Man on the Inside

21

"You did not say that," Brontë says lowly, even as his heart is in his throat and he's clutching at anything that will keep him stable. Which, right now, means clenching all his muscles and not moving, like Art's killed him instantly, like vigor mortis. "You said you'd talk to me when you're ready."

"I am not ready," Art says, matter of fact, cold. "Go home."

"Can I just say-" Brontë turns on the stool, and Art remains as close as he was, except now they're face to face. Brontë can't breathe, because he didn't think he'd ever get the chance to sit in this moment again. He didn't think he'd ever be this close to paradise again.

Art isn't crying, and yet, his eyes still seem wet, like the grey storm clouds are raining; the anger draws his eyebrows tight, but it can't seem to change his eyes from reflecting Brontë's sadness back at him.

"-that I'm sorry," Brontë whispers, and he doesn't mean to whisper it. It just comes out like that. "And I-"

Art turns sharply away. Brontë feels like he's known him forever, that movement as familiar as breathing. Art tics, and Brontë hears that click of annoyance. "Follow me," he says over his shoulder. Brontë knows that Art turned just to break eye contact.

But he said to follow him. And so Brontë does.

"I just-" Brontë begins as they're going up the stairs, and Art suddenly stops, raises a hand. So Brontë stops talking. He can wait.

He's here, and that's further than he ever thought he'd get.

Art opens his door, and for the second time, Brontë walks into the flat that must be where Art stays, at least most of the time. The messy bed, the laptop sitting open on top of a printer, an open bottle of wine just sitting on the bench. Art leans on the table, like he's just ran a long way, and doesn't turn to look at Brontë. He just stops, lets Brontë close the door behind himself.

Silence.

"Art-" Brontë begins, and Art raises a hand again.

"I-" Art takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I can not believe the nerve of you right now."

"I needed you to know-"

"Needed me to know what?" Art's fist clenches on the table. "You'll find I know everything I need to fucking know, actually, Neil."

"You haven't heard what I have to say about it."

Art turns, and the whites of his eyes are red and raw with tears he's held back- or perhaps tears he's already cried. Or maybe it's just alcohol, if the swaying as he turns is anything to go by. "What could you possibly have to say, Neil? You came inside me and then immediately arrested my mother. Am I supposed to have uncomplicated feelings about that? Is a little sorry about that supposed to make everything better?"

"I never said that," Brontë says, emptily. "I want to let you think about everything, I just- you need all the information."

"What am I missing then, huh? What could possibly have escaped my notice?"

It's like Art knows nothing has. And he's mostly right. He just needs to know how much Brontë means it, and so Brontë steps forward and takes Art's face between his hands. Before he says another word, he just kisses him.

And if he could just not feel the heat of Art's tears on his face, it might be okay. If he couldn't feel Art's hands gripping his shirt, balled into fists, he might not even know he was angry. Because Art does pull those fists towards him, tries to close the gap between them.

Brontë pulls back only to say, "you're missing how much I care about you."

Art shoves him back, glares with gritted teeth- pushes him back against the door, still holding his shirt like he intends to throw him out the window. "Oh yeah, Neil? Are you going to tell me you love me? Or what? How long have you known me? Tell me you love me. I dare you."