Chapter Text
Jack had decided that he hated Arthur Holmwood.
He had made this decision over the course of several months, months they'd spent apart: Jack turning his brain into mush in studying for his plans to enroll in medical school, and Arthur out gallivanting around Europe (mostly Italy) with his father. Of course a lord-to-be could afford to drag along a private tutor and spend his time looking at statues and eating strange food. Jack didn't have that luxury; he was seventeen, the head of his household, and he was burning with the anticipation of leaving next year to school in Amsterdam, away from his hysterical mother and the ghost of his father always hanging over him.
Arthur had written letters, often, with his terrible handwriting and his misspelled words, telling Jack how much he missed him, how much Jack would love Italy (or Spain or Germany or Romania), if only he could be here. Sometimes Jack wrote back, but he could never think of anything to say.
As usual, he had no real friends at school. He had learned long ago to stop whoring out his ability to do homework in exchange for friendship, and once he stopped doing that, the boys who wanted to be his "friends" disappeared. Usually it hadn't been a problem, because Arthur had been around. Arthur, perpetual sunshine. Arthur, immature and nearly three years younger but still somehow his best friend.
But Arthur had been away for almost a full year. And Jack hated him for it. Hated him for being able to escape, for having fortune and free time and a functional family, for leaving him alone in rainy England while he soaked up the sunshine in the dreamy lands down south.
Arthur had returned yesterday, and Jack had accepted his friend's invitation to dinner, however grudgingly. He showed up at the door of Ring feeling like he was a cat with its hackles all up, fur spiky and snout wrinkled. He would give a civil hello, and that would be it. His silence would be deafening, and his welcome home a splash of icy water to Arthur's chattering stories about how wonderful Europe had been.
One of the servants escorted him inside, and Jack held his new hat in his hands, standing as tall as he could and waiting, almost trembling with anger, for the Europe-touring rich boy to pop out and expect a warm greeting. Well, he would have no such luck.
The door opened, and out burst a tall figure, tan and golden-haired, moving almost at a sprint. For a confused instant, Jack thought it was Lord Godalming, and had just enough time to register that it was, in fact, Arthur, right before Arthur threw his arms around him, squeezed him so tightly he knocked his breath out, and kissed him right on the mouth.
"Jack, I'm so glad to see you!" he burst out.
Jack's brain felt like a train had derailed inside it— he could hear screeching metal and shattering glass, feel flames going up, imagine smoke coming out his ears. This was Arthur, undoubtedly, but when did he get so tall? And… handsome? He had all but forgotten that Arthur often greeted him with a kiss on the lips, but before, it had felt like a silly leftover from childhood, nothing more. So why did Jack feel like his lips were on fire?
Vaguely, he realized that Arthur was talking, chattering excitedly about how happy he was to see him, that he wanted to hear everything going on, that he had a million presents for him, that Jack had grown so much and looked so manly! Jack's head was still spinning, and then everything rushed at him at once with overwhelming force, and with a strangled cry, he shoved Arthur's chest hard, pushing him away.
With a surprised sound, Arthur let him go, and Jack jumped back, swaying so hard he almost passed out.
"Don't kiss me!" Jack snapped.
Arthur's bright expression fell, like a puppy dog who had been greeted with a kick instead of a pat. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said, his voice wounded. "I just got so excited. I won't do it again."
God, he had gotten so tall, his shoulders broader and thicker. When Jack had last seen him he had been lanky and gawky, but he looked unnervingly like a full-grown man now, even down to the peach-fuzz mustache growing on his upper lip. And despite his wounded expression, his eyes were as large and warm and affectionate as they ever had been.
For a split second, Jack felt an insane desire to grab Arthur's shoulders and kiss him back. He was no stranger to the impulse— and had even managed to give it a go with a willing partner a few times in school— but it was the first time he had ever felt something like that for Arthur. This wasn't some pretty boy at school; this was Arthur. The feeling utterly unnerved him.
Arthur was fidgeting now, still looking like a kicked puppy. Jack couldn't stand to see him like that, and reached out and firmly squeezed his shoulder. It was an appropriate gesture, a manly gesture. "I am quite glad to see you," he said, and to his annoyance, he realized he was perfectly sincere. "I missed you."
Arthur accepted the truce at once. He took his hand and squeezed it, sending a curious stream of fire up his arm. "I missed you too. Come now, let's eat and you must tell me everything!"
Arthur dragged him toward the dining room, and Jack didn't let go of his hand. Arthur's grasp burned him with pleasant fire, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away.