Arthur
October. Arthur goes to university. Arthur loves university. He loves the city, the people, the freedom. He has friends. He has fun. He brings mugs of coffee round to the other rooms on his floor the day they move in. He signs himself up to a heap of clubs on Freshers' Week. He chats to people after lectures. He's not pushed out anymore. He's part of something. He used to wish he was like everyone else. Now, he is. He forgets his guitar, shoved under his bed. He forgets Eames, left behind in London. He forgets who Arthur Levine used to be.
A few texts to Eames, a few phone calls to mum, but apart from that, he's a new person. He's bright, confident, happy. He's a normal teenager. He didn't have a fucked-up relationship with a junkie when he was sixteen. He didn't cut himself because he hated everything around him. He didn't have a pathetic crush on a private school kid for months. He's okay. He always has been.
He's aware of the people watching him when he goes out with his new friends. Sometimes girls, sometimes boys. It's strange. It's new. Eames used to be the only person who wanted him. Now… it looks like there are a lot of options. He doesn't do anything. If anyone gets a bit pushy, he laughs it off. Says he has a boyfriend back home, because that sounds better than I'm still in love with the first boy I ever kissed. The only boy I've ever kissed. Then he watches them smile and walk away, and thinks, what would have happened if I said yes? He doesn't get an answer.
November. And then he meets someone who changes things. Someone who makes him want to say yes. He's one of those boys you just can't take your eyes off. Icy eyes and prominent cheekbones and raven hair. Arthur sees him on campus, feels his stomach drop, the way it did when he first saw Eames. Pulls his cardigan tighter around himself, marches to his next lecture. Tries to forget about him. he wouldn't want Arthur anyway.
He sees the boy again. Keeps seeing him. Keeps thinking about him. Thinks about what his hands would feel like, or his lips, or his tongue. Thinks about tangling his fingers in his hair, kissing his neck, touching his body.
"Thought you might be cold," the boy says one morning before class, their breath clouds of mist in the cold air, handing Arthur a polystyrene cup of coffee.
"Oh, um, thanks," says Arthur, fumbling to take it.
The boy smiles. It's a small, sly smile that cuts into Arthur, because it's beautiful and real and terrifying. He sits down on the bench next to Arthur.
"I'm Robert," he says, holding out his hand.
Arthur takes it.
"Arthur."
"It's good to meet you. I've seen you around."
Arthur smiles, takes a sip of coffee. Robert leans in.
"You don't have to be shy, Arthur. I've seen you. I know you've seen me too."
He brushes Arthur's hair behind his ear, the contact warm and simple. Arthur doesn't speak, just looks down, bites his lip.
"I heard you have a boyfriend," says Robert, "Is that true?"
"Yes. Well, no. Er, kind of? I mean, there is a guy, but we're not…"
"So it'd be okay if I did this?" says Robert, and presses a kiss to Arthur's neck.
Arthur feels a hot shiver fall over him, turns his face away.
"So, how long do you plan to be coy?" asks Robert, his voice almost a whisper, "Because I'll get bored of it pretty soon."
"I've got a lecture," says Arthur, starting to leave.
Robert catches his arm, pulls him back round to face him.
"Don't go just yet. Come on, I got you coffee. That's worth something, isn't it? A kiss, maybe?"
Arthur just smiles.
"I've really got to go. Thank you for the coffee," he says, backing away, shouldering his bag.
He feels Robert's eyes on him as he walks away. Feels cold.
December. Robert gets his kiss. He steals it, one winter morning. Arthur's always aware of him, watching, waiting, wanting. Circling his prey. It's not long before he closes in.
"I'm tired of this," says Robert, "I'm tired of not having you. Don't make me wait."
And then he kisses him, sharp and fast, fingers in his hair, digging into his skull, teeth nipping at Arthur's lips. Arthur surrenders. This is a war he was never going to win. Robert smiles.
"Knew you'd come round," he says, and leaves.
And Arthur knows, he's just playing a game. But that doesn't mean Arthur's not going to play along.
Arthur kisses him again, because he wants him, because he makes him feel something dark and hot, something he's never felt before, a desire that has nothing to do with love. He doesn't like Robert. He can't. He doesn't know him. But he wants him. Wants him in a way that makes his skin itch. Makes him groan as he touches himself, alone in his room at night, fucking into his hand and imagining Robert is touching him, smiling that sharp smile, watching him fall apart.
"You're eager," Robert says, his mouth open against Arthur's.
"Please," says Arthur, "I want…"
"What do you want, hmm?"
"I want you."
Robert grins, bites him.
"You fucking little slut," he says.
Arthur pulls him closer, hands gripping onto his shoulders, sucks kisses into Robert's neck.
"Robert," he says, desperate.
"I love to see you want me like this."
Robert bites Arthur's lower lip, stretching it out as he pulls it towards him.
"I think," he says slowly, "You can wait for me a little longer."
It's awkward, coming home. Seeing Eames. Especially now he's on the edge of something with someone else. The problem is, he wants Robert. But he loves Eames. He wishes Eames would kiss him, touch him. Do something. Something to make him say no to Robert. Something to save him from another relationship with a boy he doesn't love. But he doesn't. He doesn't save Arthur. He just… doesn't try. It's like he doesn't even want him anymore.
Well, fine, then. If Eames doesn't want him then he'll bloody well be with someone who does. If Arthur doesn't deserve to be loved then he deserves to be wanted.
January. Robert turns up outside Arthur's room the evening he comes back to Oxford.
"You think I've waited enough yet?" Arthur asks, arms crossed.
Robert shrugs.
"You made me wait. I made you wait. I think we're even now. Don't you?"
Arthur smiles.
"I think you're right," he says, and Robert kisses him, hard, slamming the door behind him.
And that's how Arthur loses his virginity, there, then, with Robert scratching his sides, pulling his hair. Arthur's drowned in want. His want. Robert's want. Robert's vicious. He hurts. He strips off their clothes and throws Arthur back on the bed, sits straddling his open thighs and fucks him on his fingers, smiles as he writhes and mewls, sweating and desperate.
"Robert, please," Arthur begs, and Robert flips him onto his stomach, pushes into him from behind, slowly, agonisingly slowly.
Arthur chokes, eyes smarting, and then Robert's done with being slow. He sets up a relentless pace, biting the back of his neck, hands shoving him down into the mattress. Arthur screams, struggles to breathe, face mashed down into the pillow. And he's being fucked so hard he can't think about Eames, can't even remember who Eames is. Before long he's humping the mattress, desperate to come, but Robert holds his hands down fast, won't let him touch himself.
"You're mine," says Robert, "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," Arthur gasps out, "Fuck, Robert, please, please."
Robert touches him and he comes, screaming and crying and gasping for air.
Robert kisses him afterwards, tender as any lover, presses his lips to Arthur's bruises and scratches and cuts, whispers that Arthur's his, all his, only his. And Arthur finds himself wondering, imagining, what if it was Eames, not Robert? What if he's given himself to the wrong boy? But it's too late now. He's chosen Robert. He's chosen the one who wants him. The one who's here. And maybe that's what he needs. Maybe that's enough.
"You're going to keep me," says Arthur, tired, his voice hoarse from screaming, "Aren't you?"
"Always," says Robert, and kisses him so hard he bruises.
February. Things go bad. Things go bad fast. Robert hits him. It's Arthur's fault. He shouldn't have been out so late with his friends. He shouldn't have been talking to that guy. He shouldn't have been giving him the wrong impression.
"I'm sorry," says Arthur, his lip split, his mouth filled with blood, "I didn't mean to – I didn't think. Please, Robert. You know I'm yours. I wouldn't leave you, not for anyone."
"Do you promise?"
"Yes. Yes, Robert. I want you. No-one else."
Robert kisses him, strokes the side of his face he's bruised.
"You must understand, Arthur. It's just that you're so beautiful, I'm scared that everyone will want you."
It happens again. Of course it does. Arthur's stupid. He doesn't think about these things. He doesn't realise that he shouldn't be going out with his friends so much. He doesn't realise that he shouldn't be chatting to Tadashi from his Physics class in his room. He doesn't realise that he shouldn't be Skypeing Ari so much. It's Arthur's fault, and he's sorry, over and over again. But sorry's not enough. Robert wants to trust him, but he can't, not with Arthur acting like this. He's lucky Robert still wants him. He starts hurting himself again, because that's what he always does, when he's feeling like this. When he can't see an end.
March. He falls down the stairs. At least, that's what he says if someone asks why his face is bashed in, why he's limping, why his arm's covered in bruises. Tadashi tries to talk to him. Arthur doesn't want to talk.
"Arthur," he says, "I'm not an idiot. I know you're lying. Someone did this to you. They've been doing it for a while. It's getting worse. Look at yourself. You're a fucking mess."
"Go away," says Arthur, "I shouldn't even be talking to you anyway."
"Is it Robert? Does he hit you?"
Arthur clenches his hands into fists.
"Robert loves me."
"Is that what he tells you? Is that what makes you think it's okay?"
"He's never said it. But I know he does! He has to."
"Arthur. He's hurting you."
"I told you. I fell down the stairs. Stop making a big deal about it."
And part of him knows, this isn't good, this shouldn't be happening. But he's scared and he doesn't know how to stop this. And he finds himself wishing for Eames, wanting for him to just be here, to tell him everything's okay, he's going to be okay. And then he feels guilty, and then he feels scared, because if Robert knew he was thinking about someone else, he'd be upset, and he'd hit him again. But he can't help it. He wants Eames. He wants to be saved.
But Eames isn't coming to save him this time.
Arthur doesn't know that he can save himself.
April. He gets a phone call in the middle of the night. It's Neil. One of Eames' flatmates. Something's happened to Eames. Arthur has to go. He doesn't think. He just gets on the next train to London. Because he needs Eames. And maybe Eames needs him.
The nurse tells him it's an overdose. Tells him he can sit by Eames' bed. Tells him to sleep. He doesn't sleep. He just sits there, watching Eames. He used to be so handsome, so strong, so confident. Now he's a wreck. He's pale and tired and worn. As if the past few months have been a century. He can't save Arthur now. But Arthur can't save him either. They're both broken.
When Eames wakes up, everything comes falling out of Arthur. His anger. His fear. His love. And he wishes he could stay here, hold Eames, and they'll be lost together and somehow that'll be okay. But he knows he can't. He can't stay here. He can't love Eames. Robert will kill him if he does. So he leaves. He kisses Eames, once, on his forehead. And then he goes.
When he gets back, dawn is breaking. He goes back to his room. Wants nothing more but to curl up under his duvet and cry his heart out. It's dark. The window's open, the cold night air creeping in. The lamp on his desk is on, orange light and black shadows, high contrast. Robert is there. Waiting. Curled up like a spider.
"Where have you been?"
Arthur looks down.
"Where," says Robert, pulling him into the room, "Have you been?"
He shuts the door. His breath is hot against Arthur's face.
"Don't make me do this, Arthur."
Arthur looks up at him. At those blue eyes. He used to think they were beautiful. Now all he sees is broken glass. Hard. Cold.
"This is your fault," says Robert, and shoves Arthur's head back against the wall.
Arthur falls awkwardly, his back against the wall, blood smearing down the wallpaper in a long streak.
"Where have you been?" Robert repeats.
Arthur's breathing heavily, his vision blurring with the pain. There are tears on his face, hot and salty. He can't see, can't think. Robert hits him again, throws him to the floor and kicks him, and Arthur curls up on his side, bruised and bleeding, sobbing as Robert kicks him and kicks him and doesn't stop.