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“What is it we’re supposed to be doing there, exactly?”
“We’re not really doing anything,” Arthur says. “It’s a gala. You sort of–” He makes a non-committal wave while fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “Uh, mill about. Make small talk, that sort of thing.”
“Small talk?” John isn’t asking because he doesn’t know what small talk is. Rather, because there are so many more interesting things to do. Like watching paint dry.
“Schmoozing, even,” Arthur adds.
“ Schmoozing? ” Absolutely not.
“It’ll be fine.” Arthur turns to him, and John once again gets the chance to admire Arthur’s suit. He cuts a striking silhouette. Maybe the extra money they’d forked over for the tailor had been worth it. “I’m not really a fan of these things myself. But we just need to make an appearance, you know, thank the councilman for even thinking of inviting us in the first place.”
John sighs, making a face to himself in the mirror as he pulls his jacket on. If John never had to work for that man again it would be too soon.
“If you keep making that face, it’ll get stuck like that.”
John fights to keep the smile out of his voice. “What face?”
“ That one. You always make that little huff when you’re pulling it.” Arthur runs a comb through his hair. “We’ll be fine. Especially if you find someone to talk to, like that lovely guy that came into the bar last week.”
Oh my god. “Arthur–”
“What was it you said? He was the best kisser yet?”
“ Oh, fuck off.”
And Arthur laughs, the bastard, even when the pomade on his fingers smears across his forehead.
“No, no, you’re better off looking for that at the bar, I think. Money never made anyone a good kisser.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
Arthur sputters. “Wh–ah, you know –”
“Yeah?”
“We should probably get going–”
“Really? So soon?”
“Oh, don’t sound so smug, you’ve made your point. Where’s your bowtie?"
John plucks the tie in question off the counter. "Here. But you're avoiding my question."
"Put it around your neck, under the collar. I'll tie it for you."
“I know how to tie it,” John says. He does not know how to tie it.
"Then humor me. Come here."
John meets Arthur halfway, with a hand at his elbow. The feedback gives Arthur the bearings to find John's neck without socking him in the face.
"I have more practice with ties, but I've worn enough of these bloody things to figure it out."
John tries to split his attention between Arthur's hands and Arthur's face, which is hard, because both are equally interesting. His fingers around the fabric are slow, but too nimble to be called clumsy. The light catching the flecks of gold in his eyes, otherwise brown, like small windows of stained glass. Only obscured by the uneven scrunch of his eyebrows. When John's eyes ache from looking at his own neck, he settles for just watching the shifts in Arthur's expression. The way he purses his lips when he thinks.
Too quickly, Arthur pulls away. “There. How did I do?"
John turns to the mirror. His own reflection. His own reflection . His hand, reaching to pull at his starch-stiff collar. His hair, already falling out of place where he'd brushed it back, because he refuses to put that disgusting pomade in it. ‘It’s all the rage these days,’ bullshit , it’s gross.
He watches his irises flit back and forth, taking it all in.
To the matter at hand: "It looks like a bowtie, Arthur."
" Prick . Is it straight?"
John imagines himself one of the mannequins he’d seen in the tailor’s shop window. He might as well be, for how much he recognizes himself. He turns slightly to either side. He’s hyper aware of the suit fabric shifting against his skin, unyielding. The suit moves with him, of course it does, but the shape of it moves as well. It feels dignified. He feels…
He doesn't know what he feels. But he thinks, maybe, if someone saw him on the street, they would think he'd been human his whole life.
(The bowtie is a little crooked.)
"Yes. I think it'll do fine."
They take a taxi to the theater. John stares out the window, at street lights reflected on damp pavement from the afternoon rain, and thinks about kissing.
He'd stumbled into the first one – like he did with more things than he’d care to admit, because having two legs is as inefficient as it is stupid. But it was a man, with dark hair and darker eyes, who always hung around the bar when John was working. Arthur had to explain that the man was interested . In him . It took what John considered a rewiring of his brain to comprehend what that could possibly mean. As it shook out, it would mean kissing the man in the back alley behind the bar.
And it was good. John thinks it was good, once he got over how fucking weird the entire concept was. He told Arthur as much, who was waiting for him inside, grinning like a damn idiot.
I'm just…I'm happy for you. Arthur had said. He was still smiling. Whether you like it or not, whatever your preference is, just getting to – well, you know. It's a very human thing to discover that for yourself.
John watches the streetlights pass through the window, and wonders what exactly he's discovered from the four other encounters following the first. Men and women he’d met at the bar. If he had a notebook with him he might be writing it down.
A few notes: Kissing is fun. It’s a fine way to pass the time. The romance novels he’s read make it sound much more exciting than it actually is. John doesn’t remember the names of any of his back alley escapades; some he’d never known to begin with.
And one more note; bolded, underlined, circled in red. Tonight is the first time he’s thought about kissing Arthur. Like hell he knows what to do with all that . He–
"John?” Arthur asks. Their cab is idling next to the curb. “We're here."
Right .
To say that John hates “schmoozing” is unfair. He’s good at it. Missing memories of godhood aside, playing a conversation like a game to be won is muscle memory that John has not forgotten. Though, his impatience with it is new. A distinctly human trait.
The prim woman in front of them laughs at something he’s said, heavy pearls clacking against her wrists. John smiles. What were they talking about? It doesn’t matter, because a better dressed man catches her attention, and she waves her good-bye with all the care of a child discarding an old toy. John describes this to Arthur, who laughs.
“Don’t take it personally,” Arthur says. John hadn’t, but he lets Arthur have it. “It’s always been that way – for me, at least. I think – no. I know Parker was the only reason anyone talked to us when we worked together.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” John says. But for a moment he’s struck with the visual of Parker in a suit, Parker standing in a grand theater hall, Parker talking to Arthur as they navigate the intricacies of a high society they don’t belong in. He looks better in John’s faux memory, without blood pooling on the office floor beneath him.
John downs the rest of his champagne.
“What about the theater?" Arthur asks suddenly. He places a hand on the back of John’s arm.
"What of it?"
"It’s new, isn’t it? I don't think I ever saw it before, well… Uh, can you describe it to me?"
“Of course.”
And John does – the polished marble floor, the lush red drapes lining the walls, garnished with gold tassels. A glistening chandelier hanging in front of the entryway, sending dancing squares across the ceiling. Arthur hums in interest.
"It's…decadent," John finishes. "It looks like the only thing this city is spending any taxpayer money on."
“ Hah – and what do you know about taxes, John?”
John bristles. “I filed them for us this year, for one fucking thing.”
Arthur snorts into his champagne. The light dances off the rim of Arthur’s glass, and his lips catch it when he goes to take a sip. John is staring. Why is John staring?
He tries to down the rest of his, before remembering that his glass is empty. The single drop that makes it to his lips still tingles with bubbling fizz. He catches his reflection in a gilded mirror in the hall. Well. At least he still looks damn good. They both do.
They do find the councilman – an old thumb of a man that John doesn’t care for in the slightest, despite how much he’d paid them to solve his case. Arthur takes the lead in the conversation, and John does not mind. The alcohol helps keep his smile loose, but it only goes so far. Speaking of, he needs more champagne.
Meeting is blissfully – and somehow, frustratingly – short. Despite himself, John almost does a double take when he sees the man walk away.
"We came all this way for that?" John hisses. They might still be in earshot. John hopes they’re still in earshot.
"Busy man, I suppose," Arthur says lightly. He tightens his grip on John’s arm.
“Arthur?” John asks. He can feel the muscles taught in Arthur’s hand.
“I’m fine,” Arthur says. It seems almost believable, if Arthur was a better liar. Or if John was a stupider man. “Just–”
“Did he say something to you?” John’s thrown a punch before, and he’ll do it again.
“What?” Arthur asks, genuinely enough that John believes it. “No, no. Let’s just get some air?”
John wastes no time leading them to the first exit he sees – a side entrance that opens, evidently–
“To one of the theater’s gardens,” John says to Arthur. “Marble steps lead down to a walkway lined with well-manicured grass and blooming flowers. A couple guests are milling about close to the entrance, but they seem content to keep to themselves.”
“Good, good,” Arthur says. He takes a deep breath in through his nose. “Sorry, I just… forgot how stuffy those things can get. So many people, and–”
“I know,” John says, because he does know. “Do you want to sit?” John didn’t see any benches on first glance, but he’d go steal one from down the street if it meant Arthur didn’t look so fucking pale.
“No, I’m alright. You said there was a walkway?”
There is, and they walk the length of the courtyard and then some. John describes the colors and the shapes of the petals unfurled in their path. Reds and pinks and whites that contrast with the dark grass and soil. Their steps leave satisfying clicks on the stone – less satisfying when Arthur almost trips on one, but John steadies him easily.
“That’s one good thing about all the rain this time of year. I’m sure they look lovely.”
As if on cue, a drop hits the crest of John’s cheek. He doesn’t mention it, or the second or third. But the stray drops turn into a drizzle.
“Should we turn back?” John asks.
“Hm, maybe? I’m sure it’ll pass in a minute.”
John sees a flash of lightning in the distance. Two seconds pass before the sky opens up, and it’s pouring.
“Oh, Christ –”
Their voices are quickly lost to the drum of rain on everything in sight. John throws one hand over his eyes, like it could really do anything, and uses his other hand to pull Arthur forward. Towards, towards…
Don’t gardens usually have gazebos? What kind of garden doesn’t have a fucking–
They’re half-soaked by the time John finds the nearest thing to shelter – a narrow overhang on the side of the theater wall, still too small to stop fat drops from falling on the shoulder of John’s jacket.
Arthur rubs a hand down his face and back into his hair, loose strands falling every which way. He wipes his hands on his jacket with a groan. “ Ugh . Extra strength, the bottle said, didn’t it? What a waste.”
John wrings out a section of his own hair. “I told you it was a waste when you bought it. You look better without it.”
“Oh, really?”
“Half the guests in there could do with a shower, if you ask me. They look like–” Fuck , what were those things called? “–Fucking bowling pins .”
Arthur’s laugh surprises him. He laughs so hard he snorts – and what an experience that had been, finding out Arthur did that for the first time – and that makes John laugh. Soaking wet and huddled under a pathetic excuse for shelter, the echo of their voices mixing with the white noise of the downpour. John doesn’t think it’s just the champagne making it seem so funny. But maybe it’s not hurting, either.
Arthur takes a deep, steadying breath. John still has a hand on his arm, but lets it go when Arthur moves. John doesn't know what Arthur is planning until he's halfway to doing it. He grabs John by the lapels of his jacket, pulls him down, and kisses him.
It's something between a second and ten minutes. It’s over before John can parse which parts of him are supposed to be thinking what about it, and then Arthur is pulling away.
Arthur kissed him.
Arthur’s smile falls faster than the drops overhead. He takes a step back, smoothing the front of John’s jacket as best he can.
Arthur kissed him .
“Oh. God , John. I’m sorry, I…”
“Sorry?” John asks, feeling incredibly stupid.
Arthur pulls his hands away, lightning quick. He looks – embarrassed, pained, seventeen other emotions John doesn’t have time to name, flitting across his face. John feels like he’s thinking through molasses, and Arthur looks like he’s thinking every thought in the world all at once.
“I shouldn't have–”
Wait.
“Christ,” Arthur spits. “I’m such an idiot .”
Oh, hell .
John does the only thing that makes sense to him – he grabs Arthur by the shoulders, and kisses him back.
He almost misses, for one thing. Catching the corner of Arthur's mouth more than any other part of it, even when Arthur had gotten it right the first time. Arthur’s lips are chapped and slick with rain water dripping from both of their faces. He smells like overpriced hair gel. But, he also smells like Arthur.
If John started it, he should end it. Right? How long is too long? Is this too long? Is this too long?
He pulls away when the part of his brain that thinks he should overpowers the part of his brain that doesn’t really want to. Arthur’s exhale grazes John’s face.
John finds himself watching Arthur’s lips, and the way they waver into a brimming smile, one that he looks like he’s fighting to keep in check. Arthur starts and stops a few syllables before he finally picks one.
“ O - oh .”
And it’s such a fucking Arthur sound. Something warm seeps into the nooks and crannies in John’s chest. It feels like drinking champagne. Or like choking. But not in a bad way. He considers kissing him again just to hear it.
“John, you don’t – you don’t have to…”
“I know.”
“Don’t make me feel like you–”
“ Arthur .”
Arthur stops.
“I can decide what I do and don’t do,” John says. He can, he does. He relishes it as much as he relishes breathing. Even if he has to think a little harder about it, because it’s not second nature.
It's a very human thing to discover that for yourself.
“I…I know,” Arthur breathes. John is secretly glad for the interruption, because he doesn’t know what to say next. But Arthur doesn’t either for once in his life, the bastard, and he’s still looking at John like nothing else has ever mattered.
The wind picks up. It sprays them both with a fine mist of water. When John shivers, Arthur grabs for his arms.
“We could make a dash for the door, if you want to go back,” Arthur says. Light dances in his eyes. “Not that you would want to be seen with me in there right now. I look like a drowned rat, I’m sure.”
John watches Arthur’s hair fall, loose and curled, onto his forehead. And kisses him again.