♜ / ♡ / ♠ (or as I like to say: the angsty slow-burn)
♜ — 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.
“I owe you my life,” Arthur replies gravely, and the smile Theo sends him in response threatens to split his face in half.
