Chapter Text
Arthur stares down at his phone with a deep frown.
Fuck. He forgot.
“Why did I let him convince me,” Arthur mutters, tiredly eyeballing Javier’s Audi parked upfront, a gleaming black, rims shining. He hesitates at the curb, hands shoved into his jean pockets, dread weighing heavily on him like he put one too many weights on the bar, and he ain’t got a spotter.
He made a mistake.
The Lounge is a dive bar-turned-emo-or-goth-or-whatever-bar that John—and Javier—have been playing at since they first started doing live shows a couple years ago. Arthur knows what to expect. He did promise John he’d be there for his show on his birthday weekend, but that was four months ago when he and Javier were giving it a try again—for the third time.
God. This is stupid. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want to even see Javier.
He strides for the front doors, already hearing the noise of a busy bar on a Friday night. Scowling like a kicked dog, Arthur pushes in, gains a nod and a wave of a hand from the bouncer—he’d be shocked if anyone asked for his ID anymore, looking like he does. He makes straight for the bar, pushing past people a generation younger than him, all dressed up in black.
He made sure to arrive just after nine so he wouldn’t have to sit around waiting for their set to start—and just as he’s given a whisky and coke, seated at the bar, he hears John’s voice.
“How’s your night going?!”
As usual, there’s a supportive cheer from the crowd, drunk and eager for music. Arthur can barely see the band beyond all the heads and bodies, but he can see enough—but, shit, it’s hard to see ‘em at all. They’re all wearing black in a dimly lit bar.
John’s grinning, his dark hair wild around his face like a wolf’s mane, wearing a whole lotta black makeup around his eyes. He leans into the mic and cries, “You ready for some good fucking music?!”
Arthur snorts, shaking his head.
They begin to play, starting off with a mean riff that shakes the foundation.
Arthur digs into his ear with a pinky, squinting a little. The hard guitar, the fast, brutal drums—he doesn’t even know the long-haired guy on the drums, he realizes—the way John begins singing in this scratching, growling voice… Arthur ain’t a fan. But it ain’t for him, so, whatever.
He pointedly doesn’t look to John’s left, but the reality that he’s there makes Arthur’s heart race faster than he’d like.
John’s leaning into the mic stand like it's his goddamn lover, his long hair shrouding his face in darkness as he sings. Arthur pauses when he sees him tip his head back, his curtain of hair parting, smoky eyes landing right on him.
Face lighting up in recognition, John grins during this pause in his singing, and Arthur lifts a hand to lazily wave.
For two more songs, Arthur can keep himself distracted, his stare bouncing everywhere else in the vicinity of the stage and along the people around him, but, eventually, he caves, because he’s only ever been weak.
Javier’s wearing those torn, black skinny jeans that Arthur always liked on him. His hair is down, ‘cause it always is during shows. He’s playing a mean riff, doin’ that hair-spinning thing that only metalheads seem capable of doing well.
Arthur thinks it looks ridiculous. Javier looks ridiculous.
Arthur smiles weakly, though his heart is a yawning chasm in his chest.
The music is loud, unending, a bunch of noise that Arthur admits is executed well, but it just ain’t his thing. He can admire it, though, anyway. The crowd seems to like it.
Next time Arthur glances at Javier, he sees the man scraping his hair back, panting hard, and—looking right at him. Arthur’s stomach drops to his feet. Javier’s suddenly looking serious like a wound, frowning. Arthur’s heart begins to race. Fuck.
I don’t want to see you again, and I fucking mean it this time. Stay out of my life, Arthur!
What, you think you’re absolved of all’a this? After all that crap you pulled? You think you’re heaven-fuckin’-sent? Grow the fuck up already, why don’t you?! You want somethin’, then fuckin’ tell me, but, no, you gotta lead me ‘round in circles like it’s all a goddamn game!
The memory floats into Arthur’s head like rotten scum on still-water. He remembers the look on Javier’s face, the way he’d gone all red like the anger was too much to handle. Left the second he realized the discussion—if it could even be called that—wasn’t going anywhere.
Javier is striking that guitar so hard, his head bobbing, face hidden in that spill of his hair—and Arthur feels sick, now, watching him. He drags his eyes across him, his ears ringing, memories flooding.
You say you’re gonna change, and I’m still waiting for that, Arthur. A third fucking chance. Why can’t I learn?
That’s what I’m wonderin’, darlin’. Why won’t you leave me the hell alone?
Javier don’t cry. He’s tougher than him, built rough-knuckled and teeth-grit from day one, growing up around all his cousins who treated him like shit if he showed any glimpse of weakness. Javier don’t cry.
But Arthur never saw him get so close to it that night.
God, the thought is too much. Arthur feels awful, watching him move like black flames on that stage, smooth and practiced and vengeful. Angry. Tormented.
John’s scream-singing again. Javier approaches the second mic that’s been standing there all this time, and Arthur realizes it’s his favorite song of theirs… Or, at least, used to be. Javier gets a chance to be heard, here, too.
He shadows John, a supporting vocal to whatever the fuck he’s singing, and then John’s voice disappears and it’s just Javier, strumming at that guitar of his. Arthur can see the way his lips pull back, showing bared teeth as he snarls vicious Spanish that he’d never understand. Even at a distance, Arthur can see the sweat gleaming on his face, the way his eyes are screwed shut like he’s got rage to expel and it’s bursting out of him. The crowd goes wild, cheering for it, for him.
Arthur feels like he might throw up.
Just out of spite, Arthur sits there the whole fucking show.
By the time it’s coming to an end, Arthur’s dying for a smoke.
He decides to leave right after the last song finishes. He steps outside into the cool night air while John thanks the crowd, and they’re given eager applause.
Young people are chatting and loitering all around him. Arthur tucks himself out of the way and lights up a cigarette, a dark cloud over his head.
He stayed long enough, he reckons.
It’s as he’s walking to his truck in the parking lot that he gets a text from John, asking where he is, if he’s gonna join them for drinks.
Yeah, no chance.
‘Sorry, bud,’ he texts back. ‘Not this time. Good show.’
He sits in his truck for half an hour, chain-smoking. He rubs at his temple with a thumb, cigarette smoking between his fingers, staring at those doors, waiting for nothing. Young folk keep filtering in and out. He never sees any of the band members, and certainly not Javier.
Fuck, he can’t stop thinking about him. He could get by, when he wasn’t around him. Thoughts here and there, always are, but he wasn’t haunted by him, a lingering ghost of his past, his present, hiding in the shadows of his mind. He’s been through that enough, the haunting.
But now? Shit, he reckons his heart’s been broken enough it doesn’t remember how to love anymore, because he sure as shit don’t love Javier no more.
But seeing him again…
He remembers Javier looking at him with hurt, with anger. He remembers all the times they’d been separated, trying to move on with their lives, but inevitably, without fail, Javier would find his way into his orbit and win his heart back hook, line, and fucking sinker.
He’s just trouble. They both are. Why they ain’t never gonna work out.
Man, why is he still here? No use thinking about this shit, ‘cause they’re history.
He’s just gotta shift his truck into drive, press his foot to the pedal. But, damn it, he doesn’t. And he knows why.
His phone dings. Arthur flicks ash off his cigarette, grabs his phone.
Out of anger, he’d deleted Javier’s contact after he’d dumped him again, erased their texts, but he knows that set of numbers. Knows it better than his own, he reckons.
'why the fuck am i seeing your face at our show
i know ur dense but you really outdone yourself arthur'
Anger flares in Arthur like flames, licking up to his face and making his cheeks burn.
He heaves a sigh, sags forward against the steering wheel. He rubs heavily at his eyes.
He’s so tired of this shit. Javier has always been the type to act quick on his emotions, and, clearly, that hasn’t changed.
Wearily, with bags under his eyes and a ticking jaw, Arthur shoots back a reply that Javier responds to almost immediately, unsurprisingly.
Oh, Jesus Christ. Arthur tosses aside his phone and grabs the gear of his truck, shoves it into drive.
He’s too old for this shit.
He pulls out of his parking spot, and hits the road.
There he is.
He’d recognize that beat-up hand-me-down Chevy truck anywhere.
He pulls into a parking spot, turns off the truck, and it settles with a creak of metal.
A second later, Javier’s dropping from the cab, grinning a real big grin. He’s wearing a short-sleeved button-up, loose on his torso, oversized in a way that looks real good, tucked in like that to his black pants. The flowers spilling across the dark fabric of his shirt are golden. He’s wearing a gold crucifix necklace.
“Hey,” Javier says, walking up real easy, cool and confident in how he takes Arthur’s big, ugly hand. He squeezes it tight, pulls him in—and Arthur goes.
They meet for a clumsy press of lips that Arthur makes some stupid, startled grunt into. The kiss is short-lived, but warm, intimate… Real nice. Their lips purse together a couple times before he pulls back with a face redder than a beet.
It’s only their second date. This feels so intimate.
Javier laughs, eyes gleaming.
“What? Your generation take five dates before you start kissing?”
“Uh, that—no—it’s just, it’s, well… We’re out in public.”
That’s not it, but, well, part of it.
Javier looks amused. “I don’t care.”
“Yeah, you say that now, but wait ‘til we’re hate-crimed.”
Javier laughs. He pats him on the back, pushes him towards the gate leading towards the lake. Begrudgingly, Arthur goes, a smile kept to himself.
Javier’s hand glides down his back, falls away. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
Arthur guffaws a laugh, looks over at the smaller man with a sly grin. “You? Protectin’ me? Alright, my worries are no more, not with a tough guy like you watchin’ my back.”
Javier keeps on grinning, says nothing—just knocks his shoulder into his arm. All around them, sun shines, trees dance in the wind, and bugs flit around. Cyclists shoot by on a paved walkway. The lake sprawling out before them is glittering with the sun, a pool of gems. The mountainsides erected all around the body of water are limitless. Gorgeous.
They walk side by side. A little nervous, Arthur pushes his hands into his pants pockets, peeks at the other man from the corner of his eye. Javier’s got an easy smile on his face. The way the loose locks at his temple fall to frame his face is real pretty.
“You dressin’ up for a walk by a lake,” Arthur comments, looking him up and down. “Gotta impress the fish? That how you catch ‘em now?”
Javier snorts. His eyes, sharp and beguiling, cut to him. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his black skinny jeans, mirroring him, and says, “Nah. I just wanna look good around Arthur, that’s all.”
Arthur shakes his head. “You ain’t gotta work hard to impress him.”
“Aw, that’s nice. Y’know, I bet he wouldn’t even notice.”
Arthur peers at him past his long hair, grunting. “He’d definitely notice how naturally good-lookin’ you are, I reckon. Clothes don’t make a difference.”
Javier cracks a laugh. The way the sunlight lights up his joyful face is beautiful. “That’s true. May as well just take them off, I guess.”
“Wouldn’t stop you,” Arthur remarks, his heart a giddy thing in his chest.
They fall silent. Javier’s still grinning, and Arthur stares. He’s so pretty. He makes Arthur feel real special. He must’a done something right.
How he earned Javier’s affection, his attention, he’ll never know. All he knows is that he don’t wanna lose it.
This is stupid. He’s stupid.
Been two weeks since he saw him at that show, and he’s still on his mind.
One little reminder, one sighting, and then he’s back to thinking about him all the damn time, back to being miserable. No, he’s always miserable. Javier loved to rub that in, too.
God, he’s so pathetic. He hates Javier, hates the pair of them, hates how they never work out. But he misses him.
The whisky burns in his mouth, settles hotly in his gut.
He swipes at his eyes, looking at Javier’s shitty drawings next to his on the fridge. Why can’t he bring himself to throw it all away? Always a punch to the gut, seeing that shit every time he goes to grab something. John would probably call it self-harm.
He stares blankly at the doodle Javier did of Butterscotch wearing a cowboy hat with a stereotypical sheriff mustache—the horse he was being paid to train around the time they got back together. Javier really enjoyed tagging along just to see him do his work.
Was a little embarrassing at first—when they first started dating years ago—but eventually became a nice presence, having Javier there at the paddock fence, smoking while he watched him work with the horse. Though this last time, it seldom came with a smile like it always did at the beginning.
It was odd, relearning how to love the same man for the third fucking time. Trying, trying, trying to do him right. He tried. God, he tried.
Resentment is a powerful catalyst for hollowing out relationships. Arthur knows that that’s what laid in the foundation. Hollowness.
But he missed him.
He missed him so much.
But it weren’t enough. Missing a man and his touch doesn’t mean things are fixed. Far from it, matter of fact.
They were stupid. Ignorant. He’s a stubborn ass, and so is Javier. Neither of them wanted to admit it. The first couple talks they had at the start were band-aids on dead flesh.
For a while, Arthur stares into the dim lighting of his kitchen and remembers all the times he’d taken Javier on rides, watched him pet and groom horses even though he ain’t really a horse guy. He just liked involving himself in Arthur’s day. He remembers how odd that was to him at first, how attentive and eager Javier was to wiggle and worm his way into every bit of his life.
Don’t fuckin’ do it, Morgan, he thinks to himself while miserably opening his phone.
He goes to his pictures and hesitates, knowing that if he scrolled back he’d find a whole lotta candid shots he’d taken of Javier. Mostly to mess with him, but some of them were because he was always struck by how beautiful he looked, no matter what he was doing.
He starts to slowly scroll back, but as soon as he sees the first picture of Javier—last date they went on, climbing a trail—he stops.
They're nice shots of them standing at an overlook flourishing with greenery and a pretty sunset behind them—Arthur remembers Javier had asked a passing older woman to take their picture in Spanish. They wound up chatting with Arthur none the wiser.
Javier loved that sappy shit. Documenting their love, even the love that was failing.
Laying eyes on one of them sharing a peck nearly makes him sick.
They wound up fighting on the walk back to the truck, he remembers grimly. Javier was upset with him because they weren’t even talking, and Arthur never made the first move to touch him, to hold his hand. It hadn’t even occurred to Arthur, or if it did, he didn't purely out of spite.
He was sick of it, pretending to be a man he wasn’t for someone else. Always being told he was doing it all wrong.
When it became apparent they couldn’t spend a day together without arguing… Even Arthur could tell they were doomed, and he’s the dense one, as Javier liked to put it.
It wasn't even a big deal, or so Arthur thought at the time.
The next day, he came home from a long day at work to see Javier’s things packed in bags. Javier was nonverbal the entire time Arthur got in his face and demanded answers, left with two bags on his shoulders and not a word for him. It made Arthur so furious he nearly punched a hole in the wall.
Three times. Three fucking times. When will it be enough?
Fuck it. Arthur throws back the rest of the whisky and starts mass-selecting all the pictures of Javier, all their selfies together. He scowls at the small screen, seeing all of Javier’s smiling faces, all the erotic pictures he took because Javier always loved that shit. Vain prick.
He hesitates, looking at the small thumbnail of one of Javier standing in their bathroom, getting ready for a shower.
Arthur remembers that night. It was after Arthur got back from helping Bessie and Hosea move, a nearly week-long event. Javier ain’t the most celibate man he’s ever met, not by a longshot, so—naturally, he’d kept Arthur up into the early morning hours. Arthur can’t help but smile a little bit, opening the picture and seeing Javier’s little ass. Isn’t much to grab, but Arthur loves doing it, anyway.
Loved.
Arthur sighs.
He locks his phone, tosses it away. He knows himself. He ain’t gonna be deleting shit. It’s all backed up, anyway.
Arthur pours himself another glass of whisky, gets up from the bar in his kitchen with a scrape of the stool. He stares at the doodles on his fridge for a second longer, squinting, and then, just as he’s decided he’s gonna go outside on his small balcony for a smoke, his phone lights up, dings at him.
Checking his screen has dread forming in his gut like a rock.
Two texts from Javier.
Fuck. It's like the man has a sixth fucking sense for it. How did he know he was thinking about him?
Reluctantly, Arthur opens their text messages.
'come to the renegade, grab a drink with me
we should talk'
Arthur tosses his phone down with a clatter, his heart uncomfortably tight in his chest. Damn it. Damn Javier for having a grip on him like this. In fact, it's pissing him off. Why the hell is Javier trying to get in touch with him? Didn't he already have enough fun, playing with his heart? Goddamn him. Goddamn his games. Arthur texts back angry, though he knows he shouldn't:
'Why would I do that?
We don't have anything to say
Thought you didn't want to see my face again.
Or did you lie about that too'
Locking the phone with a click, he shoves it into his pants and walks out onto the balcony, lighting up a cigarette with tension rippling through him, his teeth grinding. He traces the horizon with his eyes, taking in the glow of distant homes and passing cars. The cigarette tastes good, smells good. He leans into the wall of the balcony, pressing his weight into his elbows. He rubs restlessly at his face, raking his fingers repeatedly through his long hair.
He cannot believe the nerve of Javier. He's trying to lure him out to grab a fucking drink. Yeah, 'cause that's always gone so fucking well for them. Arthur grinds his knuckles into his eyes, laughing lowly, bitterly. He's so sick of this.
In typical Javier fashion, he replies almost immediately. Arthur sighs, closing his eyes, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket.
He can’t resist. He gnaws on his bottom lip, digging out his phone and opening up the messages.
'well i'm dramatic we know this already
i'm trying to think how this is going to work when my best friend is your brother. im trying not to hate you.'
Arthur’s fuming. In a series of clumsy jabs at the screen, he types up a hasty, angry response—and not even ten seconds later, Javier replies quickly like he's just as frustrated as him.
He nearly texts a childish yeah, no shit, but Javier’s called him a mean drunk often enough that Arthur's fighting to prove him otherwise. Although, it seems like he already fucked that up tonight.
Arthur ignores him instead. He puts down his phone and turns to make himself another glass of whisky and coke.
A couple minutes later, just as he's snatching his phone and carrying it into the living room with his liquor, it buzzes in his hand.
Tiredly, Arthur takes a seat on his couch, grabs the TV remote to turn it on. As the TV's booting up, he reluctantly opens the texts and reads.
‘what if I do want to see you
im here now and I'll stay until midnight.
I’ll buy you a drink.'
Arthur’s heart jumps, and excitement roars in his belly. He knows what this means.
Usually, nights out drinking with Javier became so sexually charged, they'd end up doing something in his truck after—even before all of their bullshit. He stares into nothingness for a moment, remembering their third date. Javier bowed down over him, his shape dark and void of any detail in the lack of light. He could only see the glow of the neon lights mounted on the facade of the bar reflecting off his hair as he sucked him. Just the memory gives him a tug in his groin.
He checks the time. It's eleven o'clock.
He could make it if he just changed real quick and hit the road.
But he's drinking.
Not wasted, though... He could drive.
No, that’s stupid to even think. It just ain’t worth it.
After sitting around miserably for ten minutes, dreading even the thought of seeing Javier, he decides against it. Midnight comes and goes. Javier doesn't text him again.
Underneath him, Javier glows. He’s grinning with something in his eyes, something sweet and happy. His hair’s strewn across the sheets like an oil spill, long and getting goddamn everywhere. It’s clinging to his beard, too, from the kiss they just shared.
Arthur snorts a laugh, scrapes it all from the coarse hairs of his beard, throws the long locks away.
“That enough for you, princess?” Arthur crowds him, pulls him into his arms no matter how disgustingly sweaty they both may be. Javier scrapes his nails up and down his side in a manner that has Arthur shuddering. Javier turns into him, tucking one lean thigh up across his.
“It’ll have to be,” he murmurs. “I don’t think I’m physically capable of coming again.”
“I’d be shocked if you could.” Arthur loves fucking the whits out of him, either with his cock or his fingers, but goddamn, he’s tired as time.
Javier sighs, clapping his hand down over Arthur’s ass, making the man jump. He purposefully jiggles him there. Arthur pulls back to look at him with bewilderment, a trembling grin pulling across his mouth. Javier’s eyes are glinting like blades, a stupid, shit-eating smirk on his face.
“I suppose I’ll just have to drag you into the shower with me… Maybe have you finger-fuck me in there if my ass can handle it.”
Arthur groans. Javier laughs.
“I’m just fucking with you. I know you wanna stop, lazy bones.”
“Lazy bones?! I just spent two hours playing piano in your ass to get you that goddamn orgasm! Greedy bastard.”
“Is it so bad that I don’t want it to end?” Javier teases. “How about this: I just suck you off in the shower, and you don’t gotta do anything.”
“My poor dick,” Arthur groans, spilling back into the bed, sweeping his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. “Feller’s gotta rest at some point, goddamn.”
“You said it yourself! You spent so long fingering me, surely you can get hard again by now, right?”
Arthur turns his head to look at him. Javier’s near about batting his lashes.
“I doubt it,” Arthur honestly admits. “I ain’t as youthful as I used to be, y’know. I dunno what’cher expectin’ out of this geriatric body.”
Shit, even the few hours he spent breaking his bed with Javier was testing his limits.
Javier clicks his teeth, reaching out to gently nudge his knuckles into his bearded cheek. “Dummy. You’re supposed to play cool and pretend you can. Part of the fun is sucking you good enough you do get hard again.”
Arthur goes red. “If you want a man who can play cool, you’re tyin’ your reins to the wrong post. I’m a fool. Always have been.”
“I like it,” Javier murmurs.
He looks at him softer now, so subtly that Arthur would’ve overlooked it if he hadn't gotten so familiar with his face over all these years of him being John’s best friend. Coming over after school, maintaining that aloof persona that Arthur recognized in so many boys that didn’t know how to relax around other men they respected.
Arthur only saw him every so often back then. Happenstance. Just if he happened to be around the house, checking in on their mother, or when he had to drive John around. Wasn’t like Arthur was still living there, full-grown twenty-eight-year-old that he was at the time.
But his mother, and John… They needed support, and with their deadbeat father long gone, Arthur was willing, and glad, to step up. Provide some money, some company, some transportation when they needed it.
Shit, that was so long ago now. Eight years, he thinks.
Eighteen-year-old Javier floats into his mind, but his memory has always been hazy, especially regarding people he didn’t care for much at the time.
How the fuck did it come to this? All it took was one night of drinking with the boys, Javier coming onto him, and that was it. He was done for.
Must be because he's got a weakened heart, broken by Mary. Only been back in Texas for a handful of months and here he is, in bed with Javier of all people.
He's almost scared to let anybody back in… But he supposes he and Javier will just be a short term thing. A fling.
“You’re doing it again, Arthur,” Javier says, grinning a little, glancing all across his face. “Thinking too hard. Let’s shower.”
With that, he pats him on the thigh, gets up off the bed.
Much to Arthur’s surprise, Javier suddenly collapses into the nightstand, dropping to the floor of his bedroom with a shocked yelp. Arthur lurches up out of bed to check on him—but then he realizes Javier’s laughing. Arthur freezes, unsure of what to do.
“Holy shit. I guess I overestimated my ability to walk after that. Fuck!” He’s still laughing, ducking his head down to smack his forehead to the floor, propped low on his elbows. Javier rolls onto his back, his long hair a goddamn mess around his face and shoulders.
“Y’alright?” Arthur holds out his hands. Javier looks up at him with an amused grin, joy in his eyes. He’s blushing. Cute.
Javier claps his hands into Arthur’s, and Arthur heaves him up. Javier stumbles into his front.
Arthur ain’t used to seeing Javier clumsy. He tries so hard to appear smooth at all times, and because of it, he finds himself a little charmed by the display.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bruised ego. And maybe a hip. C’mon, shower,” Javier says, nudging him on the bicep as he begins towards the bathroom again—this time with more bodily control. Arthur follows with a smile unearthing itself.
Arthur stares at his body while he’s turning on the shower and testing the water.
The way his long, black hair cascades down his back is real pretty. A dumb smile lingers on Arthur’s face, remembering the feeling of it clutched tightly in his fist, using it as an anchor to hold Javier still while fucking him from behind—but then Javier turns to him, catches him red-handed.
He gives him a grin and a provocative glance. “What you grinning for, Arthur?”
Without waiting for a reply, he then steps into the shower, severing Arthur’s line of sight. That won't do.
Arthur follows him in.
Seems like Javier wasn’t interested in whatever kinda response he had in store: almost immediately, Javier turns to him, backs him up into the sleek shower wall, and kisses him forcefully.
Arthur grunts into it, shaken to the core from the taste of another man’s lips. There’s that scratch of facial hair, the feeling of calluses passing over his skin when Javier’s hands travel up his sides. The feeling of fast exhales bursting across his face among the deep back-and-forth of their kiss is arousing, and Arhur realizes it’s ‘cause Javier’s excitement is palpable.
The other man really wants more. And it’s hot as hell.
As soon as Javier’s licking a slow trail down to his cock, Arthur decides that, without a doubt, he really likes him.