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Twenty-one

Despite the convoluted mess of emotions he felt in regards to their relationship with each other, Arthur was confusingly, voicelessly, shamelessly addicted to Antonio's mouth, his kisses, and his gentle-as-a-lover touches.

They hadn't had sex. It was something of a record, actually; these past four years, Arthur had never not slept with someone who caught his fancy. Probably because he wasn't prone to falling in love (lust?) with random people on the street, but instead tended toward people within what he thought of as "the ring" — the exclusive circle that encompassed his clients and others that he interacted with on a regular basis. People who knew that he was a prostitute and either exploited it or didn't care.

Antonio came around quite often these days, sometimes with Francis, but more often by himself. Gilbert, to Arthur's surprise, didn't seem to mind his constant presence. If anything, he encouraged it.

"He knows what he's doin'," he slurred once to Arthur, after stumbling back to the apartment with an equally drunk Antonio and collapsing on the couch. "He's his own brand of sexy — knows exactly when to beg and when to be fluffy and shit. Pulls all the right strings. A lover-boy type." He snorted. "But still sexy as hell. He'll teach ya how to do it right."

It had been a strange experience listening to Gilbert talk about Antonio while the person in question had his arms around Arthur from behind, hands straying everywhere, mouth and tongue trailing up the side of Arthur's neck to suckle briefly at his piercings before moving to the hollow behind Arthur's ear. Maybe these past years of being a prostitute really had turned Arthur into an easy lay, because if Antonio had ever been as demanding as Gilbert, as persuasive as Francis, Arthur would have spread his legs for him in a heartbeat. But that didn't appear to be Antonio's goal; he was — impossibly, it seemed — more interested in making Arthur feel good.

Like a certain blond-haired boy Arthur hadn't seen in more than two weeks.

But then Antonio would do something so distinctly him, like change the bandages on Arthur's healing hands or touch him in the right place or kiss him into breathlessness, and Arthur would forget that he was already in love with someone else, that there used to be a before that had been pushed away to make room for now. Alfred Jones had, for all purposes, stopped existing.

Even so, in between his snatches with Antonio, Arthur wondered where those blue eyes, those large, clumsy hands, had gone. Where was he, the adorably awkward and charming boy that used to see him once a week? The one who promised to prove to Arthur that he was worth something — the one who wanted to be his friend?

Every shred of news that Gilbert brought home seemed to address everybody and everything — except the one person Arthur wanted more information about. Francis wasn't going to be hiring Arthur anymore because he'd found a new girl to promise forever to (Arthur knew he'd be back within the month, minus the girlfriend and just as blasé and horny as before). And, surprisingly, Ludwig had given up Arthur's services as well, even though it'd been over a month since Arthur had last seen him. According to Gilbert, it appeared that "Feli finally put out, and Luddy's never been one to cheat, anyway. We're kinda lucky to have had him for as long as we did."

In total, that was two clients lost (rather, one client lost for sure; Francis, on the other hand, was on a sort of hiatus, and it was almost a guarantee that he'd come around again). The old clients, the normal, everyday people that Arthur saw no significance in, remained consistent, a cohesive independent variable that balanced out the situation and maintained equilibrium. Kiku Honda never scheduled another session, and Ivan Braginski wasn't permitted to come anywhere near Arthur again, having successfully made Gilbert's blacklist with the damage he'd caused. And it was unlikely that the session with Mathias Køhler would be happening anytime soon — it'd turned out that Arthur had four fractured fingers, two on each hand. While they weren't too hard to fix (medical tape was all Arthur needed, to bind the injured fingers to the ones next to them so that they'd heal straight), full recovery took time. Valuable time.

It was a good thing that they had Antonio to help tide things over, which Gilbert never failed to point out to Arthur at every chance he got. Inwardly, Arthur doubted Antonio was only meant to "tide things over"; he still felt unpleasantly cornered by the unspoken (but disturbingly real) word "replacement." Already, Gilbert was taking great pride in the fact that, in addition to the new customers Antonio attracted, most of Arthur's old ones were just as satisfied hiring Antonio as they'd been hiring Arthur. Antonio's star was rising; he was already a good whore in his own right. It wouldn't take long for him to overshadow Arthur, even though Arthur had been in the business for years before Antonio had even stepped onto the scene.

Arthur was finding it harder and harder to resent Antonio, however, even though he'd sworn to himself that he would hate him. Antonio's tender, agile fingers, warm lips, and honeyed voice were impossible to resist. It didn't help that Arthur's body wasn't trying to put a fight in the slightest, despite how regularly his thoughts needed to be soothed.

Antonio's "lessons" — prescribed by Gilbert — weren't doing much to teach him anything, anyway. All they did was make Arthur lose his head like a horny teenager. In fact, it was happening right at that moment.

"Relax," Antonio whispered into Arthur's neck for perhaps the third time. He shifted under Arthur, minutely adjusting their positions to make Arthur's perch on his thighs more comfortable. One hand ran up Arthur's side, smoothing over the bare skin, while two of the fingers of the other continued their slow rhythm inside Arthur's ass.

Clinging to Antonio's back (while making sure to keep the stress off his injuries), Arthur clenched instinctively around him, breaths coming short and rapid. Somehow, whenever he was with Antonio, it felt like he was the amateur, the newcomer with no experience under his belt. Antonio seemed to know his body and its reactions intuitively, at a level surpassing Arthur's own understanding and mastery of the male anatomy. Is he like that with everyone? Arthur wondered. Or just me?

Antonio licked the edge of Arthur's jaw, followed it with a kiss. "Please, Arthur," he murmured, and pushed his fingers in with a little more persistence. Arthur melted when he felt light pressure against his prostate. Pleasure — faint and tightly wound up, but uncoiling faster by the second — spread through his limbs. He imagined sinking into a tub of warm water and letting it wash over his body; it was the closest he could come to describing the sensation that engulfed him.

"That's it . . . yes, just like that," said Antonio softly, encouragingly.

Another gentle prod to his prostate.

Arthur let out a soundless gasp as the spark settled somewhere near the base of his spine. What was Antonio doing? Why was he only . . . ? "Please," he heard himself say. "Please . . . put it in . . . I . . ."

There was a moment of silence. Antonio's fingers slowed down and stopped moving entirely, still tucked inside. He appeared to be lost in thought. Confused and frustrated, Arthur ground down into his lap, trying to recapture his attention, to tell him to continue with his work. They were both hard — that obviously wasn't the problem. So what was holding Antonio back? He'd slept with plenty of people already. Why would he consider Arthur to be any different?

Then, in a movement that was too graceful to be sudden, Antonio's hand curved around Arthur's cock, and Arthur choked.

"Wait — what are you . . . ? No . . . I want . . . inside . . ." He had started to rise to his knees, but the new stimulation made him buckle forward, forehead sliding down Antonio's warm sternum as the focus of his body centered between his legs. He disliked being touched there, like he always had; it made him feel so good — a surefire way to reduce him to a whimpering slut — but the shame that came with it was reflexive, almost too much to bear. "Ah," he breathed one last time, before the combined arousal of having his prostate rubbed and his dick stroked became too much and he came into Antonio's waiting hand.

Antonio helped him along through his orgasm with smooth, patient pulls, and lent himself as his support when Arthur finally fell against him, body lax with the afterglow.

Arthur's breathing evened out after half a minute, but he was far from asleep. His mind was whirring almost violently with his thoughts, blood pounding in his eardrums, coldness washing through him in an unpleasant ripple.

"Why," he started, before hesitating. Do I want to know? "Why won't you sleep with me?" He pushed himself up to look Antonio in the eye, and Antonio held his gaze steadily for a moment before finally turning away to wipe his hand off with a tissue.

It was somewhat strange that someone as healthy (and sexually active) as Gilbert kept a box of tissues by his bed, but now that it was more of a convenience than an oddity, Arthur didn't think to question it. Gilbert himself wasn't around to forbid the use of his tissues; he was out on an errand, leaving Antonio in Arthur's care — or Arthur in Antonio's care, depending on how one looked at it. Gilbert's utter trust in Antonio so early in the game made something inside Arthur prickle; but then again, Antonio had yet to prove himself untrustworthy in any respect. His character radiated a mild-mannered steadfastness. It was hard not to feel safe around him. Conflicted thoughts translating into his hands, Arthur tightened his grip on Antonio's shoulders, then relented when his fingers stung in protest.

The brief change in Arthur's demeanor seemed to go unnoticed. There was something appeasing about Antonio's voice even though his answer to Arthur's question, when he gave it, wasn't really an answer at all. "Didn't it feel good?" he asked insouciantly, dropping the used tissue in the small wastebasket next to the nightstand.

"That's not the point . . ."

Antonio kissed him — not to cut off his words, not quite, but Arthur forgot what he was saying anyway as they made out. Kissing felt good, but compared to sex, it was a different sort of pleasure. Sex was hard, fast, numb, an abyss of the mind, a surrender of the body. But kissing was comfort, simple intimacy, a way of knowing that he wasn't alone; it was solid confirmation that he wasn't the only living, breathing person in his dead little world . . . and, at the moment, it was his only grasp on reality. Arthur was getting better at it — not just at the physical motions, the lips on lips and tongue on tongue part of it, but also at using it to come back to himself. To pull himself out of the nameless guilt that accompanied sex and just remember who he was, given that he didn't think too hard about it.

When they parted, Arthur felt calmer, more reasonable. But that didn't stop him from asking again, one more time: "Why?"

It took a minute, but Antonio finally said, very gently, "I don't have what you want from me, querido."

Arthur had no idea what he was talking about. Yet, at the same time, some part of him did, and then it was like being back on square one, the beginning of a new revolution in the vicious cycle. Like he'd never moved in the first place.