#arthavemeyer

♜ — shoulder rubs.

“Here, let me,” 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 man’s shoulders. He’s 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, isn’t a regulated transaction. This is Arthur, and this is Theo. He can feel himself sweating already.

Knowing it’ll 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 he’d seen him favoring, Art’s head tips forward, tension slowly releasing from his shoulders. 

It’s over too soon. Theo doesn’t want to push his luck; if he’s ever been bold enough to get a little handsier than normal with Arthur, it’s because he’s been drunk or high out of his mind. When he’s 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 he’s doing a nice thing for a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Liar.

♡ — 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 — he’s 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, he’d 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 someone’s shoulder, and — 

Oh. Art. He’d fallen asleep on Art. 

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 it’s endlessly clichéd, but there’s something soft 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. 

Theo sighs. Marred. As if. 

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he murmurs, fighting a blush as he attempts to nudge him awake. “Go find a real bed. It’s nearly six.”

“Hmm? Oh, very funny.” 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 Theo’s spine. He valiantly ignores it, diverting his focus into rolling his eyes instead. “I better get up, then.” He stretches, yawns; Theo turns his head toward the horizon, not trusting himself with a prolonged view. Maybe it’s his hungover brain on a couple hours’ worth of stolen sleep, but he’s decided he should sue him for having the audacity to look like this. 

“Look,” Theo says, stopping him just before he gets up, wanting this moment to stay theirs for just a little while longer. “Sunrise.”

♠ — your muse adjusting their jewelry / necktie / etc.

There’s a party tonight — when isn’t there? — and by some grand stroke of luck, Theo bumps into Arthur in the crowd. He can’t 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.

He’s about to attempt some kind of joke (bad idea, those never go well for him) when his gaze catches on something else. Arthur’s 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 overly friendly. 

“Oh, your collar’s—” he cuts off, waving a hand as if to brush aside the rest of his own words as he steps forward, ignoring Arthur’s confused look. “Here, hold this for a second.” Theo hands him his flute of champagne; just like everyone else, he’s sure that it’s the alcohol already buzzing through his veins that’s making him bold enough to move this close. It’s risky in more ways than one; the obvious is something he’s vowed never to mention out loud. That doesn’t mean it’s stopped him from thinking about it, but, well. 

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 him to stay here forever. 

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 Art’s hand. “That could’ve been embarrassing for you. You’re welcome,” Theo says smugly, as if he owes him a great deal for something that had taken merely a moment. 

♖ : Having their hair washed by your muse

The air is smoky-sweet with the scent of supermarket firewood, crisp watermelon and burnt hot dogs and terrible, too strong margaritas downed in the middle of a party she hadn't intended to stay at for more than ten minutes, some of the girls in tacky polka dot bathing suits and a rooftop pool filled with inflatable toys and a blinding smile, an infectious laugh, a too-competitive game of Truth or Dare. There’s the blurry streak of a someone streaking in the background and a staggering, sloppy, off-center kiss at the bottom of the pool that has her shooting bubbles into their mouth when it dissolves into laughter. 

Her lips taste of the salt for an hour afterwards and Quentin’s hair sticking straight up from the water has her doubling over for the third time in five minutes. Girls scatter and shoot off from their huddle screaming as George chases behind with some terrible cream pie in his hand. Perhaps it is in part of the margaritas that his next victim just happens to be Arthur, back turned in deep conversation, only to end up with cream smeared down his back and hair dusted in white. Sloane can’t help but giggle as she guides him up to the penthouse to the bathroom and nags him into letting them help to get the bits he can’t see. The broad expanse of his back is on full display as he bends over to place his head in the sink and their mouth goes chalky and dry at the sight of muscles flexing. 

Instead of letting herself get too caught up she simply turns on the faucet, teasing him as she lathers his hair with shampoo and shovels handfuls of cream out of the strands. 

♧ : Your muse playing with their hair

The Golden Four are camped out in Daisy’s living room as she aggressively waves a VHS tape in Orson’s face while they bicker over the selection. Sloane hovers at the edges of the living room, uncertain whether she was welcome despite wielding the tub of popcorn, but Susanna scoots over to make room without a second thought. She’s been a parasite clutching at their coattails since they were young but they’ve seemingly accepted her presence without much protest. A bright smile graces her lips as she climbs onto the couch and flops in the middle of the tangle of limbs. 

There’s another scramble of adjustment when Daisy joins them and it feels almost like belonging, fingers wrapped around her ankle and an arm thrown around her shoulders with a heavy head resting in their lap. Brown strands slide through her fingers as she combs through Arthur’s hair and the action is so simple, so easy, like breathing in the crisp air in the middle of a park after drowning for so long that it fills her chest where that aching longing has remained empty. 

♡ : Accidentally falling asleep together

If she were more sober, she wouldn’t be in this situation. 

If she were less sober, she’d be in an even worse predicament. 

As it is, being carried upstairs by Arthur to a spare bedroom to sleep off their hangover is the champion of any situation. He gently deposits them under the covers and proceeds to slide their shoes off and tuck them in. It’s only when he turns to leave that her hand catches on his wrist and quietly whispers, “Are you leaving?" she asks, holding his gaze. "After the summer?”   She's often wondered—to themself, privately, never out loud—what he even sees when he looks at her, but especially right now, right here, when she feels exposed and stripped raw and vulnerable, maybe. Admitting that the thought of a childhood friend, something that may be a maybe, leaving as everyone else does is too much to handle. 

“I don’t know,” he admits and something in her face must give him pause because he shrugs off his shoes and slides into bed next to her. Over the covers of course.  She tucks herself into his lap, under his chin, lets him smooth her hair back and drag his fingers up her bare shoulder, goosebumps erupting, flush spreading, and he smells of beachwood and mint. 

It's just—

Easy.

It's easy.

It's easy to listen to him talk about what he hopes to do after the summer, easy to complain to him about the fact that Anna is ignoring her because she called her out for avoiding a conversation; it's easy to talk to him and it's easy to talk at him in drunken ramblings and it's easy to figure out that he's smarter than he lets on and that he never mentions his family if he can help it and that he laughs at everyone's jokes to make them feel like they’re included.

2. a song that describes them?

Cry Baby by The Neighbourhood

7. celebrity crush?

Brad Pitt could easily get it

11. biggest lie?

That she’s alright. Even the simplest ones threaten to drag them down and assuring everyone that they’re alright when on the inside some things are just pulling every which way until it threatens to fall apart. 

14. greatest fear(s)?

1. go to karaoke song?

Imogene? Karaoke? You must be joking.

18. when wastheir first real relationship? how’d it go?

Imogene had her first ‘love’ worthy of the name inher late teens. It ended poorly, as she soon learned all relationships based onemotion and infatuation are bound to. To have someone see her, really see her, for the first time, and rejectwhat they saw was devastating.

28. do they have any distinctive features or marks?

Answered.

31. are they a morning person or night person?