressed out,” he muttered, trying to block out the image from earlier that day. Brian the creeper had been working all morning, and when he came into the office to pick up a call, he’d thrown up on himself in the middle of talking and had tried to play it off like nothing had happened. Grant had barely been able to silence his dry heaving as Brian hacked and spat into the bathroom toilet while asking Grant information about the run.
Clayton scowled, eyebrows pinching in confusion together. It should have been unnerving, or at least intimidating, but Grant was a sadist and found it nothing but utterly adorable. “You smoke?”
“No,” Grant sighed, flopping down into the office chair, “but I’m starting to seriously consider picking it up.”
“Don’t,” Clayton blurted, jaw flexing, “Don’t start.” It sounded like he was actually concerned at the idea of Grant getting into a habit that was surprisingly common. Intrigued, Grant rested his arms on the desk, fiddling with his pen. All he needed now was a desk lamp to shine into Clayton’s eyes--maybe a pair of handcuffs to add to the effect.
“What? You smoke.” Grant pointed out, gesturing to where a crumpled pack of Camel Lights sat in the breast pocket of Clayton’s uniform. Clayton reflexively brought a hand up to press it against the pack, his scowl deepening.
“Which is why you shouldn’t,” Clayton shot back. Grant scoffed, a grin pulling at his mouth as he bobbed his head with a shrug of his shoulders, peering up at Clayton through his eyelashes.
“Aww, I didn’t know you cared.” Grant didn’t understand how Clayton could say and do things that made him utterly endearing, and then look all grumpy when Grant called him out on it.
The microwave beeped before Clayton could even try to protest, and Grant pushed himself out of his seat. He opened the microwave, pulling out the reheated pizza and hearing Clayton instinctively sniff the air.
Grant brought him the food, handing over the paper plate and smiling when Clayton’s eyes went wide for just a fraction of a second before he took the food like a homeless man being offered free beer.
Grant was pretty sure he was grinning like mad, because Clayton quickly schooled his expression and grunted out his thanks so he could sit down and eat. Grant reached out, wanting to fluff Clayton’s hair in revenge for all the times he’d gotten his head rubbed, but Clayton growled and swatted his hand away before he’d even brushed his fingertips against their silky brown puffs. Grant was fascinated to see the back of Clayton’s neck and ears were turning pink--and not from being out in the sun.
It took all of Grant's self control not to just slap the pizza out of Clayton’s hands and hop on his lap so he could ride the man like a Brokeback Mountain throwback--minus the angst.
Instead, Grant returned to his closing duties, switching out the trash bags and tying up the old one to set by the door. By the time everything was shut down and Grant was clocked out, Clayton was using a paper towel to wipe pizza from the edge of his mouth--which had become stained red from the sauce. Oh, how Grant wished he could just pretend his life was an awful Twilight fan fiction and lick and suck the stains straight from Clayton’s lips without getting his ass thrown out the door for his efforts.
“Okay soooo, I’mma have to shoo you out, now, since we‘re closed and I can‘t be in here after hours,” just to make sure Clayton understood what he meant (and because Grant was horribly awkward when it came to kicking people out of the office), Grant made a shoo’ing motion with his hands before he bent down to grab the trash bag. Clayton stood, nodding and brushing by Grant with the empty paper plate folded in one hand.
He stepped out of the office, turning and holding the door open for Grant to come outside. Grant hit the light switch, stepping outside and shutting the door so he could lock it. Once the keys were safely tucked back into his pocket, he turned and totally did not yelp when he bumped into Clayton’s chest.
“Woah, hey… my, what a firm chest you have,” Grant breathed, eyes going wider by the second as Clayton began to lean in. Oh my god, oh my god, yes, yes yes. Just yes. This was -yes.
Clayton snagged the trash bag from Grant's hand, leaning in to brush his nose along the curve of Grant's ear. Grant was pretty sure he was going to go into cardiac arrest, his entire body flaring up in anticipation, a shudder echoing straight down his spine and pooling in the base of his tailbone when Clayton drew in a slow breath through his nose.
“I’ll throw the trash out,” he muttered, voice a low rasp. Grant was going to vibrate out of his skin if Clayton didn’t do something soon. Preferably something sexy. “Goodnight, Grant.”
Clayton’s stubble rasped along the hinge of Grant's jaw, lips pressing against the tiny hollow of his cheek in the most blueballing form of a kiss Grant had ever heard of in his entire life.
Grant was two seconds away from associating his heart with an alien chestburster when Clayton pulled away, ruffled Grant's head fluff, and started to walk towards the dumpster.
“Th-that's it?!” Grant cried, his voice cracking and his dick twitching in more of a depressed sag than an excited jerk.
Clayton didn’t even look back, disappearing behind the gate with the dumpster with another call of, “Good night, Grant!”
What the fuck was that, even? Was that legal? Was that even--
Clayton had made the first move.
Grant wanted to drop to the ground and weep. Things were finally looking up.
It wasn't until a week later and absolutely no advancement in his and Clayton's not-relationship that Grant realized he needed to do something. Curled up in the loveseat of Adam's living room, Grant watched Adam save his game and return to the menu.
Grant tapped the toes of his sneakers together, brain wracking over itself for ideas. "What if I just decapitated a Barbie head and gave it zombie makeup and tied it to the grill of his truck?"
Adam’s pinched expression came back with a vengeance, tur
ning to stare at Grant like he’d grown a third nipple on his forehead. "What?’
"…. wouldn’t hurt to try." Grant murmured as the game started up.
Pausing the game, Adam gestured to Grant in a motion that demanded elaboration. "Wait what? What do zombies have to do with any of this?"
Zombies had everything to do with it, obviously. "Clayton thinks he knows more about the onset of a possible zombie apocalypse than I do."
"What are you even talking about?" Adam cried, because he liked to yell when he was really confused, since yelling seemed to make things easier to understand, apparently.
"Do you have any rum left?" Grant asked instead.
Adam sighed, growling under his breath, standing, and heading for the kitchen to retrieve the bottle.
Twelve hours later, Grant shoved a mutilated Barbie doll covered in tacky gray and red paint at Elliot, eyes intense. “Do it when he’s in the bathroom.”
Elliot stared at the doll, pursing his lips. “This is creepy,” he pointed out quietly, looking up at Grant, “really creepy.”
Okay, Elliot obviously didn’t understand the concept of humor, because it was totally not creepy. In fact, it could possibly be hilarious if Clayton didn’t take it the wrong way and instead try to return the doll to Grant via suppository.
“Oh my God, dude. Just do it. I can always find you some tire changes, if I have to.”
Elliot snatched the doll out of Grant's hand. “Why does you always ask me to do the weird gay-boyfriends stuff?” he whined under his breath, shoving the doll into the pocket of his trousers and leaving the office. Grant was tempted to yell after Elliot that if he and Clayton were, in fact, boyfriends, then Grant wouldn’t have to coerce Elliot into doing aforementioned weird gay things.
He drew in a long, shuddering breath, wiped his clammy palms on the hips of his jeans, and headed back to his desk to sit down and pretend to look busy. A half hour of inactivity went by before the office door opened and Clayton walked in with the doll clutched in his hand.
Clayton stared--the stare of a man trying to suddenly acquire telepathy so he could pick Grant's brain apart like a T-Rex with a dead carcass.
“Did you laugh?” Grant blurted, setting his pen down before he started to frantically click it. “I laughed.”
Not even a twitch. Grant was pretty sure he could break Clayton’s kneecaps with a tire iron and still get the same dead-eyed stare that he was receiving at that very moment.
“No laugh?” Grant ventured, because he was seriously starting to wonder if Clayton would actually consider Barbie-doll suppositories. “Not funny? No?”
Turning on his heel, Clayton left the office.
Fuck.
Grant exhaled, burying his face in his hands and ignoring the computer honking at him with a call. That had been a totally awesome plan. Granted--not his best, but still awesome. Maybe Clayton was just still angry at him, even though he’d acknowledged Grant's apologies and has seemed to at least begrudgingly accept them. Didn’t that mean they were ready to move on? Wasn’t it a coupley thing to say ‘you’re an ass but I want to bone you anyway’ or something along those lines?
The office door opened and Grant peeked up to see Clayton standing there sans-Barbie and looking like he was suffering from Vader’s death-choke.
“Why do you keep trying?”
That was… unexpected.
“What?” Grant said intelligently, his head bobbing low like a confused owl.
“You keep… doing things…for me.”
“To... make you smile?” Grant offered, because it looked like Clayton was struggling to admit he felt anything other than mild annoyance or an embittered rage at life in general. Clayton jerked his head in something that could have been a nod--or just an attempt to keep from looking like a robot that had been frozen in place.
“I want to.” Grant pointed out, chest tightening just a fraction as he gestured to Clayton. “Dude, I really do. I want to make you smile. I love it when you smile, and when you laugh, and when you give me that look like you don't know if I'm an alien species or not. Seriously, man, you’re pretty awesome when you’re not doing the whole, dark and mysterious deal that makes most people think you’re in some sort of cult biker gang.”
“What.”
Clayton’s eyes were marginally wider than they had been a few seconds prior. Grant just gave Clayton his cheesiest smile that he could manage without crying hysterically out of anxiety.
“If you smiled, I should totally get a reward,” he pointed out seriously. If he’d spent the past two months stumbling over himself to get Clayton to notice him, there wasn’t much he could do now that could make him look anymore desperate than he already was.
Clayton’s face went expressionless, shoulders tensing as he asked tightly, “What kind of reward.”
“Be creative?” Grant suggested, grabbing his pen and clicking it. He licked his lips, swallowing heavily at the pensive look that crossed Clayton’s face. It was followed by a lot of expressions, and a lot of eyebrow shifting that looked almost painful.
Clayton was around the desk in the beat of a heart, startling Grant so badly that he jerked back and almost flipped his chair over. Clayton snagged the back, steadying it and then grabbing Grant's arm.
“OhGod,” Grant breathed, stumbling to his feet and really hoping this wasn’t going to end in some form of bodily harm.
What Grant wasn’t expecting, was for Clayton to drag Grant into his chest and hug him.
Grant felt his heart skip a beat, breath hitching in surprise. He didn't even think, arms winding around Clayton's back reflexively. Clayton nosed against Grant's neck, breathing in deeply through his nose and tightening his arms enough where Grant couldn’t help the soft grunt that left him. Being hugged by Clayton was like being wrapped in the warm embrace of a hairless, cuddly sasquatch made of nothing but love and happiness. Grant inched his arms tighter around Clayton’s hips, grin pulling at his lips.
This wasn’t exactly what he’d expected, but it was far better than anything he’d gotten so far. The only way this could have been better is if there was more kissing and orgasms involved.
Preferably a lot of orgasms.
“This works.” Grant muttered into Clayton’s jaw, trying not to shudder too much when Clayton’s head moved just the tiniest bit and made his stubble scrape against Grant's skin and send a tingle straight down Grant's spine.
“What did you have in mind?” Grant could feel the vibrations of Clayton’s voice straight down into his bones. It made his toes curl inside of his sneakers, head shifting just the slightest bit when Clayton started to pull away--cheeks brushing and making Grant's dick twitch at the faintest sting of bristly stubble scraping his skin.
“Me?” Grant croaked, fingers drifting from Clayton’s back to land on the offensively sexy dip of Clayton’s waist. “N-nothing. No, nothing. Me--I don’t plan ahead. My mind was totally, completely blank when I suggested that. Nope, not a thing in my head that, uh, I wanted.” Was Grant talking? He couldn’t remember if he was supposed to be saying anything else because Clayton’s fingers had somehow decided to sneak their way up to his jaw.
Oh fuck.
Was he-
Clayton dipped his head down and Grant choked on something that might have been words, but sounded more like a ‘hhhuuueeeeee’ noise that had probably originated from some extinct species of animal. He was surging upwards before he could stop himself, lungs freezing in his chest the second he pressed his mouth to Clayton’s in a sudden, impulsive kiss.
He pulled away almost immediately after, mortified at himself for stealing the romance out of the moment with his overzealousness. “Sorry,” he blurted, mouth brushing Clayton’s with each syllable, “jumped the gun there… my bad.”
Any notion that Clayton may not have wanted to kiss him was thrown out the window when Clayton huffed out a laugh, rolled his eyes, and hooked his hand behind Grant's head to drag him into another kiss.
Oh God
, his heart was going to burst. He was going to fracture into tens of thousands of pieces made from confetti hearts because he couldn’t even comprehend that this was really happening. It was a dream--a hallucination. Clayton’s hand cupped his face, calluses scraping the lobe of Grant's ear as he coaxed Grant's mouth to work against his own.
Grant couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t do anything but kiss back helplessly and try not to smile like he’d been injected with enough morphine to knock out an enraged elephant. His fingers tangled in the fabric of Clayton’s uniform shirt, only able to remember to breathe through his nose when Clayton drew back just for a second before diving in for another kiss, sucking Grant’ upper lip between his own with a scrape of teeth.
It was electrifying, more exhilarating than anything else Grant could ever recall experiencing. To have this, just this one moment after so long trying and telling himself that he would succeed--but somehow feeling as if he couldn‘t. It was the most gratifying kiss of Grant's entire life.
