Curt Wild awakens to the sound of his lover packing. It is some ungodly hour of the morning, many hours before he would have gotten up, given the choice. Arthur, on the other hand, manages to look immaculate, albeit exhausted. Truthfully, he's not a morning person either, no matter what he claims. He's just better at masking it and pulling himself together. He has dark circles under his eyes but still manages to look perfect. That kid always looks fucking perfect.
That kid is also pushing thirty, a little voice in the back of his head reminds him, but Curt ignored it. He doesn't need to be reminded of how fucking old he himself is getting. And considering the age gap between the two of them, well, that's pretty fucking old.
"Hey," he mutters, stretching lazily so that the sheets expose his nudity. It isn't intentional, but he doesn't bother to correct it. Not like he gives a shit.
"Hey," Arthur replies. "Sorry to wake you." He reaches out a hand to lightly brush Curt's brittle blond hair out of his eyes.
"'S alright," Curt mumbles dismissively. "Payback for my keeping you up late last night," he adds with a lascivious smirk.
"Which I protested vigorously, of course." Curt sighs as he watches Arthur get ready. He isn't particularly enthusiastic about letting Arthur run off to London, but such is the life of a music journalist. Fucking New Wave bullshit. "At least you get to go back to sleep. I'll be preparing on the plane."
Curt shakes his head. Always making sure everything went smoothly, always over-preparing for everything. He could never understand it. It's so different from the way he operates. "Not like it's worth it anyway. You're going off to London to cover the death of rock and roll and write about a bunch of assholes with synthesizers."
Arthur shrugs. "I like Depeche Mode," he replies serenely.
"You would, you big homo." Curt crosses his arms behind his head.
Arthur snorts, his eyes sparkling with wry humor. "Quite," he agrees dryly. "Not that you'd know anything about that, of course." He seals his suitcase with a sigh. "I've got to run," he says softly, his voice serious now. He leans over and presses a light kiss to Curt's lips. "I'll miss you," he murmurs.
Curt swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. Arthur has the ability to make him ache, so suddenly and powerfully that it crushes him a little. "Call me when you get in?" he asks, his voice much more hoarse than he would have liked. Arthur nods and moves away with one last caress to his cheek. Curt closes his eyes so that he won't have to watch him walk away.
Pathetic. It's only for a couple of days, after all. Nothing he hasn't dealt with before. But he can't help it. Curt's never been good at separation, and some little, shameful part of him already feels empty and raw. He rolls over with a trembling sigh and goes back to sleep.
The first day without Arthur, he actually kind of enjoys, like a kid whose parents are out of the house. He wakes up in the early afternoon – something for which Arthur would give him one of his quietly disapproving eyebrow arches – and has beer and leftover Chinese food for breakfast. With a kind of childish glee, he turns his music on to a deafening, ear-splitting level simply because he can. Arthur actually gives a shit about the neighbors' complaints, but Curt doesn't. That persona of his not giving a shit what other people think of him is truly not an act. For the most part, the opinions and complaints of others really do not affect him in the slightest. There are parts of his persona that are affected, of course, particularly these days (monogamy, he would never have imagined it), but that isn't one of them.
Throughout the course of his Arthur-free day, he has fun. He doesn't get any work done, gleefully defying his lover's gentle pressure to work on his music (Arthur knows how it helps him, satisfies his creativity and keeps him from getting depressed and restless, and he's right, God how he is always right about him) and loves that a little. He walks around the apartment completely naked all day and drinks and smokes far, far too much. Of course it's tame compared to many of his earlier vices, but Curt isn't going back there again. He's too old and too practically-married for any of that shit. This is all he really has the energy for these days, anyway. Old, he's reminding himself again.
But then he catches himself looking at the clock now and again, impatiently waiting for Arthur to call – not that he's worried, exactly, it's just that he gets himself into these crazy paranoid loops where he imagines a plane blowing up over and over again, Arthur mugged, Arthur shot by some crazed serial killer, and all these increasingly ridiculous scenarios. He's always been like this. Maybe it was the electroshock, maybe it's just his fucked up head. Everybody thinks that Arthur is the tightly wound one (and he is, in a lot of ways, not that anyone would think that if they ever saw the way he fucks), but he's much better at letting shit go than Curt will ever be. He drinks some more, and it helps a little. He knows better than to smoke more pot – it'll just make the paranoia worse. He might be self-destructive, but that doesn't make him an idiot. Mostly. He knows his limits better than he used to, at least – not to mention that now he actually has a reason to care about staying within them, when he never really did before.
He's just starting to doze off a little, in a pleasant haze of junk food and mild drunkenness, when the phone rings. He lets it ring a couple of extra times, just to pay the little shit back, before answering.
"It's about fucking time, don't you think?" he drawls lazily, taking another hit. He's relaxed enough to do it now, anyway. No more idiotic death scenarios, not today.
"Hi baby. Sorry, I only just got in." There's an odd slowness to Arthur's voice, as opposed to his usual clipped manner when on the phone. "We got a little held up." He sounds as though he's trying not to giggle, of all things. What the fuck?
"Are you drunk?"
"Uh, yeah. Too much wine on the plane and not enough, um…food." A suspiciously giggle-like cough.
"Jesus. Eat something, for God's sake, before you pass out. You weigh like 90 fucking pounds, Arthur." (The irony of him taking a caretaker's role is not lost on him.)
"I will, I will. Always with the lectures. Do you miss me, Curt?"
Curt snickers, unable to help himself. Arthur sounds petulant and amused at the same time, which are two more emotions than he usually displays on the phone. "You've only been gone a few hours."
"I know. Do you?" He sounds smug now too, like he already knows the answer. Of course he does.
"Yeah, I miss you." It's not as hard to say as he expected. Probably because Arthur's already making what he would consider to be an ass out himself. No real reason to hold back this time.
"I knew it," Arthur sighs, a little breathless. "I knew you would. I miss you too, you know. I always miss you when you're not here."
"Yeah." Curt's gone a bit hoarse. Arthur sounds downright sentimental now, and it's doing some weird things to his insides. Just the alcohol, of course, and the distance. But still. It's Arthur.
"I should go to bed. I've got, uh, a long day tomorrow." Arthur manages to muffle something that sounds a little like a hiccup. "I love you, Curt Wild. You know. You do know, right?"
"I know." Curt's heart is thumping a little harder than it should. Fucking hell. "Sleep well, okay? I'll talk to you tomorrow." Arthur hangs up absent-mindedly, leaving Curt still clutching the phone, hardly noticing that his knuckles were starting to turn white.
He tries, unsuccessfully, to sleep, but instead ends up tossing and turning all night. The bed feels too empty and much too large without Arthur's solid weight beside him, sleeping like a stone and breathing softly, soothingly, all through Curt's constant changes in position. Finally he gives up and relocates to the couch, sleeping discontentedly on his side, stubbornly refusing to clutch the pillow next to him like some lovesick jackass.
The second day, Curt resolves to actually get some work done. It's been awhile since he's recorded and toured, but he has been both playing and writing for the last few years, and worked on producing a friend's album. He hasn't stayed on the radar in the way that he was a few years back, during the bloody glam rock heyday, but he's stayed pretty active.
It's been a long time since he wrote anything, though. Used to be, he wrote all the time. He had problems with the rest of it – the touring, the recording, all of that shit and the drama involved, the excess and the clashing egos, but the writing, that always came easily to him. The part that was just by himself, in a shitty little room with a guitar and a pen. That was the easy part.
Not lately, though. Sometimes Curt wonders if it's a consequence of maturity, of the fact that he has his shit relatively together these days, having a stable life without drugs or toxic relationships, because that's a really fucking new thing in his life. He doesn't kid himself that he's not still broken, because he is. No matter what Arthur says, he is, and he knows it. But there's more stability and less misery, and now that ability to write seems a little dead too.
Curt pushes his hands through his hair in frustration, jiggling his leg up and down as he bites a little too hard at his lip. His eyes fall on the guitar in the corner, that old acoustic guitar that he hardly ever uses, and his heart seizes.
Because that guitar – that guitar isn't just his. That guitar was the entire reason Arthur took that assignment on the Delta blues, sought it out even, traveling through Mississippi and Tennessee in the heat of summer while telling Curt he was doing something else for work (something which was so mundane that he knew Curt wouldn't ask questions – and it worked, because he can't even remember what that excuse was, now.) Fucking perfect Arthur in his perfect suits and English breeding, in the Mississippi delta. And he came back with that guitar, which had belonged to Robert fucking Johnson. He gave it to Curt for his 40th birthday a few months before.
Curt had been such a pain in the ass in the days leading up to his 40th – a cranky, miserable mess, made even more impossible to deal with because his pride and vanity hadn't let him admit why he was dreading it so much. He'd half expected Arthur to gift him with a punch in the face instead of what he ended up giving him. He would have deserved it, most likely.
Instead, he'd given Curt something priceless, with an accompanying card of simple devotion, because he'd wanted Curt to have something to remind him of how precious and talented Arthur thought he was, something that went back to the roots of American music that Curt had worshipped in his younger days. Something that showed Curt how much he was appreciated, how much he meant to Arthur.
All his life, Curt Wild had assumed that love was something selfish, something possessive that made people into greedy, angry animals. He'd never known anything different. From his sick relationship with Brian Slade, the only serious one he'd had in his entire adult life, to Brian's own dysfunctional marriage, all he'd seen was selfishness and greed. Love brought happiness, briefly, but it turned almost instantly into bitterness, people holding onto one another mostly out of their own vanity and fear of being alone and actually having to look at themselves. People used love and lust and possession for their own pleasure, as excuses for their own shitty, selfish behavior, and then brought others down alongside them. It was inevitable, of course, and a necessary evil. At least there were some great fucking songs that were written about it. But it was something to be avoided at all costs.
And Arthur Stuart – that soft-spoken, unassuming music journalist with nerves of fucking steel – Jesus, he would never fully know what he had done for him. What he had shown him. Arthur was invested in Curt's joy and pleasure and not only for his own sake – he actually, simply, wished to give to someone else. Love could be something selfless, could employ self-sacrifice without self-annihilation, and that was an absolute bloody revelation to one Curt Wild. Arthur would never know. He would never know what that quiet, supportive, selfless love had done to him.
The idea that Arthur thought he was the lucky one was still completely astounding, that Curt, this bitter, broken, jittery, washed-up old rock star was the catch here – Arthur would never understand just how astonishing that was.
This was why he had to write. Because Arthur deserved it. Curt was older now, and maybe a little bit wiser, but he felt more strongly, more keenly than ever. No heroin to numb his emotions, no defense mechanisms or running away – not any of that, not ever, not any more. He never wanted Arthur to know just how completely he owned Curt's sad, bloodied old excuse for a heart, but he fucking deserved it. Christ, it was the least Curt could do. If he had his music, if he had his words, he had to give it. He had to give something.
But all he can do, now, is stare uselessly at that guitar, and pound his fist rhythmically against the table. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve any of this. He could just stare, and be restless, and wait for the damned phone to ring.
And finally, it does.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me." Arthur sounds a bit tired, but overall far more composed than the last time they spoke. It's a lot less fun this way. Fucking Englishmen. How did Curt manage to end up with two of them? "I was just about to go out, but I wanted to call you first."
"Out? I thought the interview was today and the concert was tomorrow."
"It was. And is. I'm actually going out with the band tonight." Arthur's tone is formal, as always, but there's that little twinge of excitement behind the professionalism, that sound of a kid who loves music getting to hang out with his favorite band.
It makes Curt sit straight up. "You're going out with them? What, are you their fucking groupie now?"
"Of course not," Arthur returns, sounding amused. Of course he would, the stupid wanker. "It's a part of the experience, you know. Seeing them in a less formalized environment, increasing the authenticity of the profile on them."
"Great, your journalist words." Curt huffs out a good deal of air, annoyed. "I'm sure they'd all like to see you in a less formalized environment, probably without your pants on."
Arthur chuckles. "Don't be jealous, love," he says, voice amused but affectionate. "You know I'm a professional. Besides, not one of these blokes is fuckable. Trust me on this."
"I wasn't jealous."
"Of course not," Arthur says again, even more fondly this time, and Curt is beginning to respond to his good humor, despite his better judgment. The corners of his mouth are starting to turn up just a bit. Little shit, he thinks affectionately. "Regardless, there's no need. We Brits don't get worked up easily, you know."
That makes Curt properly laugh this time, both amused and relieved in spite of himself. "Obviously. You were a regular ice queen when we met, what with the letting me fuck you within hours of – "
"You're the exception," Arthur interrupts softly, his voice firm. "You're always the exception, you know that."
"So you tell me," Curt returns, his voice equally soft. There's that lump in his throat all over again. Damn you, Arthur.
"Stupid arse," Arthur huffs with affectionate amusement. "I have to run, okay? I'll talk to you soon."
"Right," Curt says gruffly, already shutting himself down again. Who says the Brits are the only ones who know how to repress? I can do it with the best of them.
"I love you," Arthur tells him, voice matter-of-fact but quietly sincere. "I'll be home soon."
Curt hangs up after a few seconds. He's not sure his throat will allow him to make words at the moment. Probably a good move on his throat's part.
He doesn't even try to sleep in his bed that night.
On the third day, Curt resolves to actually get the fuck out the apartment, mostly because he's out of food, beer, and cigarettes. He gets some more Chinese food but forces himself to actually eat it in the restaurant this time, and drinks so much black tea that it curdles in his stomach and makes his stomach jump strangely. He's never done especially well with caffeine, but he doesn't quite know how to function without it, either. Addictions replacing addictions, over and over again, forever, et cetera.
There is something soothing about the fact that no one around him speaks much English. It allows him to be alone in a way, even though he's forcing himself to be out in public. He's become quite antisocial in his advancing years, he thinks dryly. No one stares or gives him curious or pitying looks, though he probably looks a complete wreck. Even more so than usual, that is. Probably doesn't smell too great either, he supposes. Oh well. They'll deal with it.
He's never much enjoyed winter in New York, although it's better than winter in London – better snow than the land of eternal rain – but today, he kind of appreciates the bitter and grey February afternoon. It feels to him like an excuse to wallow, even if he would have taken that excuse and run with it regardless, which is most likely the case. It's still a sort of odd comfort, like the weather agrees him that this day is a piece of shit.
When the phone rings, Curt's fingers are trembling like he's in need of a fix, something that makes him wince with shame but doesn't prevent him from picking up the phone with hasty eagerness. "Arthur?"
"Hi, Curt." Arthur's voice has a strange note to it, breathless but with an odd sort of edge. He sounds a little frightened – or desperate, maybe? God, it's so hard to tell through the goddamned transcontinental hotel phone. Curt hates that he's so far away. "What…what are you doing?"
"Watching shit TV. You?"
"Wanking."
Curt actually drops the phone in his surprise, then scrambles for it as he hears Arthur's breathless laughter. "Holy fucking Christ, are you serious?"
"Yeah." That was what had been in his voice. I should have known, I've heard it often enough. "I'm – I'm lying on this shitty hotel bed, and talking to you, and thinking about – fuck – thinking about the night I left…" he trails off for a moment, panting. Curt knows that sound, too. The sound of Arthur trying to calm himself down long enough to enjoy it. To savor it. And Arthur always, always savors it. Whether he's jerking off, getting fucked, or sucking Curt's cock like he needs it to live, he always slows down enough to savor every second.
God, that sound in Arthur's voice always does him in. Curt's cock goes from zero to hard enough to smash bricks in a flat second, which is kind of astonishing in his advanced age. Arthur's causing some kind of medical miracle.
"God, Arthur," he pants, cursing the tight fit on his jeans as he tugs and pulls on the zipper to get his cock out, clinging to the phone to hear the sound of Arthur's heavy breathing. "Why can't I wear anything that actually fucking fits – "
"What pair of trousers do you have on?" Arthur's voice has gone a bit high – eager, excited, but still compelled to collect information. Even in sex, even passionate, he's still so meticulous. It shouldn't be a turn on, but it is.
"Black jeans," Curt replies absently. Finally, finally he's gotten to his cock, and he's stroking himself desperately, more of a pull really, so keen to get off nownownow. Even though it's dry and chafes a bit, he's too turned on to care.
"Fuck, I wish I was there. God, I love your arse in those jeans. Whenever you wear them I just want to bend you over the nearest piece of furniture and fuck you. God, Curt, I would fuck you so hard…"
"Jesus, Arthur!" Curt's voice is almost embarrassingly ragged – Arthur never talks like this. He seems to like it when Curt does, but doesn't reciprocate. He's never mute during sex, but he's quiet and matter-of-fact, and when he does speak he's more into giving demands and stating preferences than working Curt up with dirty talk. But of course he would take to it like a fucking pro. Just like everything else. "Fuck, you're hot when you talk like that!"
"Want you," Arthur sighs, and Curt relishes that sound almost as much as the pants and moans and even the sound, now he's listening for it, of that rhythmic slap of flesh as Arthur jerks himself off. That rush of pride alongside the lust, to know that he is wanted like that, to have the proof – "That night before I left, when you – God, you fucked me so hard I thought you'd break me in half – "
"I wanted you to feel it," Curt gasps, feeling a sudden rush of honesty and adoration. "I wanted you to feel it for days, I wanted you to feel me inside you –"
"I loved it." Arthur's getting close now, Curt can tell, and he wants so badly to be there for it, to see his face when he comes. "I love it when you're so rough, when you just take me so hard, just turn me over and fuck me – I love it, I love you, Curt, I fucking love you, God – " and he comes, shuddering, gasping, crying out and Curt wants him so much that it hurts, it burns in the back of his eyelids while he shakes and strokes himself harder.
"I'm gonna come," he manages to grunt out, knowing Arthur will want to hear it, Arthur loves when he's vocal, when he shouts and howls and screams, Arthur loves that. Arthur loves making him happy, loves making him come, making him want. He barely registers Arthur's sweet, fucked-out, encouraging sighs, so lost in these desperate nonsensical thoughts and the pressure of nearing orgasm, but it still works like a charm, Pavlov's goddamned bell, and it's enough to make him come, mindlessly shouting Arthur's name into the phone.
He slumps back down onto the couch, momentarily giddy, he and Arthur panting and breathless together, feeling as though they're suddenly close enough to touch. Curt wipes himself off absently with tissues from the coffee table, laughing a little into the phone. "That was, uh…unexpected."
"Not unwelcome, I hope," Arthur returns, laughing a little. His voice is softer now, sweetened and relaxed from his orgasm, and it's so familiar that something in Curt's gut warms and relaxes. He can nearly see the flush on his face, the way his cheeks go pink and his breathing huffs out all shallow and heavy, that little smile on his face.
"Fuck no," Curt laughs. "That was the best thing that's happened to me since you left." As soon as he says it, he regrets it, regrets the way his mood darkens and his chest starts to ache. He wants Arthur, wants him here now, to grab onto him and bury his face in his neck. He's terrible at this, at not getting what he wants the moment he wants it. Having the object of his obsession out of his reach – for someone like him, it's unbearable. He doesn't know how to deal with delayed gratification, and he doesn't know how to deal with missing someone. He doesn't know how to deal with anything.
"It's – it's late here and I'm sure it's really fucking late over there, so I should really just – I should let you go –"
"Curt," Arthur sighs, a little annoyed and a little pleading. "You don't have to – "
"No, I do." Curt sighs noisily, deeply irritated with himself. "I'm just being – shit, Arthur, I'm sorry, I just miss you and it's making me act like an asshole and I can't –"
"Stop," Arthur cuts him off, more gently now, tenderness mixed in with all the rest. "It's all right, Curt, I'm familiar with all of this, okay? It's one of the good things about being with someone for a long time, so you don't have to get defensive with me. We're okay."
"Yeah." Curt pinches the bridge of his nose hard, breathing noisily into the phone. "Yeah, okay. We're okay."
"We're okay."
"Just – fuck, get back here, okay?"
"I will."
It's a promise, almost a vow, and Curt hangs up after a few seconds. He feels like an asshole.
He drinks until he passes out on the couch, the TV turning to static in the background.
The fourth day just sucks. Full stop.
There's no thrill left in it, not even the delusion of a thrill, no illusions that he'll be productive or have something for Arthur when he gets home, some small creative piece that he'll use to prove his worth. There's just listlessness and an underlying restless feeling, the sense that he needs to move, but nowhere will help, because there's nowhere he can go that he isn't inside his own head.
There are no drugs to retreat into, not anymore, so he has no place left to hide.
He takes a long, scorching-hot bath and smokes half a pack of cigarettes while he's in there, letting it get cold around him, the door propped open so that he can hear the phone when it rings.
It never does. Curt isn't even surprised. He sleeps naked in the middle of his and Arthur's bed, silent and empty and entirely alone.
The fifth day dawns early, far earlier than anticipated.
It's disorienting, waking up so early, and Curt is thrown for a loop, acclimating to the sounds around him – a creak in the floorboards, the sound of an object settling against the floor, and Arthur is untying his shoes –
Arthur is untying his shoes –
"What?" he mumbles, sitting up in bed. "Arthur, what? What – what time is it?"
Arthur turns to him and smiles, face tired, eyes rimmed with red. "Early." He takes off his shoes and pants and shirt with quiet efficiency, sliding into bed beside Curt in just his boxers. His glasses are still on. "I moved up my flight. Took a red-eye instead."
Curt is so astonished that all he can manage is a brief, incredulous laugh. "You're here," he says, stupidly, entirely overwhelmed. It doesn't even occur to him that he can touch until Arthur lays warm hands on his upper arms with a smile. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, voice still a little shaky. "Arthur, what the fuck?"
Arthur grins, bigger than he's used to seeing, no doubt amused at Curt acting like a complete moron. "I couldn't wait," he says with a light shrug of his shoulders. "Sounded like you couldn't either."
Curt exhales with all the relief he can bear, all he can expel from his body in one single breath, and drops his head onto Arthur's shoulder. "Fuck." It's safe there, in the crook of his neck, where Arthur can't see his face, where Curt can no longer see himself. Arthur's arms wrap around his back, steady and sure, and another breath gets knocked out. "God, I missed you so much." It seems ridiculous to hide it now, when Arthur's so close; all his fears seem so petty and pointless for now.
"Me too," Arthur sighs, tightening his arms. "God, me too." His accent sounds thicker now, the way it does when he's tired or overcome with emotion, and right now it seems that he's both. It's so strange, remembering that Arthur yearns, that he is a living and hot-blooded creature, and it's also hot, triggering the very first spark of lust Curt's felt since he woke up to Arthur crawling into his bed. It wouldn't normally take him this long to feel it, but other things held greater urgency at the time.
He lets his lips drift to the crook of Arthur's neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses there with very little urgency, becoming more aware of how closely their legs are tangled together. Arthur lets out a laughing little sigh, sliding his hands down to grip Curt's bare ass.
"God, I wanna fuck you," Arthur sighs, pressing them closer together. He lifts his knee higher, bringing their groins into contact with each other.
"Fuck yes," Curt groans into Arthur's ear. He digs his fingernails into Arthur's back, suddenly desperately eager and very glad that he'd opted to sleep naked. Oh, that would be so good, just what he needs right now, Arthur wrapped around him, inside him, deep and hard and determined, knowing exactly how hard to push.
Arthur laughs a little breathlessly at his eagerness, letting his index finger drift to press along the crack of his ass, and then groans in frustrated defeat – "God, I am fucking exhausted, I really don't think I can right now" – and that makes Curt laugh because really, there's no way he has the energy or self-control to wait that long, anyway. He brings their mouths together instead, clumsy and uncoordinated, nearly slipping off one another as they kiss.
"Your breath tastes terrible," Arthur mutters, and Curt returns with "fuck off, Stuart," making Arthur snort loudly into his mouth, which is astoundingly non-sexy but helps Curt get steadily harder all the same.
"C'mon, let's get these off," Curt mumbles between kisses, tugging ineffectually at Arthur's shorts, letting them tangle somewhere around his knees. They bring their bare cocks together, and oh, that contact feels good, but it's not nearly enough, and when Arthur brings his hand down to jerk them off together it's too dry, the friction just this side of too-painful, and Arthur brings his hand back up with a grunt of annoyance, licks his palm before bringing his hand back down – that's hot and kind of gross at the same time, Curt thinks, but the friction is good now, just right, and they rut against each other like teenagers, sleepy and desperate.
It's such a relief to come in Arthur's arms, under his hand, his face so close, and when Arthur follows that's an even sweeter relief, his face flushed and eyes heavy. His glasses have slipped off his nose, and Curt removes them, throws them somewhere in the vicinity of the bedside table. They're a mess, and Curt uses the sheet to clean them off half-heartedly, making Arthur wrinkle his nose in disgust.
"You'll appreciate it when you don't wake up sticky and gross in a few hours," Curt mutters, prompting a neutral "mmmm" from Arthur. He looks like he's already falling asleep.
"You owe me a fuck later," he adds, letting a hand curl through Arthur's hair, soft and thick and wavy under his hands, so different from his own. He's warm and sentimental, still shaking a little from the force of his relief at having Arthur here, Arthur home. The man in question mumbles his assent, and Curt turns over to his side, letting Arthur's arms slide around him. Muscle memory, Curt supposes. It's his favorite way to sleep, although he doesn't generally like to admit it.
Arthur made no declarations, no expressions of devotion. He didn't have to, not today. Curt knows this feeling of certainty will fade, knows his insecurities and self-hatred and all the fucked-up chemicals in his brain will inevitably betray him all over again, yet another thing for Arthur to deal with, but for now, he knows. He can rest now.
Arthur murmurs something unintelligible into his neck, tightening his grip on Curt's middle, and Curt grins into the pillow. He knows well enough to savor the highs as they come, rare as they are, and, oh, this is a high. This is as high as he's ever gotten.