Grand Theft Auto: THE FINAL CHAPTER
An Archwell Fanfic
Aimwell—had to leave in a bit of a hurry. I might be in touch. Don't hate me.
- Archer
Archer stares at the note. He doesn't have particularly strong feelings about said note—it's a pretty standard note, as notes go, for him. Impersonal, incomplete, intriguing. Perhaps a little situationally melodramatic, but who's to say.
Though his business is dubious at present—with higher stakes than he cares to admit—nothing pleases him more than seeing Aimwell in a panicked frenzy. Who's to say how far he would've gone to keep Freeman from pursuing Aimwell…
"Archer," Aimwell says, "You got some splainin' to do."
Archer looks left, then right. "Boni!" he calls over his shoulder, "bring me a dram."
Aimwell grabs his chin, forcing Archer to look him full in the face. Archer's piercing blue eyes meet Aimwell's hazel ones.
"I had to take care of something," Archer murmurs. "But I'm back now, isn't that enough?"
"No," Aimwell scoffs, "It most definitely is not enough, I—thought I wasn't going to see you again."
Archer smirks. "Don't tell me you're going soft on me."
Aimwell shoves him in the chest. "Shut up." He stumbles toward the door angrily. Archer sees that, before he can get outside, none other than Cherry Boniface blocks his pathway of departure—breasts out full-force, face smeared with inch-thick makeup. She whispers something in Aimwell's ear, to which he can only roll his eyes, look her dead in the face and reply, "Bitch please," before storming out. Cherry scoffs, shoots a wandering glance in Archer's direction, and stomps up the stairs.
Archer contemplates following Aimwell outside. The last thing he wants at the moment is to have this conversation.
It needs to be done, he realizes, and slowly follows Aimwell out into the parking lot.
Archer doesn't see Aimwell immediately when he steps out of the swinging bar doors.
"Tom?" he calls wearily, wishing he were drunk. The car was still there—a good sign. "Thomas Aimwell, if you don't show your face this second, I'll—"
"You'll what?" calls a voice from around the corner. "Take off without warning, leave me stranded and drunk at two o'clock in the morning?"
"I was going to say I'll call your mother," Archer says, meandering around the side of the building, "but then I reminded myself that you are, in fact, a grown man."
"So I am." Aimwell sits on the curb, smoking a cigarette for the first time in years. "Though I might not say the same for you, asshole."
"I'm here now, aren't I?" Archer says, taking a seat next to Aimwell.
Aimwell nods, taking a long drag. "I'm so drunk," he mumbles. "You're not drunk."
"No, I'm not."
"For once," he laughs, and then pauses. "Are you mad at me?"
Archer furrows his brow. "Why would I be mad at you?"
"Maybe you were mad at me and that's why you left."
"I wasn't gone for long."
"You could've been."
"But I wasn't."
"But you could've—"
"Are you in love with Charles Freeman?"
Aimwell drops his cigarette. "Excuse me?"
"Just answer the question." Archer can't—won't—look him in the eye. He wants to (hazel ever was his favorite color since the day he met Aimwell), but he can't.
"What does this have to do with anything?"
Archer turns on him. "You know damn well what this has to do with—"
"Yes—I mean, obviously, but why now? What do you—?"
"Do you love him?"
Aimwell reaches into his pocket for another cigarette, which Archer allows him. "I haven't seen Freeman in years," he mutters, taking a disgustingly long drag.
"I saw him tonight," Archer finds himself saying.
Aimwell's eyes flicker in the pale moonlight. "And?"
"He wrote to me last week. Told me to meet him at Hounslow's—"
"And?" Aimwell demands.
"He—he said…" Archer struggles to find the words, then takes Aimwell's cigarette from him. He breathes in the fumes, exhales. His shoulders relax.
"He said—"
"Put out your cigarette."
Archer stops. "What?"
"I said, put out the cigarette."
Archer smothers the cigarette on the pavement as Aimwell's drunk, hazel eyes meet his blue ones.
"I don't want to know what Freeman said, and I don't care."
"Tom," Archer starts, "you don't have to…"
"And I know I'm drunk out of my mind right now but I promise you I mean this, and I'll mean it tomorrow when I'm hung-over, and every day after." Aimwell rubs his tired eyes. "I love you, Frank," he says quietly. "From the first moment we met, I loved you."
Archer stares at the ground. He wasn't expecting this. This—this was… "Tom," he says, "I… love you too. I'm sorry I left you, I shouldn't ever have—"
"You don't have to apologize," he exclaims, taking Archer's hands in his.
"No, I really do, I—I was being ridiculous—"
"Archer?" Aimwell takes his face in his hands. "Shut up and kiss me."
