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“Don’t do it,” Paul said, and it was the silent but unmistaken urge with which those three words were spoken that made Art’s hand stop mid-air as he attempted to raise the beer glass to his mouth. He put the glass back down on the table and looked at Paul intently, trying to figure out what exactly Paul was warning him against. Paul appeared a little anxious, and it was also clear from the expression on his face that he regretted opening his mouth in the first place.
“Don’t do what?” Art asked as he ran his fingers down the glass’ rim, the frosty condensation wetting his fingertips. While waiting for Paul to continue speaking, he rubbed his index and thumb together absentmindedly.
Paul sighed, and he struggled a little to speak the next sentence, which Art did not find too odd, given the actual words that came out of Paul’s mouth.
“Don’t get married tomorrow.”
“I…. what?” Art reiterated, his mouth falling open in shock. Of all the things he expected Paul to tell him, that wasn’t it.
“You heard me,” Paul said. “I said, don’t get married to Linda tomorrow.”
That certainly wasn’t a sentence often heard at a bachelor’s party - or whatever it was that he and Paul were doing at the moment, mostly just getting a few drinks together before Art was initiated into married life - and the way Paul had said it, wary but rather matter-of-factly, made Art forget to be angry for a moment.
“Excuse me?” he asked, but it was fruitless, because Paul, as he would have expected, didn’t repeat the sentiment a third time. Instead, Paul downed the last of his beer and intended to get up, the legs of his chair scraping the floor with an unpleasant screech. A cold shudder shot up Art’s back, and he had to do his best not to flinch.
He took hold of Paul’s arm and effectively prevented the other man from turning around and walking out the door.
“Peggy needs me home,” Paul supplied, while shrugging, attempting to wriggle his arm free of Art’s hold. “Gotta make sure I’m there when Harper wakes up so I can change the diaper this time.”
“Paul, you can’t just tell people what you’ve told me and then leave? The fuck are you on?” Art was still taken aback by the brazen manner in which Paul had made the statement.
Paul shrugged again, but sat back down, patting Art’s hand lightly.
“What part of what I said did you not understand?” he questioned. “I’m just telling you now so you don’t make a mistake.”
“Make a mistake?” Art repeated again, seemingly incapable of coming up with a more eloquent response. Paul’s words were turning more and more incomprehensible by the minute, even though Paul seemed to think he was making perfect sense.
“Artie,” Paul sighed a third time, taking both of Art’s hand in his own and rubbing the area between Art’s thumb and index with his thumb, a gesture meant to soothe, but it had the opposite effect on Art. “Look,” Paul began, “do you really love Linda?”
This was a question that Art wouldn’t know how to answer in a normal situation, let alone with Paul questioning Art’s motives for marrying his soon-to-be-wife, and even less so when he couldn’t even concentrate due to Paul rubbing concentric circles into his hand’s skin, catapulting him straight back to times when Paul’s hands did other things to his body. But that was a while ago, and this was now, and they had stopped doing these things. Paul had seen to that by adding insult to injury a few years prior and walking out on the duo.
Art’s anger finally started rising, the first layers of shock and incredulity peeled away by the recollections of his return from Mexico and the less than warm welcome he received when Paul told him they were over, both professionally and romantically. Sexually. Or whatever they had been.
“That’s…that’s none of your fucking business, Paul,” he bristled, attempting not to seem overly defensive.
“Because if you don’t,” Paul continued, “marriage will just make you more unhappy than you already are.”
“I’m sorry, but what? Can you please just quit discussing my love life that you don’t have a fucking clue about?” Art spat, willing himself to stay seated. He had half a mind to throw the last of his drink in Paul’s face.
“But I do know,” Paul continued, undeterred by the rage rolling off of Art in waves. “Come on, did you really expect me to believe that you didn’t get together with Linda because I was planning on marrying Peggy? And you proposed to her because I told you Peggy and I were trying to get pregnant.” Paul let go of Art’s hands and folded his arms in front of him, as if he was daring Art to contradict him.
If he didn’t know any better, Art would have thought Paul looked rather smug about the whole thing.
“I…you…you have no right..,” Art began, but Paul cut him off.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked, but instead of the complacency Art thought he’d detected earlier, Paul just looked tired and defeated.
Art shook his head adamantly. “I love Linda,” he said, hoping that Paul hadn’t picked up on the slight tremor in his voice. Paul’s claim may have had a grain of truth to it. Maybe more than he was willing to admit. Art would rather die first.
If Paul was suffering any emotional upheaval at all, it was not evident from the way he gazed back at Art.
“Okay, that’s fair” he simply said, rising up from the chair a second time and making his way to the door. “I’m glad you’re not repeating my mistakes,” he added.
By this point, Art was practically reeling and he couldn’t get his limbs to cooperate, so he yelled at Paul over the table. “Wait…Paul, what are you saying? That you…?”
Art never got his answer. The door fell closed with what seemed like an ear-deafening click.
+++
Obviously Art wouldn’t give Paul the satisfaction of knowing what kind of doubts he had stirred up the previous evening. Moreover, Art thought, there was no way he was backtracking out of the wedding when it was obvious that Paul and he didn’t have any sort of future together to speak of either. If there was anything that Art had learned over the years, it was that wishing for impossible things just didn’t amount to anything. And so he found himself saying his vows nervously, resolved to making the best of the situation. This was the life he chose for himself, and now he had to live it. While Peggy had stayed at home with Harper, Paul watched Art get married and smiled at him and Linda, no sign of regret or bitterness discernable at all, which strengthened Art’s belief that he had made the right choice.
Which is why it was rather unexpected that merely two hours later, Art paced agitatedly in the corridor of the hotel where the wedding reception was held, drops of sweat trickling down his temples. He was questioning his life choices in a rather public fashion, while Linda was unsuspectedly talking to some of the guests in the large conference room around the corner.
Paul passed by at a certain point on his way to the restroom, and upon seeing Art’s predicament, stopped short and then approached hesitantly, asking, “having cold feet?”, still smiling. He obviously meant it as a joke, but Art couldn’t for the life of him figure out how the muscles in his face responsible for raising the corners of his mouth worked. Instead, he scowled.
“Come with me,” Art grunted, grabbing Paul’s arm and pulling him with him into what he belatedly realized was not the restroom but an adjoined broom cupboard that was, surprisingly, unlocked. On the other hand, he could do with a bit of privacy.
He pushed Paul unceremoniously in the cramped space before closing the door behind him and turned the lock, his eyes taking longer than expected to adjust to the sudden darkness around him. He located Paul by the sound of his breath, a slight whistling sound floating through Paul's nostrils whenever he inhaled, a tragic souvenir of years of smoking. Before he realized what he was doing and before he even thought of stopping himself, Art crowded in Paul’s space in two strides, and drove him against the opposite wall - the dull sound of Paul’s head hitting a shelf and Paul’s brief yelp of surprise alerting Art to the fact that there was no more room for manoeuvring. He grasped Paul’s face with both hands, and with another grunt that almost sounded like a rabid dog’s snarl in the constricted space, brought his lips to Paul’s, kissing the other man more forcefully than he’d intended.
Paul didn’t shrink back indignantly like Art expected, but instead pulled Art closer, his hands clinging in the vest of Art’s wedding suit, and kissed him back. It was all so familiar that Art shivered, even though his palms were sweaty around Paul’s cheekbones.
As sudden as he had initiated it, Art broke the kiss, and stood immobilised for a few seconds, panting and at a loss for words.
“Fuck,” he eventually managed to say. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Eloquent as ever,” Paul remarked dryly, raking one hand through Art’s curls before letting it fall to Art’s neck, where it rested momentarily, adding even more weight to the already rapidly sinking feeling in the pit of Art’s stomach.
“You were right,” Art confessed, head dropped and voice lowered to a whisper. “Of course you were right. I did it all because of you. Dammit. You’re the fucking bane of my existence.”
Art’s accusation didn’t hold up very well.
“I know,” Paul merely replied. “I’m not sorry, though.”
“Why didn’t you keep me from making this mistake?” Art lamented, burying his face in his hands as if that alone could make the reality of him now being a married man disappear.
Paul scoffed. “Why do you think I brought that up last night? What more could I have done, stop the wedding?”
“Yes, for starters,” Art said, though he knew that he alone was to blame for fooling himself into believing he could outwit his lingering feelings for someone who was obviously not his wife.
“No, Artie,” Paul responded, “you wouldn’t have forgiven me for that.”
“I would have.”
“Except you would have accused me of seeking attention for myself. I’m sorry, but this one’s on you, I’m afraid.”
Art’s shoulders sagged, because Paul was right. He’d have spinned it differently and blamed all of his problems on Paul anyway. That was just the way they rolled.
“And now,” Art asked, resigned, “what do we do now?”
Sure enough, Paul’s answer was calm and collected. “Now, we don’t do anything. We’re married now, Artie. We have responsibilities. I have a kid, for god’s sake. Let’s give it some time, yeah? Maybe married life is exactly what we need.
“You think?” Art wondered, frowning. “How’s that been going for you?”
Paul silenced Art by kissing him again.
“I’ve been married for three years now,” he mumbled against Art’s lips. “Let me go for three more.”
“I’ve wanted you for a lot longer than that,” Art whined, as if it was a race for Paul’s affection, which in a way, it kind of was, and had always been.
Paul chuckled with a certain fondness, as he gave one last kiss on Art’s lips before he pulled away, ducking under Art’s arm and making for the door, feeling around for the lock in the dark.
“See you in 1975, Artie,” he said, turned the doorknob and left.
Art could sense rather than see Paul’s grin before he had to squint in the glaring hallway light streaming harshly into the confined space. Paul’s statement seemed both final and with an expiration date. Three years was manageable.
Art breathed in deeply. He was an actor. He could do this for three years, easy. Art emerged from the closet a few minutes after Paul, and walked back to the reception room, finding his wife. He stood beside her, placing his hand on her shoulder as he smiled at the wedding guests.
Somewhere across the room, Paul stood with a glass of wine in his hand, and observed them. Art winked at him.
Easy.