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Art Baker was drowning.
Something was weighing him down, dragging him further into the depths of a piercing, frozen void. Demonic creatures grasped at the flesh under his skin, penetrating the surface with jagged claws and sneering at him with maniacal, vicious grins.
An ache grew in his chest, hollowing out his insides until he was barren and raw. Blood mixed with the dark, thick water suffocating him, seeping from his brain until there was nothing left. Until he was numb, and empty, and entirely devoid of life.
Through the darkness, in the midst of his falling, he landed on something hard. Tall, towering walls appeared, surrounding him like an inescapable cage. Water filled his lungs as the walls drew nearer, advancing on him with an unforgiving determination. Demonic laughter bubbled through the void as he thrashed and struggled.
His cries echoed through his head, begged screams reverberating through his ears and out into the lead-lined walls encroaching on him. He was trapped in a box of his own creation; and there was no way out, no room to breath, no light to give him hope.
There was no peace, no forgiveness, no answers to his pleas. Just this; Arthur Baker, alone for eternity, reduced to nothing. A lonely, abandoned child with a craving; a longing to be free from his isolation.
The immutable walls pressed against his body as monsters broke through the surface. They clawed at his soul, toying with it like a puppet. Their shrieks and cackles meshed dissonantly with his cries as he pounded, scratched, and carved hopelessly into an unyielding sarcophagus.
There was nothing of him left for them to take, yet they prodded and poked at his remains; mocked and taunted in exploded eardrums. There was nothing left, he had become nothing, yet they were still taking from him, prodding, and poking, and pulling him apart until he would wake up, wake up, dammit, Baker, wake up -
Art gasped, clawing at his throat as he lurched forward. He threw his limbs about as he scrambled to reach for something to hold onto; anything he could convince himself was real. It was dark, still so dark, and his legs were tangled, and mangled, and wrapped in something heavy, tying him down.
His arms stretched outwards, no longer being pulled or tugged on. They moved on their own, muscles relaxing as his hands landed on something soft. It was delicate and familiar, fuzzes of fluff wrapping around his fingers.
The darkness shifted, no longer a meaningless void, but something much more recognisable as shapes and light began to warp into view.
Art Baker wasn't drowning, nor was he falling. He wasn't lost, nor isolated in his despair.
Art Baker was in his bed, tangled in sheets thrown in fits of terror from a nonsensical, terrifying nightmare.
He sighed shakily, casting his gaze towards the bed laying parallel to his own. It wasn't unusual for it to be holding an extra body, these days. Pete had a habit of letting Ray stay, despite his boyfriend's own room sitting on the floor directly below them.
The couple were sleeping soundly next to him, blissfully unaware of the trembling man mere metres away. Art moved minutely, but the sound of his rustling bedsheets slammed against his ears, impossibly loud within the silence of the early morning.
His lungs ached as he held in a sob, fingers curling tightly around his pajama pants. He brought a fist up to his mouth, teeth clench viciously as he tapped his thumb against his knuckles sporadically.
Art forced his eyes shut, tight and constricted as his feet shook beneath him. His mind was a whirlwind, the tapping, the rocking, and the pinching doing nothing to distract him or stop the screaming in his brain.
A croaky cough echoed against the walls of his throat, rebelling against his attempt to swallow it down. It tore at the muscles in his neck as it pried his mouth open, pouring out in a stream of bitter air and foul mucus.
He reached for his phone, blinding light bursting through his bloodshot eyes as he checked the time. 3:47am.
Hot tears burned along his insides, scorching behind his eyes and falling out like lava. He choked on a sob again, potent and deafening in the darkness of the room.
He couldn't wake them up, it wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be fair, not on his friends. Not when Art was being a burden, again, over something as simple as a nightmare, a nightmare, Art, it was just a stupid nightmare, grow up -
His body trembled as it was wracked with sobs, each more violent and intense than before. Tears poured freely now, salty and bitter as his lungs screamed for air.
An intense, primal longing began to spread through his chest, trailing through his body until it consumed him whole.
Art's feet moved on their own, one in front of the other before his mind could catch up. As gently as he could, he pried the door open, taking one last look at Pete and Ray's sleeping forms before pulling it shut.
The air in the hallway was cold yet stuffy, lights flickering as he shakily turned the corner. A faint buzz came from overhead, the fluorescent, yellow bulbs pulsing in time to his own wavering heartbeat.
His footsteps thumped along the floor, falling in an odd rhythm as they carried his shivering form. It was deafening in the early shadows of the world, yet he couldn't find it in himself to stop; couldn't find the strength to satiate the longing consuming his being.
Before he knew it, Art came face to face with a worn, wooden door. Chipped and faded numbers were displayed just below eye level, barely legible, but he knew where his subconscious had led him.
His primal want, his desperate need, had led him to the room of a sleeping Hank Olson.
Art had been unsure of Hank, at first.
During their first semester, Pete had all but forced him to join the track team. A good way to make friends, he said. Art couldn't admit it for a long time, but he had been right. Their little group formed with natural ease; team banter morphed into meaningful conversations; after-class training turned into lively hangouts and excitable laughter.
Art thought he was one lucky son of a gun, finding himself with real group of friends that ended up meaning the world to him.
And somehow, miraculously, that included Hank.
Gradually, Art found himself with a growing fascination of the other man. The way his eyes would light up as his feet hit the track, the way his mouth would contort in concentration, the way his laugh warmed Art's heart.
The way his sweaty palms fit against his skin, and the way his breath would come out hot and heavy during midnight kisses.
It had been a one-time situation; a drunken, mindless experience when it had been late and they had been alone. In the dark, desperate hands found skin and warm bodies slotted together comfortably.
But then it happened again, and again, and again, until Art couldn't find it in himself to stop.
It became secret meetings after practice, late night discoveries of the other's body. Messages of empty bedrooms, cornering the other after class, wandering hands and panting lips and warm, hot skin.
They were friends, with unspoken rules and a silent agreement of nothing serious.
Yet, here he was.
The harsh overhead bulbs flickered tauntingly before suddenly disappearing, shrouding him in darkness. His lack of movement had made him a ghost, invisible to the light's sensors as he stood frozen in place.
Art checked his watch in a pathetic attempt to make sure he hadn't been lost in the abyss for hours. A flash of sickening light bounded across the hallway once more.
4:02 in the morning, and Art Baker was glued to the floor.
He raised his fist slowly, paused, and then lowered it. The tapping of his foot echoed quietly along the hall as he wrung his hands together, the repetition hitting him like muffled laughter.
In front of him, the door became impressively tall. The shapes carved into the wood began to swirl together, curving and tangling in a magnificent, hypnotic dance. Art's breathing slowed, lungs loosening as he got lost in the movement. Blood swam through his ears, his heartbeat falling into a steady rhythm as it pulsed around his brain.
His peace was interrupted when the door swung open.
"Baker?" A tired, sleep-rumpled Hank stood in the doorway. He rubbed a hand over his disheveled hair as he groggily stared up at Art. "Fuck're you - man, it's 4 in the goddamn mornin'. What're you doin' here?"
Art faltered, mouth hanging open with an uneven breath. He pursed his lips as he picked at the skin under his fingernails, eyelids fluttering as he blinked rapidly.
"Sorry," Art mumbled, throat raw and strained. He swallowed harshly, squeezing his eyes shut as he shook his head. "Sorry, I - uh, I just - sorry.
Hank squinted, confusion falling over his features. He shivered slightly as he looked out into the hallway, raising an eyebrow at Art.
"You okay?" He questioned, giving him a once over. Art nodded forcefully, flashing him a smile that was sure to look more like a grimace.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," he croaked out, hands shaky as he brought them up to wipe his forehead. He rubbed the skin aggressively once, twice, three times; scratching and tugging at the surface. "I'm, uh… good."
"Uh huh," Hank gave him an unimpressed look, crossing his arms. He leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head with a sigh. "You plan on standin' there all night?"
Hank stared up at him through his eyelashes, a wave of concern seeping through his confusion.
"No," Art said after a moment of hesitation. An uncertain dread washed over his stomach as he stared numbly at Hank. "Well, I didn't - I ain't got much of a plan, I suppose. I probably should, but, uh - I don't."
Art swallowed as the darkness crept back in. Hank's shadow took the form of the scornful monstrosity, angry and hateful as it towered over him. A disappointed annoyance clashed with a loathing rage, melding together in a furious amalgamation that violated Art's senses.
It was only a matter of time until he was sent away; until he said something wrong, or did something immoral; until Hank opened his mouth and told him to leave, to never bother him again, never bother anyone again -
"What happened?" Hank's voice was soft, kind and gentle as it chased away his demons.
Art paused, staring at him hopelessly as a familiar burning grew behind his eyes.
"Nothing. Nothing happened," he let out a slow, shaky breath. "I just got… got a bit in my head, I suppose. I'm sorry, man, I'm so sorry. I should - I should go -"
"Art," Hank took a step into the hallway, impossibly close as he grabbed Art's forearm. He hesitated, his hand warm as he gently caressed his thumb along the skin. "What're you apologisin' for?"
Art's chest tightened violently, oxygen escaping him as his lungs begged for air. Lead filled his stomach, compressing against his ribcage and weighing him down.
"I don't - I shouldn't be here," Art whispered, short and laboured breaths boiling against his throat. His vision blurred, words falling from his mouth like an indistinct prayer. "I shouldn't - I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here."
His babbling clogged his ears, consuming his mind like a parasite. Art clamped his hands over his mouth as he let out a sob, squeezing his eyes shut. He repeated his mantra through floods of tears and muffled skin.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, through the burning tears, the impossible breathing and the deafening noise, he registered warm hands taking hold of him. Placed on him delicately, skin molding to skin; their movements intertwined as another person guided his legs.
Through his falling, he landed on something comfortable and familiar. Tender hands danced over his skin, holding him in place and grounding him to reality.
"-otcha. I've gotcha, Art," a muffled, soothing voice rumbled through his ears. It shattered his thoughts, forcing oxygen back into his lungs and wiping the blur from his eyes. "You're all good."
Good. He was all good. He was safe, and warm, and not alone as the darkness faded from view.
Art cracked open his eyes slowly, squinting as a warm glow surrounded him. A fuzzy blanket had been wrapped around his shoulders, snug and secure as he sat on a comfortable bed; it was accompanied by the familiar weight of Hank's arm laying gently around his waist.
Art stared at the source of the pleasant light in pondering silence.
"I thought you hated that," he finally murmured, nodding towards the lava lamp sitting on Harkness' side of the room. When the writer first brought it home, Hank had spent weeks trying to get rid of it, tucking it away in hidden crevices and the deep shadows under his bed.
Much to his dismay, Harkness' persistence never wavered, and the lamp always reappeared. After Hank's 27th battle with the object, he begrudgingly lost hope, and hadn't touched it since.
Now, it danced slowly as it cast a faint, peaceful illumination across the room.
"Oh, fuck me, I do," Hank scoffed as he rolled his eyes. He shook his head, before turning to Art with a shrug. "But Hark says it's good for relaxation, so… I dunno. Thought it'd make you feel better, 's all."
Art smiled, heart soaring at the sentiment as his affection flowed through his chest.
"Thanks, Hank," he whispered. "It's real nice."
His hand landed on the arm at his waist, grasping at the warmth and letting it overcome his senses. Hank's grip tightened, leaning in minutely closer as he held Art's gaze.
In the glimmer of light, Hank's eyes twinkled like stars; a flurry of constellations, each unique brilliant and radiantly shining. Art vowed to spend every waking moment committing the map of to memory, discovering each galaxy until there was none left to explore.
"Glad you think so," Hank's voice had a sarcastic lilt to it, but it was soft and timid; as if he were afraid to break the silence encompassing them. He cleared his throat, and the pair leaned back.
"Where is Harkness?" Art questioned, glancing around the room in confusion.
Hank huffed as he stood up, heading towards the offending roommate's mini-fridge. He pulled out a bottle of water, went to toss it to Art, but seemingly changed his mind. Instead, he sat back down on the bed, passing him the water gently.
"Garraty's room."
Art made a noise of confusion, furrowing his eyebrows as he brought the water up to his lips.
"But Ray's in my room," he took a large gulp of water, letting it soothe the rawness lining his throat. "With Pete."
"Yeah," Hank snickered, giving Art a knowing wink. "But Stebbins isn't."
Art paused, nodding his head slowly. He pursed his lips, hundreds of questions forming on his tongue.
"Right…" He said slowly, a half-hearted chuckle falling from his lips in confusion. "Which means…"
"Which means; Harky's with Stebbins," Hank said, as if the answer was obvious and utterly hilarious. "Alone. In his room. Right now."
Hank tilted his head towards Art, giving him a sly grin as he raised his eyebrows suggestively. If Richard was with the jock, in his room, this early in the morning…
"Does Stebbins need tutoring that badly?" He asked with a grimace. He sighed, shoulders sagging as he shook his head. "Man, he has got that kid running after him."
Hank tilted his head as his eyebrows furrowed, parting his lips hesitantly. He shook his head, eyes brightening as he let out a chuckle.
"Yeah," he sighed fondly. His amused grin morphed into something smaller, affectionate and gentle as poked Art's forearm. "Yeah, he fuckin' does."
Art stared at him wordlessly, breathless and in awe of just how much a person could look so beautiful in the early hours of the morning. Hank's hair was a mess, the sleep coating the corners of his eyes was flaky, and there was dried drool sitting on the side of his lips.
He was utterly and entirely gorgeous.
Slowly, carefully, Hank took the water from Art's hands. He placed it on his bedside table, before moving to sit back against the wall. Art kept his gaze forward, eyes darting over the clashing messes on either side of the room. Notebooks, papers, an array of pens; all competing with track gear, DVDs, a selection of comic books.
He checked his watch. 4:31am.
"So," Hank's drawled out, voice low and comforting. He poked Art's hip from behind and lightly knocked his feet against his thigh. "You wanna talk about it?"
Art sighed as he tapped his foot against the floor, turning his head slightly. He briefly met Hank's eyes, hesitated, then returned to face forward.
"Had a nightmare," he shrugged, voice wavering as his knees bounced shakily. He adjusted his posture, squaring his shoulders as he rough cough. "'S not a big deal."
"Pretty big deal if you come knockin' down my door at this fuckin' time of the mornin'," Hank murmured. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees as he looked up at Art. "Do you need to talk about it?"
Art pondered quietly, lips giving out a traitorous tremble as he looked up at the ceiling. A tired, humourless chuckle fell from his chest as a familiar burning sensation flooded through his eyes once more.
"Yeah," he whispered, swallowing as he looked down at Hank with a wet, pitiful look. "Yeah, I probably should."
Hank nodded reassuringly, bumping their knees together.
"But you don't want to," he said with a knowing smile. He tentatively placed his hand on Art's leg, fingers gently massaging the skin. "Not right now, huh?"
"Not right now," Art repeated softly, shoulders sagging as he let out a lengthy exhale. He met Hank's gaze, sinking into the tenderness floating amongst the stars. "I'm… I can't, not right now. Sorry."
Silence fell back over them, unspoken reassurances hanging in the air. They settled in Art's mind with a steady hum, flowing through his veins and wrapping him in a warm, comforting embrace.
One day, he would talk about it; the darkness and the void, the monstrosity that was beginning to grow larger with each passing, lonely night. One day, he would understand the drowning and the falling; the dread that lurked in the depths of his mind and gnawed at the pits of his stomach.
But for now, the hand on his knee was warm and grounding; it was affectionate and caring, and until that day came, that was enough for him. Art placed his hand over Hank's.
"Do you wanna know the first time I walked in on Garraty and McVries doin' it?" Hank blurted out.
Art snapped his head up, mouth falling open as his eyebrows knit together.
"Do I…" he paused, reeling back in bewilderment. "What?"
"Do you - I mean," Hank waved his hand, bouncing slightly on the bed as he adjusted to rest on his knees. "Or - I don't know, man. Aren't I suppose to distract you, or somethin'?"
Art stared at him in silent shock, large grin forming as his shoulder began to shake. In no time, he doubled over with laughter, eyes wrinkling as he threw his head back.
"Don't laugh!" Hank protested, but his giggles began to meld with Art's own hysteria. "I'm supposed to be disractin' you, makin' you feel better and shit!"
"And that's - that's what you came up with?" Art wiped his eyes, gasping for breath. "What's - why did you - first time?!"
He caught the pillow flying towards his head, rapidly firing it back at the other man. Hank cursed as it hit him square in the face.
"Yeah, well. I ain't gonna bore you with the detail of my lecture that's in," Hank pouted, dramatically checking his watch. "3 hours. That'd be a pretty lousy distraction."
Art launched himself at Hank, tackling him against the bed. Their bodies slotted together, limbs intertwining as Hank cackled playfully underneath him. Laughter rattled through the room, mingling in the small space between their lips.
Their faces were a breath apart, and from this close Art could trace each mole; could caress each scar; could pinpoint the exact cluster of constellations he vowed were his favourite.
"You know you can talk to me about whatever, right?" Hank muttered. He tentatively placed his hand on Art's shoulders, before letting it settle on the space just above his cheek, thumb smoothing out the skin under his eyes. "About anythin'. I know - I'm not exactly the patron saint of comfort, but - fuck, Art. I really like you."
Art's breathing halted, and for a moment his heart stood still beneath his ribcage.
"Oh," he whispered, heart lodging in his throat.
"The great fuckin' wordsmith over here," Hank chuckled nervously. His other hand found its place on Art's hip, fingers trailing over moles instinctively. "You've been real good to me. To everyone. I wanna - you should get that back. I wanna be able to give that to you, y'know?"
Art nodded wordlessly, breathless as his wide eyes stayed locked onto Hank's.
"I want - I want you to feel comfortable," Hank continued. He swallowed, legs bumping against Art's as he shuffled underneath him. "You're - we're - Art, I really, really don't wanna mess things up. Don't wanna mess us up, cause, fuck, I know how to mess things up, man. But you…"
Hank grunted in frustration, letting out a huff as he shook his head. His hands tightened around Art's waist, gripping at the skin desperately.
"I really fuckin' like you, Art," he whispered, eyes locking onto Art's. "A lot. A whole fuckin' lot. You got me confessing at - christ knows what time it is, it's fuckin' early. And I'm - I'm sorry you feel like shit, and it's real selfish of me, but I'm also kinda happy, and weirdly giddy, cause - I don't know, man, I feel real fuckin' lucky because you chose to come to me."
"Is that weird? That feels weird. I just," Hank let out a whine. "I wanna be your first choice, and I wanna be there for you, and, fuck, Art. I want you, even if you're just starin' at me like -"
"Can I kiss you?" Art whispered, words settling in the air as Hank swallowed.
The question lingered in the space between them, pulsing through a vast stretch of time as it tangled in their breath. Hank stared at him, eyes wide as his lips parted.
"What?" He choked out a high pitch whine.
"Can I," Art cleared his throat, a sheepish chuckle falling from his chest. "I know - I mean, we've done more than that. But, I don't know… asking felt more appropriate."
Hank's eyes softened, shining brightly as his smile grew into something gentle and intimate.
"That makes sense," he muttered, and the fondness dripping from his voice carved a space right next to Art's heart.
"Does that -" Art tilted his head, entirely aware of the lovesick grin worming its way onto his face. "Is that a yes?"
"Yes," Hank darted upwards, leaning back on his elbows as he drew their faces closer together. "Yeah, very much so, yes. Please."
Art let out a hushed giggle as he beamed down at Hank. Their breaths tangled together in a dance, hot and humid as the world around them began to dissolve. In that moment, it was only them, and the galaxy floating through Hank's eyes.
"Good," Art whispered, soft and delicate just in case he disturbed the precious sight in front of him. "That's good."
Art swooped forward, catching Hank's lips in a tender, wistful kiss. Their lips came together in a familiar waltz, savouring the taste as they breathed each other in. Hank smiled into the kiss, pulling Art's weight fully on top of him as his hands wandered across his back.
Their hands explored skin, tracing and memorising patterns they had both seen before. Only this time, Art allowed himself to take his time, delicate and tender as he buried his hand in Hank's hair.
Art's hand found places of Hank he'd been too afraid to find before, gentle caresses and loving touches littering the other man's skin.
Bodies pressed desperately against each other, teeth biting passionately as they breathed in the oxygen of one another. Art maneuvered himself so he could lie next to Hank, their lips never leaving each other, as though they were magnets drawn together in the vast expanse of the universe.
Art breathed deeply, savouring the taste of Hank on his lips. The hunger aching in him yearned for it, craved the longing and love rumbling through the man's whines. Art would gladly spend the rest of his life admiring the taste and reveling in the sound.
After a mere second more, they slowly, reluctantly broke apart. Hank's eyes were closed as heavy breaths fell from his swollen lips, and Art found himself staring at them in fascination.
"Thank you," he breathed out, resting his forehead against Hank's. He knocked their noses together, placing a tender kiss against Hank's cheek.
"No need to thank me, Baker," Hank's attempt at his usual over-confident swagger was overpowered by the squeak in his voice. "Been told I'm a pretty good kisser."
He peeked one eye open, smiling playfully as Art hit him on the shoulder.
"Man, shut up," their laughter echoed throughout the room, comfortable and content as they lay back on the small single bed. Art wrapped his arm around Hank's shoulder, holding him close. "I mean it. You say you ain't good at comforting people, but…"
He fiddled with the hem of Hank's shirt, fingers dancing lightly along the flushed skin underneath.
"You always make me feel better," he said softly. Hank glanced at him with a small, bashful smile as a faint blush appeared on his cheeks. Art wanted to chase that warmth; to taste it and let it dance on his tongue forever.
"Casanova, me," Hank muttered in return, eyes crinkling with a timid glee. He moved to rest on his elbow, leaning on his side as he towered over Art. "I mean what I said, too, y'know. I'm glad you came to me."
"Yeah," Art nodded faintly, cheeks tingling with a growing heat as he held Hank's chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Me too."
Art brought Hank's face towards his, slotting their lips together for a brief peck. It was gentle and caring; no rush necessary. Hank pulled back with a smile, paused, then brushed their lips together once more, just because he could.
Hank adjusted so that he was lying down, resting his head on Art's chest with a content sigh. Art placed a delicate kiss on the top of his head, breathing in deeply as he wrapped his arms around his waist.
"Promise you'll be here when I wake up," Hank murmured, muffled through his sleep shirt and rumbling along his skin. "I ain't gonna beg or anything, but -"
"I will," Art whispered as his eyes fell shut, grin still wide on his face. "Yeah, I'll be here. Goodnight, Hank."
He felt Hank grin against his chest, snuggling closer into Art with a satisfied hum. His breathing slowed, letting exhaustion pass through him as a comforting warmth embraced him.
A loud thump reverberated through the room as the source of that warmth disappeared.
"What -" Art muttered tiredly, bleary eyes snapping open. A muffled curse came from the floor. "Hank, what're you -"
"That fuckin' -" Hank whispered harshly, face popping up at the edge of the bed with a frustrated disdain. "The fuckin' lamp. Gotta turn off the stupid fuckin' lamp."
Through his stumbling to get off the floor, Art managed to grab hold of Hank's arm. He pulled at the heat source, securely holding him against his chest.
"I think it's nice," he muttered in tired amusement. "Go to sleep. I'll protect you from the big, scary lava monster."
Hank shifted for a moment of protest, but was quick to cave as Art tangled his fingers in the hairs at the nape of his neck. He sighed, burrowing deep into Art's chest with a giddy smile on his lips.
"Ain't scared," he shook his head half-heartedly, mumbled words coming out slurred and sleepy. He pressed his lips just above the skin covering Art's heart, arms tightening around his stomach. "Night, Art."
Art smiled, letting Hank's presence chase away the darkness and the nightmares. One day, the monster would come back; but for now, he focused on the steady breathing from the other man, the warmth radiating from him, and the way his eyelashes lay gently along his cheeks.
When he woke up, Hank would be there. And for now, that was enough.