Man on the Inside

12

The upside of this trip is the same as most business trips, for a completely different reason: the money is infinite. Which is how Brontë's sitting here back in the hotel room, belly full of far-too-expensive but quite delicious Chinese food, and three drinks he wouldn't have gotten away with on an actual work trip. Unlike actual work trips, the person paying for it seemed to encourage him more than stop him, watching him with that intense grey gaze from over the top of his own drink, something fruity and pink and admittedly delicious from the sip Art insisted on giving him. He hadn't been drunk enough to think about that intense gaze at that point.

"Fuck." Brontë groans, not sure why he decided that sitting on the floor was a good idea. "I'm getting old."

"Fuck. You're not old." Art's opening the hotel minifridge as he talks. "Ooo, they've got cider. Good. Fuckin' hate beer. They've got that too, I guess. Do you want it?"

"I am old. I'm forty-eight," Brontë announces, like it's going to change something. He is old. Too old to change his life. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"I would've guessed forty," Art says, "not that it makes a difference. I'm thirty-six."

Why would that matter to Brontë right now? He narrows his eyes as Art holds the bottle of beer towards him, shaking it around in an insistence that his question be answered.

Brontë looks up at the ceiling. "Are we- are we gonna be hungover tomorrow? Is that gonna- I'm going to be hungover tomorrow. Probably. Cause I'm old. Is that going to fuck things up?"

He looks over at Art, eyes lidded. He feels warm and for a moment, it is as simple as the two of them, shielded from the rest of the world by these four walls. Art walks over and sits across from him, holding that beer out towards him. He's got a hidden smile that Brontë can only see because he's letting himself be unreasonable for the moment, letting himself consider that maybe Art does enjoy his company, just a little bit.

"We're sneaking in at 4pm," Art says, breaking the illusion, "so it shouldn't."

Art's run over the plan already, and Brontë isn't confident in it, but he's also not exactly in a position to question Art, ever, let alone while he's already kind of drunk. His face feels hot; so does his entire body. If he lets himself be unreasonable, he thinks Art didn't just let him get drunk tonight- it's what he wanted.

"How does this help you?" Brontë asks before he can think.

Art leans back against the bed. He's not very tall- several inches shorter than the average man- but he seems to take up the whole room with his presence, especially this close to Brontë. Even though he's an arm's reach away. He's too close and too far.

"How does what help me?" Art asks.

"This." Brontë doesn't know how to clarify. Doesn't really want to. Art will understand. Or he won't. Brontë doesn't understand. His mouth feels dry.

"I'm making sure a garbage law doesn't go through." Art crosses his legs, and Brontë should be listening to what he's saying. It's probably serious. Is Brontë a bad person for this? For what? "They've slipped a lot of bad shit into one bill. You know they're calling it the Freedom of Choice Act? When all it does is restrict rights and harm people?"

"What?" Brontë was barely following that.

"It probably won't completely pass, but parts of it might. It's supposed to give companies freedom to go against environmental protections, and freedom to discriminate against any customers they feel like for any reason. It's supposed to give parents the freedom to medically neglect their kids and the freedom to abuse them if they're queer. I'm not even kidding. So I want to destroy the bill itself before it gets to anyone who can pass it."