ā / ā” / ā (or as I like to say: the angsty slow-burn)
ā ā shoulder rubs.
āHere, let me,ā he says without thinking, motioning for Art to turn around before he can think better of it. As soon as he complies, Theo pales, hands already halfway raised toward the other manās shoulders. Heās been on the receiving end of enough variations of this to know exactly where to place his fingers; after a long weekend of polo practice, a weekly massage to relieve some tension from his muscles had become something of a guilty pleasure for him.
This, though, isnāt a regulated transaction. This is Arthur, and this is Theo. He can feel himself sweating already.
Knowing itāll be weirder the longer he hesitates, Theo lays his hands on his shoulders, gently applying pressure as he kneads his fingers into the muscles there. When he gets to the spot heād seen him favoring, Artās head tips forward, tension slowly releasing from his shoulders.Ā
Itās over too soon. Theo doesnāt want to push his luck; if heās ever been bold enough to get a little handsier than normal with Arthur, itās because heās been drunk or high out of his mind. When heās sober, it feels more real, the risks of lingering too much or staring too long weighing heavily on his thoughts. Instead, he contents himself with little moments like this. He tells himself heās doing a nice thing for a friend. Nothing more, nothing less.Ā
Liar.
ā” ā accidentally falling asleep together.
Theo wakes up slowly, equal parts blinking and frowning at the early morning light. It takes him a moment to gather his bearings ā heās on a terrace (right, there was a party last night), and the cigarette he remembers smoking hours before is long extinguished, the ashes piled somewhere near the toe of his left shoe. As far as he knows, heād fallen asleep mid-sentence, his words a half-mumble in the wee hours of the morning, sleep-slurred and alcohol-warmed. Now his head is pillowed on someoneās shoulder, and āĀ
Oh. Art. Heād fallen asleep on Art.Ā
Art, who (he could only hope) had fallen asleep at the same time as he had. In a moment of guilty self-indulgence, Theo carefully sits up, a gentle smile tipping up the corners of his mouth at the still-slumbering Arthur propped up next to him. He knows itās endlessly clichĆ©d, but thereās somethingĀ softĀ about the man as he sleeps. The golden divinity within him is dimmed, but not completely absent; his usually-perfect appearance is marred by a single cowlick and a bit of sleep in one corner of his eye.Ā
Theo sighs. Marred. As if.Ā
āHey, Sleeping Beauty,ā he murmurs, fighting a blush as he attempts to nudge him awake.Ā āGo find a real bed. Itās nearly six.ā
āHmm? Oh, very funny.ā And God, the first few moments after Arthur Havemeyer wakes up should be outlawed. Sleep-heavy blue eyes blink slowly up at Theo as he speaks, his voice gravelly and just a touch deeper than usual. It sends a shiver down Theoās spine. He valiantly ignores it, diverting his focus into rolling his eyes instead.Ā āI better get up, then.ā He stretches, yawns; Theo turns his head toward the horizon, not trusting himself with a prolonged view. Maybe itās his hungover brain on a couple hoursā worth of stolen sleep, but heās decided he should sue him for having the audacity to look like this.Ā
āLook,ā Theo says, stopping him just before he gets up, wanting this moment to stay theirsĀ for just a little while longer.Ā āSunrise.ā
ā ā your muse adjusting their jewelry / necktie / etc.
Thereās a party tonight ā when isnāt there? ā and by some grand stroke of luck, Theo bumps into Arthur in the crowd. He canāt stop his eyes from lighting up at the sight of him, but he keeps his handshake quick and firm, pulling away before he can do anything silly. Like pull him closer.
Heās about to attempt some kind of joke (bad idea, those never go well for him) when his gaze catches on something else. Arthurās collar, flipped up on one side, probably messed up during some other boisterous greeting. The alcohol flows freely at these parties, after all. Plenty of people were well on their way past overlyĀ friendly.Ā
āOh, your collarāsāā he cuts off, waving a hand as if to brush aside the rest of his own words as he steps forward, ignoring Arthurās confused look. āHere, hold this for a second.ā Theo hands him his flute of champagne; just like everyone else, heās sure that itās the alcohol already buzzing through his veins thatās making him bold enough to move this close. Itās risky in more ways than one; the obvious is something heās vowed never to mention out loud. That doesnāt mean itās stopped him from thinkingĀ about it, but, well.Ā
The other, sillier threat on his mind is his ever-present clumsiness. He pictures himself being suave as he saves Art from a fashion disaster, but visions of knocking the champagne down his front instead dance through his head. He can feel eyes on him, far too close and not close enough all at once, and he does his damnedest to ignore the way it makes him feel warm all throughout his body. He wants to stay here forever. He wants Arthur to want himĀ to stay here forever.Ā
Mercifully, his dexterity cooperates. He deftly fixes his collar, taking an extra (unnecessary) moment to smoothe his suit jacket over his chest as if that had also been in disarray. Not wanting to court danger any more than that, Theo steps away once more, plucking his champagne flute out of Artās hand.Ā āThat couldāve been embarrassing for you. Youāre welcome,ā Theo says smugly, as if he owes him a great deal for something that had taken merely a moment.Ā
āI owe you my life,ā Arthur replies gravely, and the smile Theo sends him in response threatens to split his face in half.










