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“Evening, Arthur.” Noel’s voice was easy, level and friendly as it ever was as he entered the living room of their small apartment. For a moment Arthur wondered if Noel hadn’t noticed yet, but he knew better. He was a detective, for god’s sake. Of course he’d immediately notice the gun.
Arthur was hunched over it, cradling it tenderly like something precious. Something small and soft and sweet. Something he didn’t want taken from him.
Arthur didn’t respond. He kept his head down, his face pointing at the weapon in his hands as if he could study it himself. He’d rather not show his eyes to Noel; he was sure whatever Noel would find in them was something he’d rather keep to himself.
“Where’s John?”
Arthur swallowed dryly. “He’s not here.”
“No. Think maybe he should be, though.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want me to call him?”
“No.”
“Alright.” Noel sat down next to Arthur, not quite touching him. Arthur sighed heavily, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, the gun still clutched firmly in his hands.
“You weren’t supposed to be here.”
“I know.”
“You said you had a case.” Arthur winced at his own tone, the frustration mixing with misguided hurt as if Noel had somehow personally betrayed him. He tried to pretend his voice didn’t come out that way; he tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling that way.
“The client I was meetin’ never showed. Didn’t have anythin’ else lined up, so I figured I’d come home early.”
“Right.”
“Can you hand me the gun, Arthur?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Alright.” Noel paused. “You don’t mind if I sit here a while, do you? I could do with the company.”
Arthur inhaled shakily. “Of course. Of course. You’re– you’re always welcome, Noel.”
“Well, I’d hope so, else I wouldn’t’ve moved in,” Noel said, a gentle playful smile peeking through into his words.
Arthur smiled wryly and half-nodded, more just an acknowledgement that Noel had said anything at all. He didn’t have the energy.
Arthur thought about John instead. He wondered where he was. He’d said something earlier before leaving– something about… maybe an errand he had to run? Or… or something. Arthur wished he’d been paying more attention. John deserved that from him. Instead, it seemed he’d been too preoccupied with his own thoughts, the frenzy he’d driven himself into as he paced anxiously in the halls of their tiny apartment, waiting desperately for their home to empty so he could wrench open the drawer in the closet that held the shiny black gun.
Even now, Arthur’s hands trembled around it, his fingertips grazing the trigger with an uneasy reverence; his terror of the thing that would save him, the fear and the love and the need and the devotion. He wondered if Daniel would be proud of him now.
“Arthur, you’re shaking, doll,” Noel said gently. “Say somethin’ for me.”
Arthur cleared his throat, trying to steel himself. “You should go, Noel. I’m sorry you had to– you should go.”
“Arthur, please, you and I both know you aren’t dumb enough to think I’d leave you right now.”
Arthur sighed. “I know. I just– I am sorry, Noel. For whatever it’s worth.”
“Nobody’s gonna blame you, doll. Not me, not John, you hear me? You don’t have to be sorry. Nobody’s mad.”
“Don’t tell John.”
“I won’t tell John anything you don’t want me to, Arthur. But I don’t think he’d judge you.”
“No. No, of course not. He’s– he’s always been the understanding type.”
“Yeah. He is.” Noel exhaled deeply. “Talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”
Arthur sighed again, tilting his face further from Noel. “Noel, I– I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“I can’t… I can’t talk about it. I don’t… I don’t have the words, Noel. And even if I did, it’s all just– too much. I can’t.”
“Hm. Well I know from experience how hard it can be. But I also know how much worse bottlin’ it all up can be. You’re death-grippin’ the gun, Arthur. It isn’t gonna save you.”
“I know.”
“Nobody’s gonna hurt you, doll. You’re safe here.”
“I know.”
“You can put it down, now.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Arthur.”
“Noel, please. Just– just let me– I need a moment.”
“Alright. Alright, doll. Breathe for me, yeah? You’re alright.”
Noel put his hand on Arthur’s back, rolling soothing circles into the tense, corded muscle there. Arthur exhaled softly, trying and failing to relax a bit. Arthur shut his eyes. He had nothing to say, nothing to make it all better. He wanted Noel to leave. He wanted him to hold him so tight and never let go. He wanted– he didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe it just hurt.
“I ain’t gonna judge you, doll. And you know damn well I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
“I know. I just– I know.”
“Talk to me. It’s alright.”
Arthur sighed. He felt foolish. He felt vulnerable and so fucking small, baring his soul and everything that could possibly be turned against him, used to hurt him, all to this man who he really didn’t know all that well. He should keep his guard up. He should lie or dodge the question or something, anything other than tell the truth. But– But Noel’s voice was so gentle, so genuine, and damn him, Arthur wanted to tell him everything. It was foolish, beyond idiotic, and yet he couldn’t even fathom lying to Noel when he asked him so kindly. The neverending pining of a neglected child who never really grew into a man.
“I just– I don’t understand, Noel,” Arthur said. “I– I won’t pretend like I haven’t been through the ringer. There’s not really any sense in pretending like things are okay in– in either of our lives. We’ve been through hell, Noel, all three of us and– and I don’t fucking get how you can just–” Arthur paused. He ran his hand through his hair. He felt like a child. He drew a deep breath, trying to ignore the way it shook on the way out. He tried a different approach. “Noel. Do you– do you like being alive?”
Noel exhaled heavily through his mouth. “Well. That’s quite the question to pose to a man on a Wednesday afternoon.” Noel paused. Arthur heard a lighter click open. “I mean, look, Arthur, you’re right. We’ve all been through it– hell, ten years in the dreamlands, I ain’t gonna pretend like I didn’t have a couple screws knocked loose in there. I think after everything– and I mean everything I’ve been through, or everything you’ve been through, there’s only really two ways to go, Arthur, and I don’t think either one’s right or wrong. You either stop carin’ about anything, or you start carin’ too much. And don’t get me wrong, both hurt like hell, and I think we both know that, but I think you’re like me, Arthur. I think you care a little too much, and I don't think that’s necessarily a bad thing.
I got out of the Dreamlands, and I thought that everythin’ was meaningless. I thought there couldn’t be any damn point in it all when something that powerful was out there, just waitin’ to snatch us all up. I was ready to give up, Arthur. Think I looked a lot like you do now, and I ain’t sayin’ that to be rude. Thought maybe dyin’ would be easier, that maybe it’d save me from ending up back there, or that it would at least make the nightmares end. Never did anythin’ about it, but I wondered a whole lot.
I tried to stop caring because I thought it could save me from the hurt of caring too much, Arthur. Thought that if I let myself fall in love with life it’d just hurt more in the end.
But then one day I found myself sittin’ on the beach, starin’ out at the waves. It was cold that day, Arthur. I was sittin’ on a rock, watching the tide come in right beneath me and I remember thinkin’ about how easily the ocean could take me if she wanted to. It’s an easy habit to slip into, Arthur, seeing a threat in everything. Somethin’ I’m sure you can relate to.
But then I looked up and the sky was orange and purple, and the air smelled like salt spray and campfire smoke, and I looked out at that water that could sweep me away in a heartbeat and I realized I wanted to be alive again, Arthur.
The waves still would’ve killed me if I fell in, and the air was still so damn cold, and the sun was still goin’ to set that night, but I wasn’t in the water, Arthur, and I had my favorite coat to keep the chill out, and the sunset was so damn beautiful even if night had to fall anyway.
So to answer your question, no, Arthur, I don’t always like bein’ alive. There’s too much out there that hurts and frightens and haunts us to really like it most of the time. But I think I do love it. I think maybe I have to love it.”
Arthur drew in a shaky breath. He had to ask. “How?”
“How?”
“How, Noel? How can you love it? How can you find anything to love in… in all of this? Just– please. I need to know, Noel.”
Noel exhaled slowly, and Arthur could smell the smoke on his lips. “Let me make you a cup of tea, doll,” Noel said instead of answering him. Arthur frowned
“Noel–”
“We’ll talk, Arthur,” Noel said, not letting him get a word in. “I promise. But let me get you somethin’ to drink first.”
“I… Alright. Sure, Noel.”
Noel stood up, taking the gentle warmth he brought with him. Arthur tried not to miss it. He listened carefully to Noel’s soft footfalls as he walked to the counter and lit the stove beneath the kettle with a click.
Arthur ran his hands along the skin-warmed metal of the gun in his hand, tracing the familiar grooves of the weapon that had saved him and John time and time again. There was a sort of gentle adoration hidden in his movements, like he was dealing with something sacred. Something that could once again save him.
Noel hummed softly as he rummaged through cabinets. Arthur didn’t recognize the tune, but he would as long as he lived recognize the gentle, low rumble of Noel’s voice. He wondered how he’d gotten so attached so quickly. He wondered how Noel had turned himself into someone he considered safe without Arthur ever even realizing he’d let his guard down.
The kettle began to hiss and whistle. Arthur turned the gun over in his hands.
“Black or green, Arthur?” Noel called. Arthur ran his hand along the barrel.
“Black.”
Arthur heard Noel begin to pour the kettle out, humming quietly to himself once more. He wondered if the song he was humming had words to it. He wondered if Noel would sing it to him if he asked. He wondered if Noel sang at all. He’d have to ask, someday– and when had he started thinking in someday terms again? When had he started to assume there would be another day? Perhaps he ought to ask now.
Noel walked back over to him and Arthur instinctively tightened his grip on the gun.
Noel sat down, setting one of the mugs on the coffee table with a low tap.
“I got your tea here, Arthur,” he said. “You’ll want two hands. I’ll trade you.”
Arthur ran his index finger along the handle of his gun. Of course. He frowned. He didn’t move. He ran his fingertips slowly and deliberately over the smooth metal, feeling out each ridge and groove and making a map of the surface in his mind. He didn’t hand it to Noel, and Noel didn’t reach for it. Arthur wondered how long he’d sit there, holding the cup of tea, waiting for Arthur to give him what he wanted.
“I talked to John earlier,” Noel said. Arthur thought it was a stupid conversation starter; of course he’d talked to John, they live together for Christ’s sake, but he bit his tongue and didn't say anything about it.
“Okay?”
“He mentioned wanting to go out for drinks sometime soon. I wanted to run it by you. How’s Friday night sound?”
Arthur hesitated. “What?”
“You, me, John.” Noel said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And not an absurd thing to bring up now of all moments. “Friday night. Drinks, maybe dinner. You listenin’ to me, Arthur?”
“I– yes, I’m listening. You want–”
“I want to know if Friday night works, yeah. Or if we should do Saturday instead.”
“You–” Arthur cut himself off with a laugh. He drew in a shaky breath, catching it on a dry, wheezing cackle, before he stopped himself. He wondered what expression Noel wore. Arthur sighed, catching his breath. “We’ll see, Noel.”
“If you’re busy, we can always do a different day.”
Arthur sighed. “No, no, I’m not busy. But we’ll see.”
Arthur heard Noel take a sip of his tea. He wondered if he did that deliberately– making a point of making noise for Arthur’s sake. Something in his gut twisted at the thought, and he wasn’t sure exactly why.
Noel didn’t press him about drinks with John again, and Arthur wasn’t sure whether or not he was glad. Silence fell for a few moments as Noel slowly drank some how his tea.
“Mm, it’s a bit hot still,” Noel said, almost to himself. “Good, though.”
“Good,” Arthur murmured. He knew what Noel wanted him to say almost as certainly as he knew he wasn’t going to say it. If Noel was disappointed, he didn’t express it. “Noel, I– I asked you a question.”
“You did.”
“Are you– are you going to–?”
“Drink, Arthur. And we’ll talk.”
The mug was gently pressed against Arthur’s hand, a gentle reminder that it was there should Arthur want to take it. He didn’t. Noel hummed in what Arthur had to assume was disappointment.
“You wanted to know how I can love being alive,” Noel said. Arthur nodded slowly. “Look, Arthur, I can’t pretend like there’s some universal solution, some formula, to lovin’ your life. But I do think you’re closer than you think you are.”
“What?” Arthur ran his thumb over the trigger. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re lookin’ at too big a picture, Arthur. You gotta look a little closer. You’re tryin’ to find a way to be okay with everything– all of the good, all of the bad– hell, there’s a lot of bad, but I don’t think you have to do all that. Maybe it’s never been about bein’ okay with it all, maybe it’s never been about forgivin’ the world for what it’s done to you. I think when you look a little closer, Arthur, it’s just about love. And it always has been. You don’t gotta love it all, you just gotta find something, Arthur. There’s always something, just one little thing you can love in all the hurt, and you just gotta hang onto that. It doesn’t have to be grand, Arthur. You just have to love it.”
“I–I don’t understand.”
“Think about John, Arthur. He loves you a lot, you gotta know that.”
“Yes, I– I know.” Arthur’s voice shook slightly. John. He didn’t want to think about John right now. He didn’t want to think about John– John who he knows loves him, who he knows would cry if he came home to find him– he didn’t want to think about John.
“You love him a lot, too,” Noel said gently. Arthur nodded stiffly, trying to silence a reedy, hiccoughing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you oughta just focus on that, then,” Noel said. “You got someone who’s real important to you, yeah? Cling to that. You don’t have to never hurt again, Arthur, you just gotta remember there are other things too. You got John. And you got me. And yeah, life is still gonna be pretty awful a lot of the time. It’s going to be cruel and unfair and it’s gonna fucking hurt, Arthur, don’t mistake this for me tellin’ you it won’t. But that’s not all there is. There’s always somethin’ else, Arthur, and that’s what you ought to hang on to.”
Arthur nodded slowly. He turned the gun over in his hands, tracing his pointer finger up the side, gently stroking the trigger before cupping it in his hands.
He cleared his throat, a bit awkward, and squeezed the handle of the gun. “Friday would–” He paused, swallowing drily. “Friday night works great, Noel.”
Noel paused, and Arthur wondered if he’d surprised him. When he spoke, the smile he wore bled easily into his words.
“Great, I’ll let John know. I’m sure he’ll be really happy.”
“Of course.”
“Do make sure you’re there, Arthur,” Noel said. “We’d all be pretty let down if you bailed on us.”
Arthur sucked in a reedy breath and nodded shakily. “Yeah. Figures.”
Arthur once again felt the handle of the mug be brushed against his fingertips. This time, though, he carefully picked up the gun in his hands, and held it out to Noel. Noel slowly, carefully, as if he were dealing with something fragile, something deadly, pulled it from Arthur’s outstretched hand, and replaced it with the smooth ceramic mug.
Arthur wrapped both hands around it. It radiated warmth into his skin, and steam gently rose up to meet his face, taking with it the gentle aroma of tea.
Arthur rose the mug to his lips and took a short sip. It was sweet; earthy and rich on his tongue. He swallowed it down, exhaling with a soft sigh as he cradled the mug of tea where he’d held the gun only moments before.
It was still warm.