Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There's a guy out there, with a cigarette, on the dock. He's wearing a far-too-tight white tee, and it kind of rides up on his waist the way he's leaning back. He looks sweaty, kind of shining in the low-light sun.

You're not meant to smoke on the dock because there's a flammable plant station below.

He doesn't seem to care about this, the way he simply sighs when a man in a white button-down shirt comes up to him.

"Hi," Arthur says.

The guy makes a grunt.

God, it's like men like him watched a country movie once and decided they'd act like that.

"Do you know where we are?" Arthur asks, holding up his dead phone.

"Yeah," the guy replies, a little glint in his eye.

"Could you tell me?"

"Yeah," the guy says again.

"Okay," Arthur says, treading lightly.

It's silent. Arthur scuffs his dress shoe to pass the time.

When no one says anything, Arthur tries again.

"Could you please tell me where we are?"

"You got a cigarette?"

"No, but I think you do," Arthur says. The guy laughs, just a little.

"'S nearly out," the guy replies.

Arthur's aware of the heat searing into his skin. He's not sweaty, because he's not been out working, but he feels stuffy. The sun is dipping between the valleys in front of him, and he's got this lazy, calm feeling about him. Like he's not in a  rush to get to the motel, even though it shuts soon.

The guy puts out his cigarette on the dock's fence, and then pulls another out of the carton in his pocket and lights it.

Arthur nearly rolls his eyes.

"You live around here, right? What's the name?"

"You're looking for the motel, right?" The guy asks, suddenly shifting tone.

Arthur nods quickly.

"Nice," he says.

"Please tell me where it is," Arthur relents. The heat is searing his back.

"You gonna beg?" The guy asks.

Arthur's eyes trail down to the guy's stomach, against his will. He's tan, muscular, little ridges of bone and muscle pressing into his shirt and the warm air.

"Probably not," Arthur replies, trying to match his tone, looking up.

The guy steps closer, and Arthur steps back.

“You need a ride?”

Arthur stares at him.

His pulse picks up, stupidly.

“I’m fine," Arthur says.

“You sure?” That glint returns again.

Arthur hates how he hesitates.

Chapter Text

There's something Arthur is half sure is a gun in the guy's back seat. Arthur only looked at it once.

The truck is warm on the inside, red on the outside, and its dash is busted as fuck.

"You go to church?" The guy asks in the middle of the quiet, palms skating over the steering wheel with casual ease.

Arthur breathes deep. "Yes," he pretends, shifting in the massive seat.

"That's a lie," the guy says.

No bite, just honest.

"Yeah," Arthur breathes out.

The guy didn't buckle his seatbelt, so Arthur didn't either.

The windows are down, the AC is off - if there even was any - and all Arthur can smell is the guy next to him. Warm, manly, a tinge of sweat. It's weird that he doesn't mind it. He should consider it an invasion of his senses, but instead it kind of places him.

The radio hasn't been tuned, a quiet fuzz in the air. Arthur's breath ghosts over his shoulder, warm, as he stares at the man next to him.

"You got a problem with looking at people," the man says simply.

Arthur nods. The guy turns to watch him, and Arthur nods again.

"You look easy to jump," he adds. Arthur laughs a little.

"Yeah, the suit isn't helping," Arthur replies.

It's quiet again.

Fuck it, Arthur's curious.

"Do you have a gun in the backseat?" Arthur asks, watching the valleys push past the driver's seat window.

The guy nods.

"Do you use it?"

"Sometimes."

Arthur almost shivers. He's so fucked, in a truck with a random man going God knows where with a gun in the backseat.

"You want a cigarette?" He asks.

Arthur's only ever had cigarettes while drunk. Chris told him they were bad for his body.

Arthur says yes.

With one hand, the guy picks one out of his pocket, hips shifting up - Arthur pretends not to watch - and hands it to Arthur. The lighter's still in his grip, and he lights it for Arthur, one palm on the wheel, Arthur's curled hand covering the tip and brushing against the guy's skin. He pretends not to react.

There's grease on his forearms from whatever he does.

Arthur takes a drag and coughs. The guy laughs. It goes quiet, and Arthur takes another drag and breathes in, and George listens to the sound of his breath.

Exhale. George copies the sound, barely audible over the warm wind through the windows.

Arthur's skin feels soft just watching the rough textures of the guy next to him, everything pulled taut and rippling with every movement. He's covered in whatever he does, black marks on his white shirt.

The burn in Arthur's throat is settling, and he feels almost high, if cigarettes can do that to you. His head feel light, his feet are barely in his shoes. Headspin, he remembers from Bach.

Arthur feels good.

"What do you do for work?" Arthur asks.

The guy's quiet for a moment, like Arthur's not meant to ask questions.

"Industry shit. You?"

"Econ shit," Arthur replies.

The guy turns to look at him.

"Economics stuff. Business and all that."

"I know what econ means," the man murmurs, tone a little dangerous.

Arthur nods. "Sorry."

"It's here," he says suddenly.

They've pulled up outside a grimy motel that Arthur's going to pretend doesn't look scary.

"Okay," Arthur says. He hasn't finished his cigarette.

"You want to keep smoking," he says. The air's warm. It's not a question.

Arthur can't figure out if he's annoying this guy or not. He just can't get enough of him.

Instead of asking that, Arthur flicks the ash off his cigarette and keeps smoking.

The guy smiles, just a little - Arthur's never stopped watching him - and takes another drag. The smoke curls around his lips and nose, and then he sighs and it runs out of his mouth in a line.

How are you what you are? Arthur wants to ask.

Arthur's body feels on edge, like he's restraining himself from something, but the cigarette's helping. He smokes until the cherry's beckoning to the filter, and then he flicks it out the window.

"Thanks," Arthur says as he opens the door. He steps on the cigarette, purposefully, and grabs his suitcase out the bed. The guy stays in the car and gives him a nod as Arthur walks to the motel office. Arthur nods back.

He collapses on his bed when he finally gets the keys, and breathes in deep.

He feels funny, and good.

It's strange here.

Chapter Text

George isn't meant to be at this bar. He's meant to be at the one with all his mates, not the one close to the guy's motel.

He can say he stopped by after he dropped him off.

Arthur isn't meant to be at this bar either. He's meant to be asleep, readying himself for his first meeting at the plant at nine the next day.

Instead, he's here.

He pulls on the heavy doors and scans the room. Couples, groups of gruff looking men. The lights are purple and red, and bleed and flood across the table beneath them.

Arthur sits at the bar. He can already see the man he met earlier, sitting a few seats down from him. Arthur doesn't want to bother him.

He orders the first beer he sees written down and takes a few heavy gulps to try calm himself. It doesn't work. The guy's in a yellow muscle shirt and Arthur feels funny. A little intimidated.

The ceiling fan turns low, drawing thick circles of heat across the air. The radio's playing something old and worn; strong guitar, wistful voice. Arthur can only make out the phrases blue collar and silver spoon.

Arthur drinks a beer, and then another. They're not pints over here, just bottles. It's strange.

Arthur heads over to the pool table on his fourth. If Arthur'd care to look, he'd see the guy following him behind, close.

Arthur shoots and the cue hits the white ball at the wrong angle. Nothing lands.

"You shoot like a rich kid," murmurs a voice behind him.

Arthur knows it's him. So he tries again, and lands a ball.

No good job , no nice. Just a quiet hum of approval.

"You want a go?" Arthur asks, turning around to face him and leaning against the table.

The guy looks him up and down instinctively.

"Sure."

He takes the cue out of Arthur's hand, palm curling against the back of Arthur's hand just for a moment, and then lands two balls with one hit.

"Fuck," Arthur mutters.

"Shouldn't swear," George says automatically.

Arthur laughs. George doesn't.

"Sorry," Arthur finally says. "Bad habit from the city."

The guy nods.

They trade the cue and go back and forth. Arthur's doing shit, but it's enough to see the way this guy moves like he's done this a million times.

He probably has. He's good.

The guy hands the cue to Arthur and asks if he wants another beer. Arthur says yes.

I'm Not in Love comes on, and Arthur's gotten so drunk that he starts singing the words, just quietly. His body moves to the rhythm in little gestures. His eyes flicker shut and it feels like he's in the bar and not at the same time, thick scent of alcohol permeating his body whilst fresh air blows on his neck, feeling all this open space while he's stuck inside, white glint of the moon against the red and purple of the overhead lights.

George watches him quietly from the bar. Arthur's barely noticeable amidst the hum of drunkenness, just one man swaying in the loud room. His eyelashes cast small shadows on his face, and his shirt is ill-fitting, far too small and short for him. His body moves beneath it, gently, a little like it's beckoning.

So George follows.

He comes back to the pool table and says, "I'd snap you out of it, but I don't know what name to call."

He opens his eyes. "Arthur," he says, voice quiet.

"Arthur," the man repeats, a soft murmur.

He takes the cue out of Arthur's hand and shoots two again.

Arthur shoots and misses.

"You're shooting wrong," the guy says simply. Arthur doesn't ask his name. Knows it's a step too far to learn the place he's in while it's trying to keep him away.

"I'm not," Arthur says.

"Arthur," the guy repeats, rough and soft in equal measure. "Like this," he says, and lines Arthur up. A few eyes glance up as he shifts Arthur's waist and stretches his arms over the cue. George watches the eyes back, so they look away.

George shuts his eyes, just for a moment, and breathes in.

"Now shoot," he says, breath a little too close to Arthur's ear.

A ball goes in. Arthur grins.

"Thanks," he says, turning and then ending up inches from the guy's face. He pulls back suddenly, but Arthur feels the warm air of his lungs ghost his face. Like a little bit of his spirit fans across Arthur's cheekbones. It feels warm.

"No problem," the guy says, feigning cool.

Arthur sank the eight ball, so there's nothing left to shoot.

"Well," Arthur starts, clearing his throat, the guy's breath disappearing with it. "I think I should go home now."

George looks to the door, and remembers all the fights he got into walking down the street.

"I'll walk you," George says.

Arthur hates how he hesitates.

Chapter Text

George is half a step ahead, watching the backs of everyone who passes them.

Plastic bags drift across the road, and gas stations buzz fluorescent in the night. There's a creek underneath the bridge they walk on.

This is nowhere, but it's someone's home.

His home.

They keep walking. A dog barks somewhere behind a fence close by. George turns toward the sound, and he doesn’t flinch. Arthur flinches twice.

"Why'd you come out tonight?" The man asks.

"Felt funny," Arthur replies. "Couldn't really sleep."

He nods.

"You?" Arthur asks.

"Don't really sleep," he murmurs.

"Do you dream?" Arthur asks suddenly. The man looks over at him.

It's quiet for a lonely moment. 

"I don't remember," he finally says.

"I dream a lot," Arthur says, unaware of the alcohol creeping up on him.

The man simply nods.

"I dream about lots of stuff. People with knives circling around me, one big circle that looks like a staircase from above. But then they drop their knives and touch my chest. I dreamt that on the plane over."

The man doesn't say anything. He flexes his hands absentmindedly.

"Or robots with hollow chests carrying me through the forest, and the wind passes through their ribs and it almost feels like breath that's not caged."

"You sound fucked up," the guy finally says.

Arthur curls inward, just a little.

But then he says, surprisingly enough, "You okay?"

Arthur nods. "Yeah. Was just, uh, lonely growing up. Think it kinda stuck with me."

George wonders why the guy's opening up so much, and then he remembers the alcohol.

"Who's waiting for you back home?" George asks, and it comes out a little too fast.

Arthur sighs. "Just my friends. Family's all grown up now, don't think they really noticed I left," Arthur says, slurring a little.

"How could they not notice?" The man asks. Arthur meets his eyes and stops walking.

"What do you mean?" Arthur asks, standing under the hum of a dim streetlight.

"It's hard not to notice you around here."

"Well, you guys seem to like watching people more than they do back home."

"Its natural," the guy replies. "Humans like looking at each other."

"And you like looking at me?" Arthur asks, a little drunk and teasing.

The guy stiffens, just for a moment. Like Arthur hit a nerve.

"I don't know," he finally says. "You don't look at people like they're strangers. It's..."

He trails off. Arthur nods. It's the most he's heard from him since he met him.

"I'm not gay," the man adds. Arthur's eyes widen.

"Okay," he says, almost a question, like he's asking why it's necessary to say.

"I just know men in the city are, you know, uh..."

He trails off again. "Are you?"

Arthur looks at him. They haven't started walking again, and the man's eyes are searching his, and they're a little too close again. Something's in the air in this town.

"No," Arthur finally says. "No, I'm not."

Arthur feels less sure of the answer than he did back home.

The man nods, looking a little ashamed. They start walking again.

They make it to the motel, and Arthur stands outside his room on the bottom floor.

"Thanks for walking me back," Arthur says.

The man nods.

Arthur's so drunk he goes to knock a warm fist into his shoulder, a bro-type goodbye, but the man immediately catches his wrist.

It's like a reflex. Instinct. Arthur can feel his calloused palms around the soft skin and bone of his wrist. Can feel the warmth of his hand bleeding into Arthur's skin, a little too close, not dropping it.

"Didn't mean to-"

"You're alright," Arthur says, and the man lets go of his grip. Arthur rubs his wrist. "G'night."

George nods and watches Arthur disappear into his room, shucking his jacket off and watching the ridges on his back appear before the door shuts.

He walks home rubbing the skin of his palm. Arthur's cologne lingers on George's hand.

Chapter Text

The plant is hot. Everything is fucking hot. Arthur walks around, scanning for the man he's been talking to, for any kind of familiar face that can draw him in.

None appear.

Arthur spends the day with flashes of the weird guy coming to mind. Why did he have a slightly British accent? Why did he grab his wrist like Arthur was a threat?

It's a wet kind of hot, sweat on Arthur's neck, his shirt stuck to his chest. He looks out of place, something too fragile for the boil, and he knows it. Knows the glances of the factory guys who assess him like something meant to melt.

His mouth tastes like warm metal and old alcohol. He's brushed his teeth twice, but it doesn't seem to help. Like memories are clinging to his tongue where he can't speak.

He doesn't see him, but he swears he smells him. Cigarettes and grease and soap that won't lather. Maybe he's just an everyman. Maybe he didn't exist - Arthur thinks this when the heat gets to his mind.

Under the shadow of a pipe and at a rickety plastic table, Arthur eats a shitty sandwich that tastes like the American plastic - or maybe foreign plastic, Arthur reminds himself not to be too harsh on the country he's in - that it comes in.

But then Arthur thinks he likes foreign countries more than this one, this strange and transient place, so he decides to hate the now-American plastic.

He thinks about the wrist grab again. Like the man thought Arthur would bite. Like he thought he was anything other than fragile.

Arthur's not fragile, though. Not really. Used to be a boxer, after all. He's just...

He likes being soft more than he likes being rough.

He finally, finally walks back to the motel, slow and steady, dripping with sweat. Arthur changes into shorts and takes his shirt off, and then goes outside for ice.

George's face turns a little red in the parking lot, but he doesn't notice it. Watches the fine lines of Arthur's body reach for the ice and press it into different spots on his body, and runs his nails across the door of his truck.

Arthur grabs a handful of ice cubes from the bag and presses them into the back of his neck, body tensing and eyes fluttering shut. George chews his lip too hard and touches the blood like it's burning. What's up with him?

Arthur's skin steams under the shock, and he likes it. Wishes he could bathe in it.

Then he presses them into his neck, water trailing between his collarbones and down his chest, shimmering in the sun.

George's keys dig into his palm. His nails leave small marks on the thin paint of the truck.

Arthur's shivering, muscles pulled taut.

All George can feel is heat.

Chapter Text

Arthur walks to the swimming hole in shorts, with a towel thrown over his bare shoulder. He wears shoes, because he's not an idiot, and also because he's used to doing it back home.

When he arrives, he nearly falls apart. The swimming hole. It's not watching and it's big and cold and natural, and everything that this town feels like it's not.

Arthur dives in without a second thought. Floats on the surface, arms spreading wide like a crucifixion, eyes shut.

He thinks about how he got here. All the flights he took to random places as a fucking manager, all the friends he left behind every second week, now for two months. It's day three and he feels like he aches to be back home, in the cold and the noise and the love he once had.

Goosebumps come up on his skin and his muscles draw tight. He feels like he's being held. And up above, where things watch quietly, he looks so alone, so happy.

The sun doesn't reach through the trees. The heat stays away at the bank.

Arthur wonders if anyone would notice if he just stayed here. Didn't go to the fucking meeting at five.

A gruff "fucking hell" comes through the trees. Arthur stands up.

"You gonna be wherever I go?" The man asks. Arthur rubs his face with cold water.

"Could ask you the same question," Arthur replies.

"It's my town," he bites, kicking the rocks of the bank like a schoolchild.

Arthur shuts his eyes, like he can pretend the man in front of him isn't there.

He opens them when he hears heavy boots hit the ground.

A belt comes undone next, jeans shucked to the dry ground, and then his shirt comes off.

Arthur doesn't look further down than his chest.

"Can you swim?" Arthur asks, just to fuck with him.

"Is that how you think country works?" He bites back.

"Thought you were British," Arthur replies.

The man watches him carefully.

"Thought the accent disappeared," he says quietly.

Arthur softens.

"Not for me," Arthur says. A little too gentle.

The man slips into the water, elbows high to drag his abs through the icy cold.

"Fucking hell, you're brave for being in this," he remarks.

"What's that meant to mean?" Arthur asks, a little defensive.

"I didn't think you liked extremes," he says simply.

So he can actually talk. Have a real conversation. No manly quiet.

"You don't know what I like," Arthur replies. The man walks in the water and stops just shy of him.

"I didn't think you worked out either," he suddenly says.

"What?"

"Nothing," he retracts.

"Why do you keeps showing up where I am?" Arthur asks instead.

The man stretches his neck, and Arthur watches the movement, feeling a little hunger in his gut that's unfamiliar.

"Dunno. You talk too much. Ask weird shit. Float like you're waiting to be pulled down."

"Is that what you're here to do?" Arthur asks.

He's got sharp eyes now, nothing of the soft brown that was there before. Arthur realises this is all a little dangerous.

"Just wanna see if you'll come back up," the man says.

"I will," Arthur murmurs.

It's quiet. Neither of them look away from each other.

"Are you always this intense?" Arthur finally asks.

"Only when I can't figure something out," the man says, a little softer.

"You'll figure me out," Arthur says after a while. He looks away, towards the trees behind them.

George's head tilts, like a curious dog.

He doesn't know why he's pulled to Arthur. Doesn't know why his name keeps ringing in his head, like a bell announcing a dangerous hour.

Arthur's eyes flick to George's face, and then he steps a little closer, against George's will.

"What are you doing?" George asks, almost automatic.

"You have a scar," Arthur says, pressing the tip of his finger against the top of George's lip. "What's it from?"

George's skin burns. He licks his lips despite himself. Arthur doesn't realise he's too close, George knows that. Knows this guy's just plain weird.

But George catches his wrist anyway. He forgot that he doesn't usually like to be touched, except when it's sex.

Arthur looks down. "You okay?"

George drops his hand slowly, letting it sink into the water. He's suddenly shivering, buzzing like electricity.

"It was from a fight," George finally says.

"Who'd you fight?" Arthur asks.

"Someone who touched my girl," George answers, barely audible as a murmur.

Arthur blushes, just a little. George can see it.

Arthur's thumb comes to run across George's top lip, and George lets it happen, but then Arthur pulls away, taking a step back, and clenches his fist underwater.

"You always that defensive over the people you fuck?" Arthur blurts out.

George doesn't miss a beat. "Usually, yeah."

Chapter Text

"You wanna go to the bar?" The man asks, as Arthur pulls his shirt on.

Arthur stops and turns around.

"You actually wanna hang out with me?"

The man lets out a huff. "You're only half-bad company. You're weird and shit, but it's interesting."

Arthur rolls his eyes. The man elaborates: "Better than half the company I have."

Arthur brightens against his will.

"Okay," he says.

On the drive over, George realises Arthur still doesn't have a shirt, and that he's in shorts and weird fancy boots. He turns into the motel and points Arthur in.

"Go change," the man says.

"Too slutty?" Arthur asks, joking.

The man's eyes narrow. "No one's a slut. Just go change. They won't accept you like that."

Arthur nods and heads inside, a little softer.

He comes out in a blue button-down shirt, clearly from the thrift store, and jeans and the same fancy boots. He hops in the truck and gestures to himself.

"I bought the shirt yesterday," Arthur says.

"I can tell," the man replies.

"What? Hell no! I'm fitting in ," Arthur groans. "This was meant to be casual."

"You don't have a mullet," Arthur rolls his eyes, "and you're all clean. Doesn't look like you fit in."

"I look all clean?" Arthur asks.

"Not in a bad way. You just look... soft." Arthur raises his eyebrow, and George puts his hands up. "Gentle! Like you've never been in a fight before."

"We could fight," Arthur says suddenly, brown eyes searching the man's.

"Get me drunk, and you just might get that," he says.

"God, you're such a fucking man, " Arthur says. George feels his face get a little hot again.

"Is that a bad thing?" he asks.

"Not sure yet," Arthur replies.

The man drives them to the bar, hands skating over the wheel again, and he puts a hand on Arthur's chair when he reverses them in. He's not sure why.

There's men smoking near the door. A few of them nod at George. None of them look at Arthur.

He feels like a secret.

"You ever bring friends here?" Arthur asks as they walk inside.

"Beaten a few people here," the man replies. "Does that count?"

"I'm beginning to think you don't understand the concept of friends," Arthur replies with a smile.

George nods.

He walks up to the bar as Arthur settles into the booth. His elbows are resting on the half-wet counter when the woman next to him turns.

She's pretty, George thinks, but there's something sour about the thought.

"Bad day?" she asks. George forgets he's always got a frown on his face when he's drinking.

"Weird company," he replies, taking a swig of the beer the bartender places.

"Maybe you could find better company," the woman winks, a hand gracing his shoulder.

Arthur watches in the corner. Feels an anger bubble up inside him for no reason. Maybe he needs to get laid.

The woman laughs at something the man says, and Arthur feels that anger boil in his gut. Her knee taps his, and he doesn't move it. Why doesn't he move it?

George walks back to their booth with their beers after a few minutes of talking.

"Making friends?" Arthur bites as he sits down.

"What?"

"She was half-ready to give you a lap dance," Arthur says.

"She just wanted to say hi."

"Yeah," Arthur nods, "with her entire body."

"You jealous?" George asks, leaning a little closer.

Arthur turns to face him. "You want me to be?"

"I wasn't trying to make you feel anything," he replies easily. It's sort of the truth.

"Well," Arthur says, taking a swig of his beer, "you're fucking great at doing it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why do you want to hang out with me? Don't you have fucking friends?"

George suddenly drags him by the arm out the bar. A few hoots go up by the pool table, like something exciting's happening.

"You said you wanted to fight, so let's fight," he says easily, bracing himself on the gravel of the car park.

"What?"

George brings his fists up, close to his face.

"Let's fight."

"You always solve your problems with fists?" Arthur asks.

"At least I don't put them up someone's ass," George replies.

Fuck it. Arthur fires a half-strength fist to George's stomach.

It lands.

George grunts and tries to throw a fist at Arthur's cheek, but he ducks.

Thank God for boxing.

"Fucker!" George yells, accent thick, and aims for another shot. Arthur ducks again, and hits George's stomach once more, hard. George doubles over and Arthur catches him, arm wrapping around his waist.

George is coughing, and Arthur relents. "You fucking done?" Arthur asks.

George's hands come up to Arthur's shoulders, and for a second Arthur wonders what's going to happen, breath ghosting over the man's face.

And then George shoves him down into the gravel and spits beside his face.

Arthur props himself up on his elbows, hissing at the graze on his back.

"I asked if you were done," Arthur repeats.

George runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back. "You piss me off."

"I noticed."

George rolls his eyes, and then outstretches a hand. Arthur takes it.

Arthur stands up. Their hands are still clasped together.

"You keep touching me," the man finally says.

"You keep letting me," Arthur replies. "Why?"

George shakes his head and walks back into the bar. He nods at the bartender, and she nods back.

Arthur comes in a few seconds later, and a man claps him on the back. "Good effort," he says.

Chapter Text

"We barely fought," Arthur mumbles on the drive to the motel.

"You askin' to go again?" George half-slurs. Arthur would tell him not to drive, but there's fuck all Ubers around here, and Arthur doesn't wanna get jumped on a walk.

Arthur thinks about it for half a second. "Yeah, I guess."

George is thinking about all the times he's put a hand on a girl's thigh in this truck. His eyes flick to Arthur's, spread wide in the seat.

"Okay," George says.

The next minute is quiet. They pull up to the motel, and Arthur gets out, and for the first time, George does too. Follows him into the room without a word.

Arthur turns around and shucks off his shirt.

"What's that for?" George murmurs.

"Felt hot," Arthur replies.

George barely sees his hand flying before Arthur socks him in the face.

George reels back just far enough. Arthur's shaking out his fists. "You serious?" he asks.

"You said we'd fight drunk," Arthur says, and then goes for the gut. George steps back - Arthur is slow, but strong - and decks Arthur in the face.

He shoves Arthur against the door by his shoulders and holds on. "You wanna get hit again?" he asks, breathing fast.

"Only if you mean it," Arthur replies, panting.

George looks down and Arthur's skin is flushed red from drink and heat and this. George runs a hand down his stomach despite himself. Arthur shivers, and then swings another punch into his gut.

George doubles over and Arthur hits him again, on the cheek, and George feels it rush blood to his face. He falls back onto the bed and Arthur straddles him, pushing his shoulders down and punching him in the neck.

George gasps, and then lips are on his, rough and fast. George can barely kiss back, not knowing why he does, before Arthur's hitting him in the stomach again.

George grabs him by the wrists and stands up, and Arthur slips off him, barely staggering as he's dragged to the wall. George kisses him before he can think twice, lips pressing against Arthur's as he pants into his mouth.

Arthur slips his wrists out of George's grip and tangles his hands in George's hair, slipping his tongue into his mouth.

"We should stop," Arthur whispers between kisses.

"Fuck that," George replies, and bites Arthur's bottom lip. Arthur melts against the wall.

"No, really," Arthur starts up again, "you're going to regret this in the morning."

"Then let me enjoy it tonight," George whispers, hand slipping into Arthur's waistband.

"Okay, fuck-" Arthur moans, hips kicking up against tight pressure. "You gotta fucking, God, let me get your hands on you."

George guides Arthur's palm into his jeans, undoing his belt with one hand. They kiss dirty and a little sweet, tongues running over each other, sucking on each other's lips.

"Fuck, you're big," Arthur says. George tips his head back and groans.

"Bet you'd take it so well," George blurts out, alcohol getting to him. "Sink on it so tight. I'd let you take it all, sweetheart."

Arthur pulls George in for another kiss, savouring the sweetheart on his tongue.

George pulls off. "You done this before?" he asks, speeding up his fist.

Arthur shakes his head. "Only with you," he replies.

George shuts his eyes. "Me neither," he says. "Only with you."

His fingers curl into the hair on the back of Arthur's head and he kisses him sweet, a bare press of open lips.

Arthur deepens it, dirty, teeth clacking. George moans into his mouth when Arthur swipes his thumb over the tip, and he does the same to Arthur.

It's a short while before George is moaning Arthur's name, finishing into his clenched hand. Arthur follows soon after.

They're breathless. George bumps their foreheads together and kisses Arthur slowly.

"We can pretend this didn't happen, if you want. And we can do it again and pretend it hasn't happened, if you want," Arthur says.

"Is that what you want?" George replies.

Arthur laughs, a hand slipping up George's chest. It's warm, like the air around them.

"I mean, I've never done this before," Arthur says.

"Neither," George adds.

"You keep saying that, but God, you're good at it."

George smiles at him. The first real smile Arthur's seen out of him.

"I'm gonna go home," George finally says. "And probably ignore you for a few days. And then eventually come running back."

Arthur nods. "Sounds about right."

The eventual click of the door is quiet and gentle. Arthur flops onto the bed when he hears George's truck reverse out of the car park.

Fuck. That was really, really good. Arthur's probably gonna have to pay for it later.

Chapter Text

Arthur has a call from Chris when he wakes up. Or, rather, two missed calls that woke him up, and one buzzing on his phone as he opens his eyes.

Arthur picks it up.

"I'm fucking drunk!" Chris yells down the phone.

Arthur snorts, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Isn't it, like, two in the afternoon over there?"

"And I'm drunk!" Chris repeats. "Pub golf!"

Arthur's heart aches, just a little. To be back home and playing pub golf with them.

"How are you!" Chris yells down the phone. It's not a question, the way he says it.

"I'm good!" Arthur yells back. "Fucked a country guy!" He says, because he has no idea how else to put it.

"WHAT!" Chris screams.

"I fucked a country guy!"

"But-" Chris stops himself. It sounded like he was about to call Arthur straight. "Congrats!" he says instead, the beam in his eyes coming through his voice. It's genuine.

Arthur laughs, falling back on the bed. "Let's call about it when you're sober!" Arthur yells.

"Fucking please!" Chris yells back.

Arthur hangs up the phone.

And then he kind of feels lonely again. Thinks about calling Chris back, begging for him to keep him on the phone while he hangs out with their friends.

He doesn't.

He realises how lonely he is. How he barely talks to the other managers here. He briefly considers texting one of them asking for coffee, but it feels pathetic.

But Chris is having fun, and that makes Arthur's heart happy. This week has left him feeling like he wants to leave this job. Finally, finally settle in London, where home means something more than a motel or hotel room, or Holiday Inn, or whatever Pitbull said.

Arthur feels so fucking lonely. Deep in his bones. For more touch, or a laugh that's not through a phone. To listen to songs recommended to him by a friend in person. Sitting there, listening to it with them.

Arthur thinks about the man. Fuck, he doesn't even know his name.

George sits on the other side of town, staring at his bed like it owes him money.

He just had sex with a man. A man. The one thing his Priest, his fucking mother told him not to do.

And he did it.

He kneels on the edge of the bed and prays.

Save me from this wanting, he begs. Save me from the eyes I can't stop watching. The touch that burns. Give me good, Holy love. Safe love. I'm so hungry, I want someone to devour. Save me from that. And the hands that shake when they reach out. And the way You made me. Save me from the way You made me.

George's fingers curl around his knuckles, a pair of entwined, bloody fists raised to his God.

I've been looking at him, at the man I see, since I was a child. He comes in different forms but he's always there, soft and sweet, gentle and kind. Stop giving him to me. I know he's not my man. I know I'm only his dog, something led by a shepherd to a dirty flock of ugly people. But God, they're so beautiful. His skin tastes sweet, his mouth warm, his body is smooth like the paper of the verses I read. Save me from what You gave me. Save me from the man You made.

George squeezes his eyes tight and releases his fists.

Nothing happens. No lightness in his chest, no breath to carry softer in his lungs.

Just the same, dull ache of everything he's been carrying since he was a child.

George wonders if the God he prays to loves him. He knows He loves him, but he wants to know if He really loves him. Despite all he is. Despite the sin.

George thinks about driving to the motel and beating Arthur bloody for what he's done to his God.

Wonders if there's any way to save what he's done, or if this is it. A sin carved into the same rib that Adam lost.

You made me like this, George thinks with his eyes shut tight . Made a home in my heart for a love like this, and then locked all the doors and called it evil. There are no doors left to open for the love you want me to have.

George lies in bed and whispers more prayers to his lonely heart. He knows God hears them, but he doesn't know if he cares.

Chapter Text

"You're really not feeling good, are you?" 

Chris's voice is crackly over the phone.

"I'm fine, mate," Arthur mumbles. "Just a little off."

"Because you fucked a guy?" Chris asks.

"Because he's all repressed and shit," Arthur groans. "You know I'm fine with gay stuff. Half our friends are closeted. It's just... weird. He's so-"

"Religious?"

Arthur nods, and then realises Chris can't see it.

"Yeah."

"Tell you what, mate," Chris starts, "we're shooting fuck all this week. Why don't I come over to where you are and we can talk it out?"

"You don't need to do that," Arthur says, almost automatically.

"I know I don't need to," Chris replies. "I want to."

"Chris-"

"Shut up, I'm trying to work this flight website."

“You really don’t have to come over. It’s fine."

Chris is on a flight that night, and arrives in the late afternoon the next day. Arthur doesn’t do anything but wait for him. 

There’s a knock at the door around four. 

Arthur opens it. 

“Hi,” Chris says, breathless with the heat, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. 

“Hi,” Arthur says, a little surprised. Something feels different about him. Or maybe it’s just the air here. 

“So. How was it?” Chris asks, stepping into the room, big bag in hand.

“The fucking?” Arthur snorts. “Yeah, good, I guess.”

“Was it good because it was a guy?” Chris asks, dropping his stuff on the floor, kicking his shoes off at the door. 

“Um, I don’t know,” Arthur says. A million flashes of it run through his mind, making his body hot. “He was good.”

“What’d you guys do?”

“Are you trying to fuck me or something? You want me to go into detail about how it was good?”

Chris shrugs. “If it’s what you need, I’ll give it to you.”

Arthur stares at him, mouth mixing around words. His heart speeds up.

“You’re fucking weird,” he mumbles, a little breathless.

Chris steps closer, slow. He nods.

“I really am, but I’m serious. Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you.”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

“Because I like being around you, and I wanna make you feel better.”

“By letting me talk dirty to you?”

Chris shrugs. “If it helps.”

“He was–” Arthur cuts himself off. “No, this is so weird, oh my God, it’s gay–"

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“I know, but isn’t it a little weird for me to be gay all of a sudden? Telling you about the guys I fuck?”

“We’ve all been there.”

Arthur’s eyebrows go even higher. “Are you serious?”

“You don’t have to know what it means just yet,” Chris says instead. “You’re allowed to like it.”

Arthur’s getting this pretty bleed of blush that runs from his face to his chest. It’s visible through his open shirt, too hot to do up the buttons. 

“And I think you look good when you like it,” Chris adds. 

Arthur nods, struck dumb. 

“Let’s get a drink,” Chris finally says.

Chapter Text

George told himself he wouldn’t be here. Because he knew Arthur was going to be here.  

So he’s sitting in his truck, one arm curved around the door, watching. 

He can see Arthur through the window. Bottle curled around his lips, laughing at something the guy with him is saying, leaning a little too close. 

George’s fingers curl into a fist. 

The bar’s nearly empty. It’s early. The other people are in a corner on the other side, occasionally casting cold glances towards them.

Golden curls and thick muscle on his forearms, George doesn’t like him. Doesn’t like him at all. 

He tells himself it’s about safety – knowing Arthur’s okay, after all that. But he sits in the truck and burns, and the flames are licking the ground around the truck, flickering at the door. George knows he’s going to go inside. Knows it before he opens the door. 

Arthur and Chris are talking, quietly, about the shit they did in university. All the weird experimentation with girls, the sex that was a little too good, and Arthur’s getting a little hot under the collar. Chris might be too. 

They spill a bottle, and it shatters on the floor. The other people walk out. It’s just Arthur and Chris, and the bartender who put out six bottles and took a nap in the back. 

They don’t notice, bathed in old memories.

George walks through the door. 

“Arthur,” he says, just loud enough for him to turn around.

“Is this the guy?” Chris asks, standing up. Arthur nods. 

“Have you been fucking him too?” George asks, voice like a bite. 

“No,” Arthur says finally, and it sounds like a lie with how long it took. Arthur almost wants to lie.

Chris doesn’t sit down.

George takes a slow step forward. “You look like you have,” he says. “You look like you’ve been touched. Like you liked it.”

Arthur doesn’t say a word. 

“You need to back off.”

“What, he’s yours?” George laughs. “You’re half a man as it is.”

Chris tilts his head. “You don’t get to come in here and start swinging your dick around because you got your feelings hurt. Back the fuck off.”

“You wanna talk outside?” George asks. 

“No,” Chris replies, voice even.

“Okay, then,” George says, and swings a punch. It lands, a kiss beneath Chris’s eye. Chris staggers, and his hand comes up to his eye. 

“Jesus Christ!” Arthur says. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You could’ve fucking blinded him!”

George’s eyes go a little wide, under the half-animal gaze he’s sporting. “Fuck,” he mumbles, and walks out. 

Both of Arthur’s hands come up to cradle Chris’s face. 

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, voice a little softer. 

“Yeah, it’s gonna look good, I think,” Chris says, voice gravelly. Arthur laughs. 

Arthur’s hands are shaking, and the skin under his hands is soft and warm. 

They wait until George drives out, and then walk home, casting glances behind them constantly. It’s not a long walk. Arthur’s just glad the bartender didn’t come out. He’s half-sure she didn’t hear anything, all quiet, dangerous voices. Nothing loud.

Arthur feels hot all over. 

“I’m sorry he hit you,” Arthur finally says, kicking a rock along the ground. 

“He hit me because he couldn’t hit himself. That’s not your fault,” Chris replies easily.

“Fuck, you’re smart,” Arthur blurts out. Chris grins, and then winces. 

“You’re not too bad yourself,” he murmurs. 

Arthur sits down on the edge of the bed, and breathes out. He runs a hand through his hair and looks up at Chris, who’s peeling off his hoodie, slow.

The bruise is fully visible now. Dark and bleeding into his cheekbone. It looks painted. 

Arthur winces. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Chris nods. “You’re allowed to be rattled by all of this.”

“I’m not rattled,” Arthur says quickly.

“You’re vibrating.”

Arthur lets out a short laugh. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little… I don’t know. That was fucking insane.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Chris asks.

Arthur shakes his head.

Chris nods. “Alright then. What do you need?”

Arthur’s eyes flicker up to Chris, and then back down to his lap. “I don’t know.”

“Wanna lie down?”

Arthur nods.

Chris kicks off his shoes and climbs into the bed next to Arthur. He doesn’t touch him, just lies back, arms behind his head, waiting.

After a few minutes, Arthur shifts closer. Inches closer. 

And then again. Until his shoulder touches Chris’s.

Chris turns his head toward him.

His voice is a murmur. “You’re warm.”

Arthur smiles, slow. “So are you.”

Chris’s arm comes around Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur leans in. He doesn’t think, just moves, turning his face, nose brushing the curve of Chris’s throat. 

He breathes in. 

Chris doesn’t move. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Arthur whispers.

“That’s alright,” Chris murmurs. 

Arthur lets his fingers curl gently into Chris’s t-shirt, clutching just enough to feel held.

Warmth, bruises, heat, air. It all washes over Arthur’s body, being held by another. 

Chapter Text

Arthur dreams of a choice. 

There’s two versions of him, and he’s watching them both in vastly different landscapes. He’s not outside of his bodies, just split between them, like God watching man and man watching back.

One version of him sits at a massive table, covered in meat torn from bone, fruit full to burst, bread demanding hands, not knives. Things to starve for, things primal.

Hunger lives in the air like steam off sweating skin, and Arthur can’t eat. His body shivers in the heat, trembling, like a fever. Something feeding and hollowing at once. It feels better to ache than to eat.  

The other man – he’s breathing in light air, sitting in warm clothes and resting, surrounded by touch that feels good. Touch you don’t have to think about too much. He doesn’t flinch when skin greets his. Doesn’t speak – doesn’t need to. He just rests. 

Arthur doesn’t know which is better – rest or hunger. One brings peace, the other brings life. Arthur wants to live, but not as he is, not without peace. 

He wakes up in the middle of the night aching for a taste of peace – for something he’s never had. His nose is still buried against Chris’s neck, skin smelling like sweat and soap.

“Chris,” Arthur murmurs. Chris shifts a little, waking up. 

“Yeah?” he mumbles, voice raspy. 

“I wanna– I need–”

Chris runs a hand over Arthur’s hair to soothe him, and Arthur melts, soft strands caught between his fingers. 

“Yeah, that,” Arthur whispers, sighing.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Chris means the pet name as a joke, but he watches Arthur melt further, and realises he’s not taking it as a joke. 

Chris keeps running his hand through Arthur’s hair. Arthur’s melting into someone’s body without even meaning to, still drunk off sleep. 

Arthur breathes out, and then presses a kiss into Chris’s neck. Chris jolts, just slightly. Arthur does it again and Chris’s eyes flutter shut. 

Arthur shifts against him, limbs folding into his body. One knee nudges between Chris’s, and his fingers curl in the hem of Chris’s shirt, like he’s holding on. 

“Arthur,” Chris breathes out, when teeth meet his skin. “What are you doing?"

Arthur doesn’t answer for a second, wet lips sucking a kiss into Chris’s neck, and Chris shivers, not knowing where this is going. “Do you want me to stop?”

Chris breathes out a shaky laugh. “Fuck, no,” he replies, and tilts Arthur’s head up to kiss him, soft and sweet. Arthur makes a noise, nearly pulling back, before Chris swipes his tongue over Arthur’s lip and he melts, leaning in.

Arthur makes another sound, quiet, caught in his throat, and lets Chris kiss him deeper. Slow movements, warm mouths. Nothing urgent, nothing chasing.

Chris keeps one hand at the back of Arthur’s head, fingers still threaded in his hair, skating over strands of hair. The arm under Arthur’s head pulls him in by the shoulders, and then Arthur’s shifting his body and sitting on top of Chris, hands caging Chris’s head on either side. 

He deepens the kiss further, bleeding noises into Chris’s mouth. 

Chris’s hands come up to run over Arthur’s bare thighs, and Arthur shivers. His skin is soft and trembling.

Arthur shifts his hips, just a little, and Chris groans. Arthur pulls off and realises what he’s doing.

Arthur swallows. “I didn’t mean to–”

Chris shakes his head, voice low and hoarse. “Don’t stop.”

Arthur freezes, and looks down at him.

Chris’s hands move up again, slow. He touches Arthur like he’s memorising something, warm palms sliding over the backs of his thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. Arthur shudders, caught in it.

“I just…” Arthur tries again, but the words slip. “I woke up and I–”

“Sweetheart,” Chris says, barely above a whisper, “you’re shaking.”

Arthur makes a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat.

He leans back down, kissing Chris again, not tentative this time, but needy. His hips rock without thinking, just once, and Chris groans into his mouth.

Arthur gasps at the contact, and moves again. Chris’s hands slide to his hips, steadying him. 

Arthur kisses him deeper. Messier. He sucks Chris’s bottom lip into his mouth and breathes like he can’t get enough air.

“I can take care of you. Just breathe,” Chris whispers between kisses. 

Arthur shivers, and he’s grinding now, slow, full-body pressure. His cock stiffens in his briefs, dragging against Chris through layers of fabric. It’s desperate and lazy at the same time, like his body’s trying to wake up and fall into something, all at once.

Chris bucks up gently to meet him and Arthur gasps again, pressing their foreheads together. 

Arthur’s hips keep moving. They’re both hard now, rutting into each other. Sweat at their temples, breath in each other’s mouths.

It’s not enough, not really, but it’s almost too much.

Chris pulls back just enough to look at him, dazed and wild.

“Do you wanna come like this, baby?” Chris asks. 

Arthur nods, desperate. “Yeah,” he says, almost ashamed. “Like this, like this–”

Chris groans and kisses him again. “I'll help.”

Chris’s hand pulls his shorts down, and then pulls Arthur’s cock out of his waistband. He presses them together in a tight fist, and Arthur grinds harder. Gasps, swears, moans. He’s trembling all over.

Their cocks slide in slick heat, and Arthur’s shuddering before long. They run tongues over tongues and bite lips and Chris pulls Arthur up higher so he can suck a mark into his neck.

Arthur comes with a choked-off cry, mouth open against Chris’s neck, hips stuttering helplessly.

Chris holds him through it, hips rocking up slowly as he chases his own finish. Arthur, still panting, brings his hand over Chris’s and squeezes tighter, and Chris’s palm is warm and slick. 

Chris swears, “Jesus, fuck,” and comes a second later, shuddering under him, breath catching in Arthur’s hair.

Arthur breathes heavy. Fuck.

For a long time, they just lie there. Entwined, sweaty, stunned.

Arthur doesn’t lift his head. He feels little aftershocks in his hands, thighs, cock.

Chris’s hand is still in his hair. Still moving.

“Are you alright?” Chris murmurs.

Arthur hums. “Yeah,” he says. “That was… gentle. I liked it.”

Chris nods. “I can do gentle.”

Chapter Text

Chris is out, getting coffee, when Arthur finds a necklace on the floor. 

He picks it up. 

It’s gold, shimmering in the early morning light. And it’s a cross. 

He took off his cross. He took off his cross when they had sex. 

Well, fuck.

That’s… depressing? Poetic? Upsetting?

Arthur imagines him, feeling small, feeling far from his God. He wonders what made him take it off. How someone could feel so far from God when they were so close to a little bit of love. 

Arthur rolls the cross over in his hand. It’s warm from the sun on the carpet, or maybe it’s warm from touch. The chain’s fine, like it’s delicate, a sharp contrast to who the man is. 

It’s got words engraved on the back. For George. 

Arthur’s heart just beats a little faster. It’s stupid, that the small things that bring you closer to someone – names, touches – can make you feel like this. Almost like you’re facing the edge of a cliff. 

Arthur sits on the bed. He doesn’t know what he should do with it. 

He wants to put it on, but he knows that’s a bad idea. It’s sun-warm, but it feels like it burns with confession. Or maybe Arthur’s just making shit up in his head. 

George. 

Arthur stares at the word. He wonders where the name came from. Was he named after a family member? The Saint? Someone else?

He remembers shaky hands and kisses that felt like they were asking for forgiveness. From Arthur, or from God. Maybe George got the two of them mixed up in his head, the way he begged to both in apology. 

And now, this. Holy thing, cast in the unholy corner of Arthur’s stupid, sex-smelling motel room. 

Arthur laughs quietly. He’s so fucked. 

And then, it hits him. George took it off so he could touch Arthur and still try face God later. Like he couldn’t help but try, even if it didn’t work out.

Like Arthur was worth it.

Maybe he's being self-centred. But he wants to understand.

Arthur holds the cross like George might feel his hands around it, around him. 

Did he notice its absence? Did his neck feel a little lighter? Did it feel bare?

Arthur lays back on the bed, cross in his fist. 

He thinks about it again. You were so close to a little bit of love. How could you feel so far from God?

Chapter Text

Chris is warm, and kind. He doesn’t bring up what happened. It doesn’t seem like he’s avoiding it, but like he’s waiting for Arthur to speak first. 

Chris is warm, and kind, and all Arthur wants is confession. Someone to tell him how the fuck he got so gay, and confused. 

The room smells like heat, and coffee syrup, and sex. That last one isn’t as strong. 

“What’d you wanna do today?” Chris finally asks. 

It’s Sunday. There’s barely any work to do as it is, with the plant about to close. Arthur found out yesterday. It’s a waiting game until they dive into closure paperwork. It’s all fucking boring. 

“I found his necklace,” Arthur blurts out. Chris looks up. 

“The guy’s?” Chris asks. 

Arthur nods. “It was a cross. He took it off, when we…”

“Okay. You always like your boys god-haunted?”

“I think you’re the best exception,” Arthur replies. “And I’m only one for two.”

Chris looks at him, reading his face, watching him. 

“Do you feel bad?”

Arthur leans back against the headboard, opening his palm and staring at the cross.

“I don’t really feel bad about anything that’s happened. But I’m ashamed that I don’t know how to stop wanting. I don't know how to go back to normal.”

Chris doesn’t look hurt. Just quiet. Like he’s seen it, seen this before. Maybe in himself. 

“Wanting isn’t the same as hurting,” he finally says.

Arthur’s quicker. “I feel like it kind of is.”

“Then maybe you need to feel new things,” Chris replies. 

A car passes. Sun cuts through the blinds. Heat simmers.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Arthur murmurs. 

“You don’t have to,” Chris says. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do.”

Arthur breathes out.

The cross glints gold like it holds prayers. Things sunny and kind. It’s the opposite of how Arthur feels. Full of shitty secrets kept from his friends.

“Did you tell anyone? After we…”

“You think I messaged someone or something? Arthur, I came so hard I basically blacked out. I couldn’t use my thumbs if I tried.”

Arthur laughs. 

“And,” Chris adds, “I wouldn’t want to. This is between us. Not because it has to be secret, but because it’s intimate. I don’t need anyone else to know.”

It’s quiet. Arthur doesn’t say anything, and Chris doesn’t push. They eat bad sandwiches in silence for a bit. 

“I’m gonna drive out to a beach today, and you’re welcome to come with, but I understand if you need some time to sit and think. I won’t mind either way," Chris says quietly.

Arthur nods, smiling softly. “I think I’ll stay back and try catch up on stupid emails. I’m really far behind.”

It’s a lie, but it’s easier than admitting that he has a lot to think about.

Chris acknowledges the lie without a hint of accusation. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you tonight?”

Arthur nods again. 

“Cool.”

He grabs his bag – presumably containing swim stuff – and walks out.

Arthur flops back on the bed and rubs his hands over his face. 

How do I stop wanting?

Chapter Text

Chris is a breath of fresh air, cold in the morning. George is something thicker than syrup, and less sweet. 

Arthur doesn’t want Chris to become his hiding place; something secret and small to bury Arthur’s want in. But he can’t help but feel like he needs something secret and small right now, because George is taking up all the room his heart has left. 

Arthur hears the ice in his plastic cup rattle, and imagines George’s truck keys digging into his palm. 

He wonders where George is. He steps out of bed for the first time and opens the curtains. 

Fuck. The truck’s there. George isn’t in it, but the truck’s there. Emptied of the driver, but not of the memories. 

Arthur stands at the window, terrified. Not of George, but of confession, of admission, of what happens next. In truth, he’s terrified of the inevitable exit George will take from his life. He’s terrified of that moment where George finally steps away, where he goes back to his old life.

George rounds the corner from the motel office and comes into Arthur’s vision like a migraine spot in his eyes, a kaleidoscope of something you can’t quite see. Or maybe Arthur’s thinking too hard about metaphor. Really he just looks ready-to-burst, emotionally. 

Arthur opens the door before he has time to think about it, and the summer heat rolls in like a tidal wave, leaving Arthur’s body sweating. 

“Couldn’t stay away?” Arthur asks, voice a little gravelly. 

George shrugs, kicking a rock on the ground. “Didn’t think you’d stay too.”

“I work here,” Arthur says, and though the laugh that comes out of him feels ill-timed, it brings him relief. And it makes George lift his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” George says suddenly.

“Why are you sorry?” Arthur asks. “I kind of ruined what you had going here.”

It’s quiet in the motel parking lot, but Arthur feels like there’s eyes on him. He’s been feeling that a lot lately. 

“I thought I could trade my God for you, but I realised that even then, that doesn't make me the man you need,” George says, looking into Arthur’s eyes. 

“I don’t need anyone," Arthur replies softly, “but I want you. I chose you over and over again, and that was enough.”

“I don’t think I’m the best choice,” George replies. 

“God, what on earth would make you think that?”

Arthur swipes a hand across his face. Why can’t you see that you’re a good man?

“Seems like you’ve got a better option now,” George replies. 

“Chris?” Arthur asks, a little confused.

“He’s blonde, for starters,” George says, the side of his mouth twitching with a smile. 

“George,” Arthur says, and George’s eyes widen at the use of his name. “I’ve never met anyone like you. And sometimes that doesn’t matter, but in this case it does, because I really like you.”

“You found the necklace," George replies instead.

His eyes flick down to Arthur’s neck, where the gold cross lies against the hot skin. 

“And you took it off,” Arthur says. “Why?”

George shakes his head. “I don’t know. Felt easier to worship you when I wasn’t being told to worship Him.”

He doesn’t say it with a hint of blasphemy. Only grief; maybe of being torn between two worlds. 

“I’m sorry it feels like sin, what we did,” Arthur says quietly. George looks down at his shoes. “I don’t know how to help that.”

“You can’t,” George replies. 

“Maybe sin is how it feels to love someone you’re not supposed to love,” Arthur says, just as gentle. 

“You think I love you?” George asks. 

It’s not biting, or accusatory. He’s asking the same way a little kid asks how they’re seen by the world; if they’re kind, if they’re funny.

“I think there’s something here that’s more than wanting.”

George looks like he wants to reach out and touch Arthur, maybe hold him, but he stops himself. His voice is small, and raw. “You should give that back,” he says. 

“Do you want it back?”

George’s jaw works over the muscles in his face. “No,” he mutters quietly. “I just don’t know what happens if you keep it for yourself.”

“It means you don’t have to carry the weight of worship right now,” Arthur says, and George goes to speak, but Arthur cuts him off. “I’m not saying you don’t love Him. I’m just saying you need to figure out who you are if you’re going to love someone as big as a god.”

George breathes out slow, hot breath into the warm heat of the air. “Okay,” he finally says. “That means I’m tied to you. Is that alright?”

“We’re already tied to each other,” Arthur replies. 

George nods, and steps back. He turns around to head to his car, but Arthur calls out. 

"George," Arthur says, and George stops in his tracks, not turning to look at Arthur. 

"You don't have to worship anyone," Arthur says, just loud enough for him to hear. "Not me, not God. You just have to follow what you want and what you need. You're only human."

Arthur knows he won't believe it. But George nods anyway, and then opens the door to his truck. 

Chapter Text

Arthur’s not expecting George to be at the swimming hole when he arrives. 

In the centre of the water, George sits beneath the surface, head bowed like he’s in prayer. Arthur watches him, and time drags itself along the surface like the hot air, slow and pressured. 

George breaks the surface suddenly, and Arthur sucks in a breath of air, too loud. George turns around, water glistening on his chest, as breathless as Arthur. 

There’s a moment where no one speaks. Breath mingles and Arthur prays that the air of his lungs touches that of George’s. Mingles with it. 

He has a fearful sense that this will all be over soon.

“Felt like you needed a baptism too?” George asks, voice gruff, wiping water from his eyes. 

“Yes,” Arthur says quietly, like an admission of guilt. “I’m trying not to worship you.”

Arthur strips off his shirt and unbuckles his belt, still talking. “Show me how to stop praying to you,” he says quietly. 

“That’s something I’m trying to learn myself, with you,” George replies, gaze running down Arthur’s body, wanting, but with all the extra baggage of something greater than simple desire.

Arthur steps into the water, wading until it meets the waistband of his boxers, and George moves to meet him. 

George’s eyes flick to the cross on Arthur’s bare chest, golden and glimmering in the summer sun. 

He steps forward, just once, and presses a kiss to the cross, a hand gripping Arthur’s shoulder for purchase. The hand skates up Arthur’s face, a thumb below his lip, and then George kisses him. 

He kisses with fervour, desperate like a wanting prayer, and Arthur knows that this is worship to him. He kisses back, licking into George’s mouth, mirroring his want, aching for touch that feels like creator hands upon him. 

George’s hands slide under Arthur’s thighs and wrap them around George’s hips. It’s not cheap, it’s a necessary lapse in all the violence and talking that goes on. Touch. The hands that hit your lover are now making you a lover for them.

“I know you think it’s sin to touch me,” Arthur says, his voice gentle, “but your hands make my body feel holy. Maybe we’re making something holy here.”

“I don’t know if I’m sinning anymore,” George murmurs quietly. “I don’t know if love can be sin anymore. I used to think that.”

The love I can offer him is sweeter than the hate I can wash upon myself. Maybe my God can understand that, George thinks.

“Love?” Arthur asks. His arms are wrapped around George’s neck, but he suddenly leans back a little.

“Yeah,” George says quietly, looking down at Arthur’s neck. “You don’t feel human, and I feel pulled to you, like you’re the altar of God. Love.” 

A dragonfly passes by lazily, and a bird splashes water nearby. Arthur’s head spins in the summer heat. 

“What do you do with your love?” Arthur asks. 

It’s one-at-a-time with them, with these confessions. George’d run if Arthur said it back, so Arthur doesn't. 

“Probably fuck it up,” he replies. 

Arthur snorts. 

George shakes his head. “I do that with everything I want,” George says quietly. “I fought you.”

Arthur hums, nodding in acknowledgement. 

“Then don’t treat love like something you want,” he says, gently. “Treat it like a thing with a name.”

“I don’t know your name.”

George looks up, teardrops tracking down his face and mixing with the lakewater.

“Arthur,” comes out quietly from his own lips. 

“Arthur,” George repeats, nodding.

His hands tighten slightly where they hold Arthur.

“Sounds like a prayer to me,” Arthur says softly. 

“And what am I praying for?” George asks. 

Arthur lungs build with the pressure of air, and then release in a huff. He unhooks an arm from George’s neck, knowing he’ll be held in steady arms, and traces his fingertips across the water’s surface.

“Something that comes without debt,” he finally replies. “All I can offer is what I am and what I feel for you. That’s all anyone can offer.”

Wind makes the surface skin of the swimming hole shiver, and Arthur re-hooks his arm to wrap himself around George, tighter. 

“I think that was the most I’ve heard you talk,” Arthur adds. “I’m hoping I hear more.”

George looks at the cross again, and it seems warmer now, more golden, prickled with lakewater like a body gone swimming. Like it’s living. 

“You shouldn’t be wearing that,” George says, and though it’s not the first time he’s said it, it’s not angry, but certain.

Arthur cups the cross in his palm, and George frowns at his tenderness. 

“You asked me to keep it,” Arthur replies gently. “In your own way.”

George shakes his head. “I was afraid. If I wear it, he watches me. But maybe your eyes are enough. I fucking worship you.”

Arthur smiles sadly. “I can’t be your god, George, I’m only a man.”

“You're not," George replies. "Loving is worship.” Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but to his surprise, George continues. “It’s not distant, worship isn’t distance. Religion is distance. But worship,  worship is getting close to what made you. And I can’t get close to God, but I can get close to who was made when I was made. We were made together, right? The same paintbrush that freckled your skin with gold painted mine with silver. So I love you. I worship you. It's not a religion. Not kneeling, not waiting. It's reaching. Worship.”

George shuts his eyes like the sun is too bright, and when he opens them, all that familiar fight—those flames licking the colours of his eyes—is suddenly gone. What’s left is raw, boyish, and shy. 

Arthur's throat tightens with emotion. "What am I supposed to do if you love me?" he asks, tears in his eyes. 

"Nothing," George replies. "Just be here."

George lets out a little laugh, something to relieve the head-spinning intensity of it all, and it’s the first time Arthur’s ever heard a genuine laugh from him. 

Arthur can’t help it. He brings both hands to George’s face and kisses him with all the might of his love.

George kisses back just as hard.