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When Arthur wakes up on a couch in an apartment that’s not his own with an absolute killer headache, he makes a solemn vow to himself to never drink again. There’s a high chance that it is the same vow he’s made on countless preceding Saturday and Sunday mornings. But this time, he’ll follow through. Really. He will.
He doesn’t remember getting back to Chris’. However, he remembers everything leading up to it. In vivid detail. He kind of wishes he didn’t because now it’s all he can think about, and George is currently in the kitchen just across from him, and sure, George can’t read minds, but he might be able to read body language, or something of the sort, so Arthur sits up with great effort and pulls a pillow over his lap. It’s just morning wood, it doesn’t actually mean anything.
George is midway through pouring a glass of water when he clocks Arthur’s movement.
“You all right, sleeping beauty?”
Arthur rubs a fist over his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Time for a McDonalds breakfast, I should think.”
Arthur isn’t usually a fan of fast food, but at this point, a greasy sausage and egg McMuffin might just be the difference between life or death. He’s riding that line right now and it is rather precarious.
“I think that’s the best idea you’ve ever had,” he croaks.
George snorts. “I’m full of good ideas.”
There’s a dull ache in Arthur’s neck. He brings his fingers to it, then promptly remembers what’s there, then realises he’s drawing attention to it, and snatches his hand away. George, who is now coming over with the glass of water, studies him through narrowed eyes.
“Someone had a fun night,” he says, and it’s smug, but there’s a hint of a question in it, like he wants to know more.
“Was nothing really,” Arthur dismisses, taking the offered glass and sipping so his mouth has something else to do other than talk about anything remotely related to this topic.
“Mate, that does not look like nothing.”
George sits down next to him. Arthur’s hard-on has almost entirely deflated now just from talking to him, thank God. It’s moments like these that make Arthur certain he’s not completely gay. Just gay for his best mate, then. He drinks more of the water, practically downing it.
“You didn’t go home with the animal who gave you that?” George teases.
Arthur splutters, almost chokes on his water. “Animal?”
“Have you seen yourself?” George laughs, leans playfully into Arthur’s side, which makes the room jolt and Arthur’s head feel alarmingly as if it might roll right off his shoulders. He heaves a few shallow breaths, willing away the rising nausea. Meanwhile, George moves closer to inspect his neck properly, which is, well, just brilliant. “God, look at the size of that thing. You should be charging for rent, that’s a whole living entity of its own.”
Of course, at that exact moment is when Arthur Hill decides to enter the room. He looks just as rough as Arthur feels, but decidedly less depraved, because he doesn’t have a giant fucking bite mark on his neck.
“Who’s being charged rent?”
“Oh, just the purple alien spawn that Arthur’s neck is currently host to.”
Arthur H. immediately comes over to get a look for himself, and he sucks in air between his teeth, eyes widening. “Ouch. Surely that hurt?”
Arthur has to be blushing, he can feel it; red-hot flames creeping up his face, licking at his cheeks. “It honestly is nothing,” he murmurs, again, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and he doesn’t trust his own mouth right now, so he’s gonna keep words to a minimum.
Arthur H. and George exchange a look that Arthur does not have time to decode because then, of fucking course, Chris wanders in.
And Arthur’s eyes are immediately drawn to him.
His curls are a damp mess, spiked up at odd angles from where it’s been roughly towel-dried after a shower. His cheeks are rosy, tinted pink from the hot water. He’s got a pair of loose footie shorts on, because when does he not, and he’s also not wearing a shirt. That’s a totally normal thing – showering and then walking around one’s own flat shirtless – but for some godforsaken reason, it’s making Arthur slightly lose his mind. More so than it has already been lost while dealing with the two idiots ogling him like he’s some kind of outlandish zoo exhibit.
“You right, mate?”
Arthur blinks. Snaps out of whatever hungover daze he’d just fallen into, because Chris is addressing him.
“Been better.”
Chris smiles. It’s a normal Chris smile. It’s not tentative or guarded; it’s warm, bright. It’s the one he reserves mostly for Arthur, and Arthur has never been more relieved.
But then, just as swiftly, the dread creeps back in when he recalls how drunk Chris had been. Does he even remember what happened? Surely he would, if Arthur does.
“Chris, come look at this,” Arthur H. says, and Arthur’s stomach drops right through his feet.
Chris approaches, and Arthur sees something in his eyes shift slightly when he clocks the mark on his neck, and Arthur just can’t tell what it means, if it’s good or bad or neutral, because it only lasts a second before it’s gone. It’s like a flash of something dark across his irises. That’s the best way to describe it. The only way.
Chris gets close. Closer than he probably should. Arthur can literally feel his breath on his face, hot and minty. He can’t help the shiver that racks his body at that. Crikey, he’s beyond help. He’s so far gone. It’s a wonder something didn’t happen between them sooner. Arthur must have astounding self-control.
“Looks painful,” Chris deadpans, then backs away, and strolls on over to the kitchen without another glance.
Arthur swallows, hopes his body’s visceral reaction to Chris’ proximity has gone unnoticed, or rather, passed off as some odd hungover twitch, or just a generally weird Arthur tic. George and Arthur H. don’t seem phased, however, as they’ve entirely moved on now, scrolling through the McDonald’s breakfast menu on George’s phone.
Arthur allows himself a moment to just pause and breathe, collect himself a bit, rethink a lot of the past twenty-four hours. He finds that he regrets none of it. At least there’s that. It would be significantly more awkward if he did regret it. Maybe it’s even more awkward that he wants to do it all over again, though. Sober, this time. And not just sex. He wants to kiss Chris again. He wants to kiss him whenever he gets the urge, so all the time, and he wants to make him laugh and hold him and touch him when it feels right. And he doesn’t want anyone to watch, ever. Just the two of them. Alone in their own universe. Hidden away together.
It aches deep in his chest, the overwhelming feeling of possibility. He just prays that Chris feels somewhat the same.
They should probably talk about it. It would clear up a lot of things. But they don’t.
Instead, the four of them order McDonald’s and eat together on the sofa with a David Attenborough documentary on the telly because it’s easy on the ears and it’s all everyone can agree on. Usually, Arthur is captivated by a nature documentary, either completely zoned in and silent, or interrupting every three seconds with his own commentary or a piece of interesting information that nobody else ever seems to appreciate. It depends on the company, and his mood. But today, he is in another world entirely. He’s silent but he isn’t even watching, can barely stomach his hash brown either, so he gives up trying, letting his head fall back against the cushions behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. In his peripherals, he sees Chris glance over at him a couple of times, because they’re sat right next to each other, but he never says anything to Arthur, never asks what’s up. Arthur’s glad for it. He wouldn’t know where to begin.
They have a lazy Saturday. None of them move from the sofa for hours. Morning melts away and the sun grows lower in the sky, streams in through the huge windows. The living room is cast in a warm, golden glow, softening everything. Arthur feels like he’s been holding his breath since he woke up this morning.
Eventually, sometime in the late afternoon, Arthur H. reluctantly leaves the flat to head into the studio, claiming that there’s still a lot of work to do on his new song. George follows shortly after with the explanation of him having promised Max and Andrew they’d meet for drinks. He doesn’t seem remotely put-off by it. Arthur would go so far as to say he sounds keen. The man is an absolute machine. The mere thought of drinking again tonight makes Arthur want to dry-heave.
So, with George and Arthur H. gone, Chris and Arthur are left with the flat to themselves.
Arthur should really head home. He should. It’s the weekend, but he still has the edit of his newest video to watch through and approve before it’s uploaded. He has the next podcast episode to plan before him and Isaac record on Monday. He has emails to respond to and that script to draft for a main channel video idea he had recently. He has a sexuality crisis to dwell on. There’s always so much to do.
Yet, he doesn’t need much convincing to stay right where he is.
“Lord of the Rings marathon?” Chris suggests, flicking through Netflix. Arthur is genuinely surprised that he isn’t being kicked out of the flat so Chris can get some of his own work done. The man is a borderline workaholic. He must be truly hungover. Or, maybe, he just wants to spend his Saturday night with Arthur. Arthur would rather assume the latter.
“How many times would that be now?”
Chris looks over at him and smiles. Something pleasant and warm simmers in Arthur’s chest. “What do you expect from me, really?”
Arthur can’t help smiling back. It’s contagious, the way Chris beams, his whole face lighting up with it. “Wouldn’t expect anything less, mate.”
So they put on The Fellowship of the Ring, and Chris scoots closer so their shoulders are touching, stretches his legs out over the unoccupied space on the other end of the sofa, and they still aren’t talking about it, Arthur supposes, but he can live with that. For now.
About twenty minutes in, Arthur feels a warm pressure settle itself onto his lap. He looks down to meet Chris’ eye, as he’s now decided to use Arthur’s thighs as a pillow and it’s absolutely doing things to Arthur’s stomach, but Chris is totally zoned in on the movie. If he’s just pretending in order to avoid eye contact, Arthur is none the wiser.
Another ten minutes, and Arthur feels brave enough to bring a hand down, rake it through Chris’ hair.
Chris freezes, and Arthur freezes, thinking he’s made a mistake, but then Chris turns to look up at him, reaches up to take his hand and presses it more firmly against his head. It’s like he’s granting Arthur permission to keep going. Like he’s encouraging him.
Arthur doesn’t think anything could stop him from continuing, anyway. Chris’ hair is so soft, freshly washed, and as he lets his thumb trail absentmindedly down the side of Chris’ head, past his ear to the smooth part of his jaw before his beard begins, he’s struck by the knowledge of just how soft his skin is. Arthur wants to kiss him there.
Chris’ head is tilted to the side, angled towards the TV. The side of his neck is right there, so close, but if Arthur leant down it would be awkward and maybe Chris wouldn’t even like it, maybe he doesn’t even remember–
Then Chris shifts, arching his neck towards Arthur, and gives a little groan, like he’s unhappy that Arthur’s fingers have slowed their movements in his hair.
“Chris,” Arthur says before he can stop himself, because this is frankly ridiculous and if he doesn’t do something about it right now he’s going to implode.
Chris, evidently hearing the urgency in his tone, sits up. The film continues playing in the background, forgotten. “Yeah?”
Arthur stares at him for a moment like an idiot, and God, he’s so pretty, isn’t he? It's an odd thing to think about another man. It's not a thought Arthur’s ever really had before about any of his other friends. It’s so different with Chris, it always has been. He really is beautiful, and now that Arthur has had him once, he wants him again. He wants him in every way. He can’t keep pretending not to.
So he reaches out, cups Chris’ cheek. Chris blinks at him, lips parting slightly, eyes widening just a little like he can’t believe what’s happening and wants to say something but doesn’t quite have the words. Arthur doesn’t know who moves first, but then they’re kissing. Chris clambers over onto his lap, straddling him on the sofa, and Arthur moans into his mouth because he genuinely can’t help it, he’s been waiting all day for this.
Chris tastes so much better sober, untainted by the fruity cocktails and vodka on his breath, just purely him.
They kiss there like that until Arthur’s lips are bruised and he can’t breathe and he’s achingly hard in his trousers, and only then do they properly pull away. Chris looks just as flustered as Arthur feels. He scrubs a hand over his mouth, eyes dark with want.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you’d wanna do this sober?” Arthur gets out.
Chris laughs, the sound slicing right through the tension stagnant in the air, softening it. “I wanna do this all the time. Been wanting to all day.”
Arthur’s entire being floods with relief.
“You moron, you could’ve just said so,” Arthur teases, giddy, and then he pulls Chris close again, breathes him in, parts his lips with his tongue and explores his mouth languidly. They pant against each other, hands roaming, teeth clashing, and it’s so hot but it’s also lovely and sweet and Arthur wants to cry with how nice it is.
Then Arthur nibbles on Chris’ bottom lip and Chris grinds down into his lap. Arthur gasps and grabs his ass, pressing them firmly together.
“Far out, we can’t do this here,” he breathes, although he really would. He’d do anything Chris wanted.
“This sofa’s seen worse, mate, trust me.”
Arthur rests his forehead against Chris’ and wrinkles his nose. “That’s foul.”
“You’re foul.”
Arthur rolls his hips up and Chris gasps.
“Cunt,” he hisses.
“I don’t have one of those, sorry to disappoint.”
Chris silences him with another open-mouthed kiss, and just like that, Arthur’s back in a daze. He doesn’t think he could form a rational thought right now if he tried.
He tugs at Chris’ shirt, pulling it over his head. It’s a shame he put it back on to begin with. But really, Arthur enjoys this part. He always has. It’s like Christmas morning. He briefly considers making a joke about the smallest gifts always being the most valuable, but finds enough decency within himself to think better of it.
After a couple of minutes of fervent making out, wherein Arthur’s own shirt finds itself halfway across the room, discarded somewhere on the floor, Arthur slides his hand down to the front of Chris’ shorts. He lets his thumb dip below his boxers, testing Chris’ reaction. Chris seems just as into it as Arthur, but then a second later he’s wrapping a hand around Arthur’s wrist and pulling him gently away.
“You don’t want it?” Arthur tries not to let the disappointment emerge in his voice, but it’s goddamn difficult when he’s so deliriously horny.
“Of course I want it. I just think…” Chris trails off. He’s still straddling Arthur’s lap, shorts pushed up high over his toned thighs. His lips look pink and shiny. Swollen. Arthur takes full credit for that.
“You think what?”
“I think we should maybe… talk about this.”
Arthur almost groans with frustration, even though talking about it is exactly what he’s intended to do from the beginning. But now he’s got Chris like this, it’s hard to just stop. “We can’t talk after?”
“Arthur,” Chris says softly. He’s got a hand on Arthur’s waist and it grips a bit harder for a second, squeezing him affectionately. “We were really hammered last night, yeah?”
“Yeah, but I meant everything I said.”
“Me too,” Chris assures him. He slides off Arthur’s lap to sit beside him, keeping their thighs pressed together. “You said this is your first time with a guy?”
“I don’t even want to begin to unpack that.”
“Is that not what we’re doing?”
“Absolutely not. We’re talking about this,” Arthur says, gesturing between them.
“And your sexuality has nothing to do with what’s going on between us?”
“We are so not talking about my sexuality right now, mate.”
“So when are we going to talk about it?” Chris presses, his voice rising a little, but remaining calm in that easy way that he does, even when he’s clearly bothered by something. “Are we gonna keep doing this? Are we never gonna do it again? I want to do it again. But we both know that if we do, someone’s going to find out one way or another, and I don’t want you to freak out when it happens.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything. He knows he’s being stubborn. Chris is completely right. But it’s all coming out now and it feels like too much to handle. It’s easy, with girls, because there’s nothing to think about. Nothing to hide. But Chris is so much more important to him than any girl ever could be, in every aspect. Chris is a constant in his life, has been since they were kids. He’s always been there and Arthur doesn’t know what he would do if he ever wasn’t. Maybe that’s why it's about a thousand times harder. That underlying dread – the knowledge that they could fuck this all up and it would be impossible to recover from – is pounding at the base of Arthur’s skull like a particularly persistent headache. He blinks back into reality when Chris runs a tender hand up his thigh, grounding him. He must have been zoning out.
“Look, can I tell you something?”
Arthur sniffs. “If it’s that you think I’m bisexual or something, then no, you can’t.”
“I would never do that, Arthur,” Chris says, and his tone has shifted now into something that sounds an awful lot like hurt, and a bit of irritation, like he’s in disbelief that Arthur would even think that. Arthur feels like a dickhead. He knows he’s screwing it all up. He doesn’t know how to not screw this up. He cares too much about Chris and it’s coming out in all the wrong ways.
But Chris is used to dealing with Arthur. He knows how to work around his weirdness and his occasional inability to communicate like a functioning human being. Arthur has had a long and overwhelming twenty-four hours, and he can tell that Chris senses that. He can tell by the way his hand hasn’t left Arthur’s leg, and his eyes remain glued to Arthur’s, finding them even when Arthur actively avoids his gaze.
“I have honestly been attracted to you for a while,” Chris admits, and Arthur’s insides twist. “Like, a long time. Probably before I even realised what it was. Because you’re good-looking, objectively, right? So how could I tell the difference between just admiring a friend and wanting to get with them? It was a whole fucking revelation.”
The entire world has tipped off-kilter, tilted and snapped right off its axis. Arthur is certain he’s never been this simultaneously shocked and relieved in his life. “You wanted to get with me?”
“Mate, I don’t think you understand.” Chris scoffs, trails his fingers across Arthur’s thigh mindlessly, like the action is unconscious. “You were basically my bisexual awakening. I need you to know this.”
Arthur’s heart speeds up in his chest. No way. “But you never–”
“It wasn’t like I thought anything would come of it,” Chris assures him. “I wasn’t going to make a move or anything, because I was so sure you were straight. And that was okay, I could live with that. Like I said, best mates before anything else. But then you asked me to fucking bite you last night and I was like, this is weird, and we’re plastered, but I’ll roll with it, and then… well, then everything else happened and it was like my actual wet dream come to life.”
Chris gives a little chuckle, and Arthur doesn’t think there’s anything remotely funny about this situation, but then again, maybe there is. Because he’s only yesterday just allowed himself to explore how he truly feels about Chris, and all this time, Chris had reciprocated those feelings. It’s borderline laughable. He wants to say something, but his mouth has gone dry, and Chris is still rambling, anyway.
“So, this means a lot to me,” he explains. His nails are scratching rhythmically against Arthur’s skin now. “And I’m not rushing you into deciding anything about yourself. I know how hard it is. But I would really like to explore this with you, whatever it is, and I don’t want to have to hide it from the guys and pretend nothing’s going on.”
The thought of coming out to anyone in the near future makes Arthur feel ill. He clears his throat. “I don’t know, this is a big thing to drop on anyone.”
“I don’t mean we tell them directly,” Chris says, shaking his head. “I just mean it shouldn’t be some big, scary secret. I’ve been thinking of telling you all that I’m bi for a while now, anyway. Makes sense to tell George and Arthur, at least, since I live with them.”
Arthur considers this. “They wouldn’t care, you know.”
“I know.”
They look at each other for a beat, Arthur focusing in on the deeper golden flecks in Chris’ eyes, colours that he already has memorised. It feels like they’re fourteen again, at Chris’ house under the blanket fort they’d built in his living room, even though they were technically too old for blanket forts by then, but no one else was watching so what did it matter? It feels like one of the nights where their conversations would spill over into the early morning, every word exchanged between them flowing so easily, every silence comfortable, all their laughter authentic and cosy. It’s a connection that Arthur has taken for granted many times. One that he’ll never take for granted again. One that he’ll work tirelessly to maintain even if it ends up hurting him.
And he recognises then that the way he feels about Chris is far more than just sexual attraction. Perhaps it always has been.
So he smiles. Basks in the memory, and feels immensely grateful for the existence of his best mate.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I might need some time to come to terms with myself, but I want this. I want you and me, yeah? So we’ll make it work.”
And Chris returns the smile, nods, hooks his arms around Arthur’s neck and pulls him close.
“I’m always right, idiot.”
And they hug tightly there on the sofa, bodies slotting into place, fitting against each other like they always have.
The room is almost pitch black when Arthur is rudely awoken from his restful slumber, the darkness penetrated only by a brief but violent flash of light right against his eyelids. He feels Chris stir where he’s lying, curled into his chest.
“Oops, sorry,” a hushed voice gets out in between giggles. Arthur blinks a couple of times, focuses on the silhouette standing across from him.
It’s George. Arthur’s heart thuds against his ribcage.
His eyes adjust some more, and he makes out the expression on George’s face: a bit guilty, but mostly delighted. He’s got his phone clutched in his hand and it’s angled towards the sofa.
“What the hell?” Arthur whisper-shouts, ignoring the urge to shove Chris away from him and spit out an excuse, because Chris is still asleep and he looks so peaceful and Arthur would literally rather die than wake him. “Did you just take a photo of us?”
“You looked so disgustingly cute. I had to.” He slurs his words a bit, clearly battered.
“George Arthur Clarke, I swear to God.”
“You’ll thank me for it on your wedding day.”
Before Arthur can retaliate, George scampers off down the hall towards his room.
Then Arthur lies there for a minute in the dark, still holding a softly snoring Chris to his chest, and wonders how he ever got so lucky with his friends.
He had spent so much time worrying things would change. But maybe nothing has to. Maybe the only change that has to happen is good. Arthur is okay with good change.
Instead of waking Chris and hauling them both into a proper bed, Arthur pulls him in closer and drifts back to sleep.