by Zimmerman, L
He inhaled sharply, overwhelmed with the scent of sweat, oil, and bar soap that must have come from Clayton’s shower earlier that morning. The hand that Clayton wasn’t cradling Grant's face with fell to his neck, squeezing the junction of his shoulder and making Grant's knees quake when they toed the edge of a pressure point.
He almost jumped out of his skin when Clayton released a soft, rumbling moan into his mouth. Grant was always the one making sound, always moving and talking and generating noise--but he’d made Clayton moan. Not only had Clayton moaned, but he’d done it before Grant had.
“Holy shit,” Grant breathed into Clayton’s lips, speech muffled when Clayton chased the words with his mouth, dragging Grant's body flush against his own. May the Archangel Michael grant merciful passage of Grant's soul to the afterlife because he must have died and gone to heaven.
The phone chose that time to ring and remind Grant that no, his life was not a perfect romance film with happiness and sex and wonderful musical montages to help pass the boring moments along. He drew back, breath hitching when Clayton swept forward to steal one last kiss before letting Grant twist in his arms to answer the phone with a breathless, “John's Towing.”
“What did I tell you about getting nookie with Clayton in the office?!" Tucker roared from the other line.
“Ohmygod--OH MY GOD. Don’t fire me! Why are you even watching the cameras, oh my god dude,” Grant cried, swatting at Clayton’s hand because of course now Clayton would choose to be completely open with affection and run his palms all over Grant's sides. Grant had extremely sensitive sides that could sometimes earn people elbows to the face when they hit the ticklish areas.
“Get the fuck back to work!”
Clayton, smiling wider than Grant had ever seen him do in the time they’d known each other, reached over Grant's shoulder to pluck the phone out of his hand. “Make me third out tonight.”
“Bullshit.” Tucker spat from the other end. Clayton snorted, pressing the flat of his hand against Grant's back and slowly creeping his fingers under Grant's shirt. Oh god, now was not the time for a boner alert because his manager was watching the cameras at that exact moment.
It was apparent that their manager was on the cameras because he made a pained noise on the other line and grunted, “You‘re third out until ten. I don‘t wanna see any more of that gay crap in the office.”
“Deal.” Clayton grinned, hanging up the phone and pulling his hand out from under Grant's shirt. He looked down at Grant, who was resolutely focusing on disassembling his pen and reassembling it because only a limited few people could maintain erections while trying to put a pen back together. Grant was not one of them.
Wrestling the pen from Grant's hand, Clayton rubbed his nose into Grant's temple and drew in a deep breath through his nose. “If you‘re not busy tonight, we can go to the same place as last time?” he asked, the smile in his voice ringing loud and clear.
Grant fumbled his pen, flinching when it suddenly snapped out of his hand and went flying across the room. He exhaled, eyes falling shut and tilting his head just enough that Clayton had more room to do that thing he was doing, “tonight is great, tonight’s awesome. I’m doing absolutely nothing tonight, except maybe you.”
Clayton snorted, "God, you're a complete dork," while reaching out and giving Grant's head an affectionate shove before he stood up and headed for the door.
The second Clayton was out of sight, Grant counted to five before he jumped up with a triumphant shout. He pumped his fists, making a rockstar pose and dancing in place. His happy cries were soon replaced with cursing when his foot caught on the chord for the fax machine and he tripped over the chair. Grant grappled for something to stop his fall, hand hooking on the edge of the radio and dragging it and the phone off of the desk and onto his back and shoulders in a violent clatter of destructive flailing.
For a long moment, Grant sat there and wished he could somehow obtain magic powers to whisk everything back into order. When that didn’t work, he climbed out of the disaster like a phoenix reborn, taking a minute to reset everything and only knocking the phone over two more times.
By the time Grant finally got a call in for a tow he could send Clayton on, he’d already texted almost half the people in his phone's contact list to inform them that he was no longer single in lonely, and that they should all be jealous of him for the rest of eternity.
Grant paged Clayton into the office, scribbling down the information for the run on the dispatch sheet and then tearing it off as soon as the office door opened. He grinned at the sight of Clayton wiping oil from his hands and onto his thighs, handing over the paper as Clayton approached.
Taking the slip, Clayton hesitated for a split second and then bent down across the desk to snag Grant's lips in kiss that barely lasted more than a few seconds. Grant instinctively closed his eyes against the action, flickering them open again when Clayton drew back and catching a glimpse of a smirk before the man was already out the door.
Chapter 8
Clayton didn’t end up coming into the office for the rest of the day because they were slammed with calls that kept Grant scrambling to dispatch and the drivers running all over town. He was fretting like a madman by the time the last hour rolled around, almost jumping out of his skin when his phone went off with a text from Clayton, telling Grant, ‘Meet you @Elliot's diner.’
Yes, Elliot's. Grant knew Elliot's very well.Not only did he get confused when people forgot to differentiate between Elliot's the restaurant and Elliot the truck driver, but it could perhaps be considered the location of their first unofficial date. This time it would be significantly more official, much to Grant's delight.
Closing up at five after, Grant texted Clayton a smiley face and, ‘on my way’ as he climbed into his jeep.
Clayton was hovering just outside the door to Elliot's when Grant pulled into the parking lot, taking idle drags from a cigarette with one hand in the pocket of a leather jacket he must have changed into at some point.
Grant stared down at himself, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place with a striped t-shirt and a tattered old jacket that hadn't seen better days since high school.
Cursing, Grant struggled out of his jacket and set it on the passenger seat before he stumbled his way out of the jeep. Given that they were just in tail end of September, it was already starting to cool off by the time the sun went down. He had to take a moment to shake off the initial chill that settled into his skin, shutting the door and digging his hands into his pocket as he made his way to the door.
Clayton caught Grant's gaze, nodding and crushing the remainder of his cigarette into the ash tray. Grant shifted, feeling ridiculously awkward. Should he kiss Clayton ‘hello’? Should they hold hands? At what stage were they?
“Come on, I'm starving and you're so tiny I need to fatten you up,” Clayton reached out, his hand surprisingly warm from where it settled against the middle of Grant's back, ushering him through the door.
"I'm not tiny, we're the same height," Grant grumbled, nudging Clayton in the side with his elbow.
Scoffing Clayton dragged Grant in close and gave him an affectionate squeeze, fingers seeking out Grant's side to pinch it. "Height means nothing when I could lift you with one arm."
Grant choked, mind instantly falling into the gutter when he visualized all of the many ways that Clayton could handle his body. He almost wanted to ask Clayton exactly how many ways he could be lifted, but the words died in his throat when he spotted same exact host that had seated them the last time.
The man didn’t even bat an eye, grabbing two menus and leading them across the restaurant towards a very familiar booth seat. Clayton sat down first, and Grant instinctively slid into the bench across from him. He hesitated after a second, wondering if he should be sitting beside Clayton instead. They were both pretty tall, so it was likely that, if they sat next to each other, their elbows would just bump together when they were eating and potentially cause some frust
ration from both parties.
Grant was halfway to giving in to impulse and switching sides when he felt the toe of Clayton’s boot rub up against his calf. Intentional or not, it was like sending a calming shot of liquor through Grant's system, enough that he was able to settle back into his seat with a soft exhale. He grabbed the menu, mimicking Clayton’s position and skimming over the options.
It was difficult to keep from vibrating out of his seat with anxiety, Grant's thumb methodically flicking back and forth over the laminated edge of the menu with each passing second. When Clayton’s leg slid forcefully up the side of his own, Grant had to bite down on his tongue to keep from audibly choking. There was no way it was accidental that time, not when it rucked Grant's pant leg up to his calf and Grant could feel the bone of Clayton’s ankle press into his shin.
Grant peered over the top of his menu, trying to be subtle in an attempt to gauge Clayton’s facial expression.
Absolutely blank. Of fucking course. Clayton had a poker face that was flat enough to rival the Mona Lisa on a good day.
“Are you wearing your steel-toed boots?” Grant blurted, because there would always be a part of him that was convinced this was a dream and would never be real. Clayton glanced up, tilting the edge of his menu down just enough for Grant to see the twitch in his mouth.
“No.” Clayton’s foot moved up Grant's leg in one long, slow slide.
Sneaky little shit.
Grant couldn’t help but smile just the tiniest bit, even going so far as to purse his lips in an effort to hide it. He shifted, twitching his foot and attempting to reciprocate with a wiggle of his sneaker against Clayton’s calf when Clayton snagged Grant's foot between his ankles with a quick snap of his legs.
Yelping in surprise, Grant jerked and struggled to get his ankle free. He could see Clayton shift the menu up to cover his mouth--eyebrows unmoving but his eyes crinkling enough that he must have been trying to hide a maniacal grin. Grant grabbed the table, wriggling his foot back and forth against the ironclad grip of Clayton's legs.
Idly, Grant wondered how strong they really were. Like, if they were strong enough to lift Grant up against a wall and ravish him stupid.
"Bastard," he gritted out with a laugh, trying to shove at Clayton's shin with his free foot. Clayon hummed innocently, legs moving so fast Grant had no time to react before both of his ankles were being held hostage.
“Oh my god, dude. Give me my feet back!” Grant cried breathlessly, choking on a laugh. He reached across the table, pawing for Clayton's menu to try and distract him. If he could at least get Clayton more focused on what was going on above the table, Grant could have a chance at freedom.
Peering up at Grant, Clayton quirked one solitary eyebrow, leaning so far back that Grant couldn't even reach the menu. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he deadpanned, looking thoughtfully at the menu. "Hmm, the bacon burger looks delicious. What do you think?"
“Please?" Grant whimpered, putting on his most piteous pout known to man. Clayton nodded, turning the menu around and pointing at the image of the burger.
"If you want it, you can get it. You don't have to ask me for permission to eat what you want."
"You're a dick," even as he tried to sound angry, Grant was laughing because Clayton had started wiggling his feet back and forth.
Jerking his legs, Grant was able to slide his feet at just the perfect moment where his right leg came free. His leg snapped up, knee smashing into the underside of the table--making him screech in pain--and knocking their drinks over.
"Jesus!" Clayton dropped his menu, grabbing both cups and putting them upright, but not before Grant's soda practically shot off of the table a path of carbonated fury that was hellbent on splashing all over his shirt and pants.
The first half second wasn’t that bad, Grant was already passing his napkin to Clayton when everything finally absorbed into his clothes and he released the unmanliest of unmanly shrieks. He could feel his nipples tighten and his balls shrink up from the shock of ice cold drink that was coating his torso.
“I am so sorry, dude,” Grant breathed, watching Clayton quickly swipe the napkin over the table, cleaning up their drinks as quickly as possible. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean t--oh god, my nipples are hurting, it's so cold. I can’t feel my ba--uggh.” Grant choked his words off, stuffing his index knuckle into his mouth before he could do something stupid like tell Clayton that his testicles were now so cold that only Clayton’s mouth could warm them up.
Clayton glanced up, setting the soiled napkins aside and gesturing for the waiter. “Stop apologizing. It's not like you did it on purpose," he pointed out, looking torn between holding Grant's hand in comfort and slapping him for being a drama queen. The waiter swung by, muttering something about refills and handing Clayton a fistful of paper napkins from his apron before grabbing their cups and flitting off again.
“Sorry,” Grant croaked, holding his shirt away from his chest and fanning it in an attempt to dry it off just the tiniest bit.
“Grant.”
“Sor--uh--ffffnnn--so-- “ Grant slapped his hands to his face to shut himself up. He hated when someone told him to stop apologizing, if only because his immediate reaction was to apologize for apologizing. It was an ouroboros of sorrow.
Misery stirred in Grant's belly. He was making a total ass of himself. Clayton was going to regret ever having agreed to do anything involving Grant for the rest of eternity. He sucked so much, to a point where his anxiety sprung up stronger than ever. He groaned, slinking down into his seat and burying his face in his hands. "God, I suck so much."
Strong fingers encircled his wrists, and Grant allowed Clayton to slowly tug his hands from his face. Grant locked eyes with Clayton, frozen in place by the frighteningly serious expression on Clayton’s face.
"Stop worrying," he said firmly, palms cool against Grant's flushed skin. "There's not much you could do that could be worse than my last ex. Just remember that, okay? I know you're trying, I get that. Did you think that maybe I'm trying too? That some part of me is afraid of a repeat?"
"I'm not a psycho killer," Grant pointed out wearily, frowning, "unless you count zombies, then I'm totally down."
Clayton's face relaxed, just the tiniest bit, and he pulled Grant's hands down to rest them on the table, intertwining their fingers. "I know that. I know that...but part of me still thinks it might happen. It's this stupid paranoia that's followed me around for years. I mean, you fall in love with a guy, he gets too controlling, you break it off and stay with your parents for a couple weeks to avoid his calls and visits, and then he breaks into your house with a gun. He came for me, but my mom and dad had come back from taking the dog out for a walk that night. He shot them before they even knew what was happening, for no fucking reason."
"Jesus," Grant breathed, swallowing tightly. "I'm--that sucks." If there was one thing Grant was awful at, it was comforting people. Now he felt like he should have taken some more psychology classes or something so he would know how to treat the situation. Instead, he was just gaping while Clayton stared at their clasped hands.
"It does. I'm telling you this because I'm tired of people finding out and then deciding they don't want to deal with the emotional baggage. I might as well let you know now, right?"
"Right."
Clayton huffed out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "When I came downstairs, I had a gun to my head and Parker was screaming at me, telling me it was my fault and--"
"It wasn't your fault," Grant interrupted firmly, silenced by Clayton squeezing his fingers gently.
"Oh, I know. I've had years of therapists make sure I know that. It's just, there are some days that nothing you say is going to make me think otherwise. My sister, she's the one who saved me. She took a bat to his head when he was yelling at me."
Grant didn't think it could get any worse, "Is your sister...?"
Shaking his head, Clayton offered Grant a tiny, reassuring smile. "No. She's fine. She sto
pped him. She lives with her husband and kids now, they're upstate. She...doesn't come down much. I know she doesn't blame me but I guess it's hard to see me and not remember what happened."
"Ah..." Grant exhaled heavily, slumping against his booth and struggling to think of something comforting to say. "Heavy stuff," was the only thing his brain was nice enough to supply. He was still mentally kicking himself when Clayton brought one of his hands up and kissed him on the knuckles.
"Yeah, every time I talk about it I still feel like I'm living in a daytime drama."
Grant made sure no to point out that hand kissing was not helping with the comparison, mostly because Clayton could be impossibly endearing when he tried.
"Does this change anything?" Grant blurted. Clayton glanced up, shrugging once and then frowning when the waitstaff came over to drop their food off. He pulled away, grabbing his spoon and stirring around the massive bowl of soup. Grant suddenly lost his appetite. He didn't even want to touch his french fries, let alone his burger. Instead, he grabbed his soda, hands curling back towards himself as he sipped away.
